Serpent and the Sun, Chptr. 10 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

President Liu waited patiently outside the office of the President of Everest. His boss. In fact, the boss of the whole un-heathen world, one might say. Liu was called at three o’clock in the morning; his presence requested in six hours. He barely had enough time to tie his shoes.

He sat with his arms folded as men walked by. Some he recognized with a nod, others were strangers. The Sanctuary Presidents made up the formal board at Everest, but they met only once a year. Denali, meaning him, met more frequently. President Liu and President Quan’s personalities were sandpaper against each other, and Liu knew full well why he was called out of the night’s gut.

Coulson BlackLake.

Liu didn’t bother to confer with President Quan, and that must’ve burned him. Activating BlackLake was a true gray-area in terms of who should be notified. The respectful thing would have been for Liu to notify Quan before going to the crater. But Liu didn’t have respect for Quan. He didn’t trust Quan, nor did he feel that he deserved his seat. His throne.

Quan’s door creaked open, solid walnut glazed mirror-like. No expense spared for the King. He walked into an office that made his seem like a woodland shack. The marble floor was strategically covered by a Persian rug, and every piece of custom-sewn furniture was made from the hides of a different, extinct animal.

Liu walked over and found the seat before Quan’s desk. A chessboard sat atop it, the pieces set up to play. It was an ominous sign. Quan was a master, and when he dressed down his subordinates, he did so while beating them blind in chess. It was a statement; pure emphasis. Quan sat down in his chair.

“Care to play?” He asked. Rhetorical question; no one said no and kept their position. Liu nodded, and Liu moved one of his pawns forward.

“I’ve been told that you activated BlackLake,” Quan said, “Any particular reason I wasn’t informed?”

“It was a military matter,” Liu responded, moving one of his own pawns, “It didn’t require civilian approval.”

“I didn’t ask if it required my approval,” Quan moved, “I asked why I was kept out of the loop.”

“We all keep things from each other, don’t we, Jiang?” Quan hated to be called by his first name.

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Quan slid out his bishop. “Check.”

Liu blocked with a pawn. Quan backed up, Liu advanced with another pawn, immobilizing his bishop. He pulled out two video-films, tossing them to Quan’s side of the desk.

“Michael Wynsee;” he said, “sick. Blake Chaplain; sick.”

“What? Why do you think I’m keeping this from you?”

“Well, let’s see,” Liu moved out his knight, “For starters, what I said just now didn’t surprise you.”

“Who cares? They’re rebels! I’d just assume see them dead.”

“They’re not just rebels,” replied Liu, “They’re infused; like us.”

“Michael Wynsee’s not,”

“But Chaplain is, and you know it!” Quan left a bishop undefended. Liu took it with a knight, leaving Quan in a hook move. He’d have to give up the queen or a rook. His sloppiness only underscored Liu’s suspicions. Quan was rattled.

“Chaplain was infused using standard method, just like you and I”

“I didn’t think of that…”

“If you’re going to bullshit me, try to do a better job…”

“Do you realize who you’re talking to, President Liu?”

Quan brought out his queen, trying to put pressure on Quan’s knight. Liu castled while he still had the chance.

“Jiang, why is Everest’s release date three months after the rest of the Sanctuaries?” He could see Quan’s forehead start to bead up.

“There’s a perfectly logical explanation for that…”

“Let’s hear it.” Liu stared at the board as he said it.

Quan used chess as a way of distracting his opponent, to keep them from lying about the real stuff. Right then Liu was putting the screws to him, and he was blowing his game. He moved a rook, leaving his queen in check. Liu took it.

“I’m the President of the United Earth Corporation,” he said, “I am not answerable to you, you are answerable to me, you understand?”

“I understand quite well, Jiang,” replied Liu, “We all have our secrets…”

Liu moved his rook ahead one space. “Check.”

“You have no right to question me,” Quan said, “And on a side note, all of the Presidents and their families were to be held here until the virus could be deactivated, so I have precious little idea why this bothers you.”

“What about the First and Second Tiers?”

“What about them?” Quan responded, “They’re dead weight. Do you know any First- or Second Tier shareholders in Denali?”

“Jiang, I can’t believe you’re not only admitting this to me, but you’re OK with it.” Liu scratched the edges of a ring on his finger. “I could not have expected such… dishonor.” Quan’s face went red.

“I could have you brought up on charges of treason!” He stammered. He moved his king. Liu had him on the run in the game and the conversation.

“You may well try,” Liu said, “but I doubt Denali will hear the case.”

“I don’t believe this!” Quan said, “This is treason!”

“No,” replied Liu. “This is treason.” He had a beacon on the inside of his ring, and he hit it. Within three seconds, six Guardsmen burst in Quan’s office. One had a pair of electrolock shackles; the rest had guns.

“Those guns are special issue,” said Liu, “They disrupt nano. You have a choice; in prison, or in pieces.”

The Guardsmen came in. Quan surrendered, thundering his protests about how he’d get his revenge, the board would never settle for this, and any other thing he could think of to regain his freedom. Liu picked up his queen and walked around the des to Quan’s seat. He sat in it and leaned back, feeling the bliss of opulence surround him. Truth was, the board would settle for it; it was the other Presidents who requested it. Liu tossed his queen onto the chessboard, scattering Quan’s pieces.

“Checkmate.”

 

***

 

“Slow the fuck down, will ya’?” Jameson clutched his restraint harness.

“This is slow; we have two days to get to Seattle,” Blake said, “Better get used to it.”

“Why are we going state-side? As-the-crow-flies would get us there in less than a day…”

“As-the-crow-flies would get us killed.” Blake replied, “We’ve got trouble.”

Jameson shuddered at those words. Coming from Blake, they were never an exaggeration.

“Care to tell me what kind of trouble?”

Blake glanced over. Adam was restrained in Jameson’s harness, smiling profusely. This was the fastest he’d ever gone.

“Adam,” Blake said, “Sleep for five minutes.”

“Okay.” Adam’s unit dimmed.

“How the fuck did you-“

“Never mind,” Blake said, “Coulson BlackLake. Ya’ heard of him?”

“Of course…” Jameson said. “I had to research him before.”

“He’s after us.”

Jameson didn’t know what to say. After a couple of false starts, he said, “What? Why?!”

“I don’t know,” Blake responded, “On the way to New Rochester, I picked up signals. Guard deaths. I used an old geo-locater to pin-point the signals, and they originated from somewhere inside the Apep crater.”

“OK; so?”

“The signals came across simultaneously,” Blake said, “What can do that?”

“Look, I don’t know, but what proof do you have that Coulson BlackLake has anything to do with this?”

“President Quan went to the crater the day the Guardsmen died.”

“Strange, but not proof…”

“Look Jameson, he showed up at Albany after I left. I…felt him, in my head, for like a split second… he was tracking. You probably would’ve felt him in your head too, if ya’ weren’t such a scatterbrain…”

Jameson tried to recall anything unusual, but short of a nightmare he had the night before, he could find nothing out of the norm.

“I don’t know, Blake,” he said, “You know I trust you, but I’ll need something more concrete…”

“Ya’ mean that scary guy all dressed in black?” Came a voice from the console. Adam.

Blake frowned. “I thought I told you to-,” Jameson snickered.

“They grow up so fast, don’t they?” He said. “Adam, explain what you just said.”

“He’s dressed all in black,” Adam said, “He can turn into something like black smoke. He sure is scary, but I held up my crucifix, and he couldn’t get in.”

“Your crucifix?”

Adam lifted his hand, and as he did so a large crucifix appeared in his hand.

“No scary vampire’s gonna’ get me!” he said. Blake laughed so hard, he nearly tipped the float.

“Care to enlighten me?” Jameson said as he took a small acetylene torch to his pipe. Matches were useless when Blake drove.

“Coulson BlackLake is PEALE incarnate,” Blake said, “He has PEALE’s strengths… and its weaknesses.”

“It can’t contemplate God.”

“Right,” Blake said, “Or religious symbols.”

“Dirty vampires!” Adam said, and he hissed, holding up his crucifix.

“Adam, he’s after you.” Blake said.

“Why me?” Adam put the crucifix down.

“You’re the only thing on earth he feels threatened by.”

“I’m not a thing…” Adam sulked.

“I’m sorry Adam; I didn’t mean it like that-”

“Well, it came out like that, didn’t it…?”

“Adam, you know I love ya’, buddy,” said Blake, “You’re just as human as I am.”

Adam continued to sulk. Blake sighed.

“Okay, what can I do to make it up to you?” He asked.

“Let me drive.”

“You gotta’ be fucking kidding me!” said Jameson, “Adam, you don’t even know how to drive!”

“Yes I do.” He replied. “Michael taught me before he gave me to Blake. Tell him, Blake!”

Blake sighed again. “He knows.”

“You are both out of your minds!”

“C’mon, Jameson,” Adam said with a mischievous smile, “live a little…”

Jameson shook his head, knowing he wouldn’t win this one.

“Fine,” he said, “don’t kill us.”

Blake plugged Adam’s interface into the control stick, giving him the Seattle coordinates. Blake gave Adam control on condition that he be given an override. Surprisingly, the ride under Adam’s control was smooth.

Blake and Jameson sat in silence for over a half-hour. Blake had something else on his mind; Jameson could tell. Finally, Blake pulled out a small, white plastic device and handed it to him.

“Ever seen one of these before?”

Jameson turned it over. “No, what is it?”

“I’m not sure,” Blake replied, “But it turned Cyrus Swift into metal. Ralph had it in his hand when I found their bodies.”

“So this thing can kill Guardsmen?”

“I guess so.”

Jameson kept flipping it around in his palm. Then he handed it back to Blake.

“Better keep this,” he said, “you’re not going to trust anyone else with it, and I don’t blame you.”

Blake gave it back to him.

“I need you to figure it out,” he said, “reverse-engineer it; whatever you gotta’ do.”

“I trust you, Jameson,” he added, “You should know that by now.”

Jameson examined the device. Plastic encasement; looked like a cheap baby flashlight, except that the face was a screen. The screen was raised, bumping out about an eighth of an inch. There was no exit point, so Jameson figured the screen to be the exit point. Perhaps a coded visual signal. He looked over at Blake, who was fiddling with a book of matches to no success. He pulled out the mini-torch, brushing the blue flame over the tip of his hand-rolled.

“Thanks.”

“No prob’,” Jameson replied, “So what are we doing with this? Building a defense for you and Mike?”

“No, not exactly,” replied Blake, “BlackLake doesn’t need one of these to turn people into metal. I found it in human hands, remember?” Jameson nodded.

“I want you figure it out,” Blake said, “so we can build an industrial model.”

***

Elle brushed her hair furiously, five minutes late for dinner with Frederick. He arranged two seats at Le Mer. After their last dinner fiasco, she was surprised he had the balls to return. Balls or not, he had the pedigree to go back. She loathed him, prepared to undermine the relationship at every turn. Except one; she needed him that night, or she wouldn’t have bothered brushing her hair.

The recorder sat on the table. Within it was stored a plot so vile, she feared even knowing of it. Millions of people; hundreds of millions would be wiped away like the dust of the field. And Gerhardt; had he known, would he have left her? Probably not. Elle pulled out her mirror to reveal one of the many pictures she had of him. His hair was long at the time and he wore a goatee, despite those being taboo in the Sanctuary. He had on a red shirt bearing the silhouette of some twentieth-century revolutionary.

Probably. Elle wiped the moisture from her eyelids, re-applied her make-up. Her father allowed him to leave, helped him leave, she knew it. With no warning, a cold slap on the back to guide Gerhardt to his death. She loathed her father more than she loathed Frederick. Until the day before, she had her revenge.

Then she saw Albrecht’s vacant unit. Wiped clean; even the wall-screen and transmuter were fixed. She only stepped in for a moment, but the smell of sauces and vegetables, spices and scratch-cooking, gone. People didn’t move in the Sanctuaries. Those who wanted a change could change the programming. People didn’t just move.

Diabolical. Elle could hear Albrecht’s voice in her head. He wasn’t the slightest bit surprised at the content of the recording. His nonchalant reaction unnerved her. He knew what he was hearing; it didn’t phase him at all. Then another of his words rattled ominously through her head;

Treason.

She felt so alone without Gerhardt, and now with Albrecht gone, she needed Ger’ more than ever. Elle checked herself in the mirror, hoping the make-up would hide her worries in front of Frederick. She got up, went to her closet to search for a subdued ensemble. The wall-screen came alive with a glass harmonica version of Carol of the Bells. Not her favorite composition, it was the sound she programmed for Frederick. She gave the answer command. The wall-screen filled with Frederick’s face and the backdrop of Le Mer. He was blotting an appetizer off of his face.

“Hi Frederick, dear,” she said, “I’ll be there in five minutes, I’m running a bit late…”

“Just hurry, please…” Frederick sounded edgy. Why?

“Frederick, are you okay?”

He cleared his throat, took a sip of his drink, presumably seltzer.

“Yeah, Elle, honey I’m fine,” He dabbed the corner of his mouth, “I just miss you, that’s all…”

“I see you’ve decided to start without me.”

“Oh now,” he smiled, “This is nothing. Please hurry.” The wall-screen went blank.

Son-of-a-bitch! The nerve of him, hanging up on her like that! After their last date, she could understand his being upset, but she apologized, and he accepted. Now he was going to start telling her to hurry, hanging up on her without even a good-bye? Elle found her outfit, an unflattering earth-tone pant-suit. Frederick hated it; it would do. Otherwise she’d want to have words, and La Mer was the last place for a fresh scene. She double-checked the mirror, grabbed the recorder and hid it in the toe of one of her shoes before walking out.

Elle took the outer ring to the transport. It was longer than taking the mezzanine, but she could see the ocean. She walked slow, wiping the cold glass with her hand. Gerhardt was out there somewhere. Dying. Elle took her hand off the glass like it shocked her, picked up her speed and tried to forget the word diabolical.

Elle eventually made it to Le Mer fifteen minutes after Frederick called her. Le Mer was like a grand ballroom, bejeweled in crystal and white lace, large glass tables with wrought-iron frames, intricate in their design. Gerhardt hated the place; they never went there. It made her dates with Frederick at the least bearable.

He sat alone at a table in the center of the restaurant. Elle announced her arrival to the maitre’d, who nodded, allowing her to pass. As she got close, Frederick shot up from his seat, wiped his head, then the corner of his mouth with his linen napkin. He was nervous. He reached out, grabbed her shoulders with his meaty hands and kissed her. His lips were clammy. Something was up.

“Frederick, what’s wrong with you?”

Frederick stood there, stiff and motionless.

“I’m so sorry, Elle…”

“Ms. Renier?” A voice from behind her. She looked back to see two Guardsmen, black suits with grey-and-gold trim. Sanctuary Police. The silent one moved behind her, clamped his hand on her shoulder.

“Please come with us.”

 

***

 

Gerhardt stared into the bathroom mirror. He hadn’t shaved since he got to Anchorage, his five o’clock shadow-self glared back at him. His eyes were bloodshot, tears river-rolled along his denim lapel just ten minutes earlier. The image of the old woman may as well been a ghost beside him. He killed her. He never killed a fly, never had one to kill in the sanitary Sanctuary. The paradise. He pressed his palms into his eye sockets, watching her pick up the rifle. Her aim was shit; he could’ve clipped her shoulder, forced her to drop it.

But he didn’t.

He turned the water off. He was trying for steam, but the hot water wasn’t there, just a lukewarm trickle. His side-arm was resting on the sink. He grabbed it, rubbing its smooth silvery surface along his jaw-line. Back to the mirror, to the monster trapped within it. Within him. He pushed back on the sink with his free-hand, shrieked as he aimed and fired at the monster. The mirror shattered into spray; Gerhardt hit the stall door and fell, smacking his head on the toilet seat.

Gerhardt awoke to a painful knot in his head. He was slumped against the far wall. Someone moved him. He looked up to see that someone: Dalton, cigarette in one hand, half-empty pack in the other. He flicked the bottom of the pack, sending a cigar in the air to land by Gerhardt’s leg.

“I don’t smoke cigars.”

“You will, if you’re around here enough…”

“Same go for killing the elderly?”

Dalton laughed. Gerhardt glared up at him. “I’m glad you think it’s funny…” The smile left Dalton’s face.

“You really think that, do ya’, kid?”

Gerhardt picked up the cigarette. “I don’t know what to think, Dalton,” he said, “honestly.”

Dalton walked over to the window, opaque white from the frost outside. He lifted it up, almost breaking the catch to let air in.

“Adrianna Morse,” He said. “That was her name, and trust me, kid, you’ll grow weary of knowin’ that kinda’ stuff. But her name was Adrianna Morse.”

Dalton stared outside as he spoke, his cigar smoke mixing with the cold air to fly about the bathroom. The cold air felt good.

“She was sentenced to death for setting explosives on a transport skiff.” He said. “That’s what she thought it was, anyway. Turned out to be a private carrier.”

“Sixteen fatalities. Ten of them kids.” Dalton tossed him an old Zippo lighter. “Goddamn school field trip to Denali.”

“And I was her executioner.” Gerhardt said. “To what did I owe that honor?”

“Expediency.”

“Oh, I needed a rating, she needed to die,” Gerhardt said, “Two birds, is that it?”

With amazing speed Dalton had Gerhardt up on his feet, pinned to the wall by his forearms, crushed denim in his iron grip.

“Listen, and listen good, ‘cause I don’t echo…” Dalton’s face was two inches from Gerhardt’s.

“We survive through efficiency,” he said, “We don’t get everything handed to us like y’all do in the Sanctuary. Life’s tough here, in case you haven’t noticed. There are a whole lot of birds out there, and very few stones.”

“You needed to prove your score, and she needed to die. We don’t have adequate prisons here; fuck, we don’t have adequate barracks here. You did yourself, us, and Adrianna Morse a favor today.”

Gerhardt went limp. For the first time since he left Pacific Sanctuary, he questioned the decision. Dalton let go, backed off. Gerhardt fumbled with the lighter, got it to work after a few unsuccessful tries and lit up his smoke. The kick to his lungs expelled a cloud. Gerhardt doubled over, hacking.

Dalton laughed. “You’ll get used to it.”

“Should I?” said Gerhardt between coughs.

“Hell no. Shit’ll kill ya’.”

“You know you coulda’ tagged her shoulder.” Dalton said. Gerhardt groaned.

“I know,” he said, “why didn’t I?”

“That’s a question you’re going to ask yourself over and over again till your dead.”

“Oh, that’s promising.”

“You’ll be fine,” said Dalton, “so long as you give me back my lighter.” Gerhardt smiled, handed it back to him and they shared a quiet smoke.

“What was her name?” asked Dalton after he stomped out his cigarette butt.

“Elle.”

“Elle; that’s a pretty name,” he replied, “What did she look like?”

Gerhardt pulled out a picture and handed it to him.

“Oh yeah,” Dalton held the picture up to the light, “She’s a beauty, all right…” Gerhardt nodded.

“Still think she’s worth leaving paradise for?”

Gerhardt glanced at the picture, an image burned into his retinas, Elle in a crystal-trim white dance dress.

“Yeah, Dalton.”

“That’s good to hear,” he said, “keep her close to your heart.”

Gerhardt looked over. Dalton was once again staring out the window.

“What about you, Dalton? Anyone at home?”

Dalton laughed. “A husky named Gypsy. That’s about it.” Gerhardt nodded. After a pause Dalton continued.

“Had a wife; Sylvia, that was her name.” He said. “She’s…passed.”

“Aw, I’m sorry to hear that…”

It’s alright,” Dalton said, “It’s been awhile.”

“What happened, if you don’t mind my asking?”

“We were attacked by rebels.” He said. “We lived along the barrier; it was less controlled back then.” He noticed Gerhardt’s blank expression.

“We’ll teach you the history of Anchorage soon; that’ll make more sense.”

“Oh, OK,”

“Anyways, we were attacked; they killed her, damn-near killed me. I was lucky to suck air again…” Dalton looked at his fingernails.

“She never wanted to live that far from city-center,” he said, “It took everything I had to convince her…and she was the one that died.”

Dalton opened his cigar pack, shuffled the remaining cigars. He tossed the pack to Gerhardt as he made his way to the door.

“We all go to our grave with questions, my friend…” he said on the way out.

 

***

 

They came out of the quarantine peacefully. Sarah and Daniel stared out the window in awe.

“What the hell is that?”

“Mommy, it looks like my bubble-blower!”

“It looks like oil on water…”

Michael reached under his seat, popped open a compartment. He pulled out two pair of dark, black sunglasses.

“That’s the shield they use to protect the city. It’s cool to look at, but it’ll give you a headache after a while.” He handed them the shades with his free-hand. “Put these on.”

“It’s… white” Sarah held her hand in front of her face.

“Yeah, funny thing,” Michael said, “Seattle used to be overcast all the time. The sky just went from grey to white.”

“I like it,” Daniel took off the shades, “this way better.”

Michael chuckled. “Just don’t lose the shades, buddy, OK?” Daniel shook his head, spun it around as he gazed at the kaleidoscope sky.

They flew over Lake Washington on the right-hand side of the bridge, giving Sarah and Daniel a full view of the city. The skyscrapers had survived UEC attempts at seismic penetration; the Resistance had Seattle well-fortified.

Sarah lowered her shades halfway. “Why aren’t you wearing shades, Michael?”

“Umm…” He replied, “They’re built in.” He tapped his temple.

They followed I-90, dipping into the Mount Baker tunnel. Periodically it would open at the top, and Daniel would take his glasses off to catch rainbow-vision each time. The tunnel was filled with hidden scanners, from real-time MRI to Neutrino-Penetration Analysis. All non-invasive: standard procedure for all entering. Those who failed to enter the tunnel were shot down by a 3 Gigawatt pulse-laser anchored to the roof of Two Union Square: their destination.

Once they were out of the tunnel, they hit I-5. Daniel was mystified, Wow! Holy Jeez! and the like. Sarah was quiet; she’d never been to a full-fledged city before.

They rose above highway, avoiding overpasses. Two Union Square, though not the tallest building, was a monolith just the same. They hovered to the fourteenth floor, where a receiving dock had been carved out of the glass façade.

Michael tapped Sarah on the shoulder. “When we get in there, we’ll be separated. They need to examine you and Daniel, run some tests.” Sarah stiffened up.

“They’ll take good care of you guys, I promise.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Trust me; my word is gospel around here, and I’ll see to it that you two are given the royal treatment.”

“Where will you be?”

“They’ll have to make sure I’m not contagious, so I don’t know…probably quarantine.”

“I don’t want to be alone here.” He could sense the shakiness in Sarah’s voice.

“Funny, I figured you’d be overjoyed to get a break from my ugly mug.”

Sarah looked at him blankly.

“Face,” he said, “Mug is an old slang for face.”

“Oh.” Sarah turned her head back to check on Daniel, who was thoroughly engaged in donning and removing his shades, staring out the back window as the float touched down.

The fourteenth floor was hollowed out, with the exception of a block surrounding the elevator shaft. This was the receiving station; it wasn’t labeled; it didn’t have to be. New entrants to the city either went there, or were brought there. The west-coast Ellis Island; that’s what Jameson called it. Of course, he had to tell Michael what Ellis Island was.

Getting out of the float, they were met by a receiving team, covered in protective jumpers. Daniel was scared by their helmets: Michael had to explain that they were doctors. Daniel’s grip on his leg tightened. Sarah had to pick him up, “It’s OK, honey,” she said softly, not too sure of her own words.

Michael walked up to one of the doctors. “Sarah, Daniel; this is Dr. Irsten,” he said, “Call him Mark. Mark, this is Sarah and Daniel Finn.”

“Hey guys,” He said, stretched out his hand, “Don’t mind the suit; we wear these anytime Michael comes ‘round. We never know where he’s been…” Sarah laughed, Daniel did too, though he likely didn’t get the joke.

“Mark will take you to the hospital to run the tests.” Michael said, “And I’ll be going with them,” he pointed to the remaining team.

“C’mon, guys,” Mark motioned to the elevator block. Sarah and Daniel followed him, both looking back at Michael. He waved, surprised to feel a heavy heart.

“I’ll see you soon.” He said, and they disappeared with Mark.

Michael followed the rest of the team to the block shortly after, descending down a separate shaft. The special quarantine facility was on the 54^th floor, high enough to keep contagion from reaching the populace. When they hit the elevator, Michael began coughing hard enough to double over. He held a lot back for the sake of Sarah and Daniel, but he knew he was deteriorating. He tried to regain his composure; instead he hit the elevator floor.

Michael awoke to linen sheets and the itch of an IV drip in his right arm. He turned his head left and gazed out of the full-length tinted window. He could see the tops of skyscrapers. The pulse of a vitals’ monitor filled the room. He turned his head right to see two familiar faces: Seattle’s President, Laura Celes, and Curtis Mobely, Military Commandant.

“You guys aren’t suited up.”

Laura sat down next to the bed, folding her arms in her lap. “You’re not contagious, Michael,” she said, “We’ve learned that the virus isn’t communicable. It’s pervasive.”

“Pervasive? Ya’ lost me.”

Mobely spoke up. “The virus has pervaded the environment,” he said, “It was designed to be passed air-to-human, not human-to-human.”

“That’s surprising.”

Laura looked up from Michael’s chart. “How so?”

“They’re slipping. The UEC used to be more thorough…”

“Are you disappointed?” Laura asked him.

“No, I’m dying.” Michael coughed into a balled fist. “I’m just wondering what’s wrong with them…”

Mobely crossed the room to Michael’s left. He had a large video-film in his hand.

“This just arrived a few days ago.” He said, tossing the film onto the bed, Michael picked it up, pressing his finger on the biometric clearance lock. The film came to life, revealing a chess-match. Michael knew the players well. Home-field was the Everest president Quan. Visiting player was President Liu of Denali. There was no sound, but the point didn’t need it: A door opened, Guardsmen walking in to seize Quan. He knew what it meant. An overthrow.

“Checkmate”

“Yeah, that’s about the meat of it.” Said Mobely. “There’s one more thing you need to know.”

Celes cleared her throat. “Michael, days before that game, President Liu was tracked to the Apep crater. He was accompanied by Guardsmen, all killed.”

Michael groaned. “Coulson BlackLake. You gotta’ be fucking kidding me.”

Laura  looked down; Mobely stared out the window.

Michael hit the mattress with his fist.

“Fuck.”

***

The sun split the Chickaloon Branch Road in two; tall shadow spikes painted tiger-stripes on Sam’s lawn. He gave Kenny a choice; shovel shit out of the horse-pen or mow the front lawn. Sam had about ten acres of horse-pen and one acre of front lawn. If only all of life’s decisions could be so easy.

Sam did indeed have some form of climate control. As Kenny reached the front edge of the lawn, bitter cold slashed at him. Sam gave him a protective jumper, with a hood for headgear. It was similar material to what he had in the Security Force, only not tailored. Tailored or not, it kept the Arctic knife at bay when he did the trim.

Sam’s boy was named Alex; the one he lost. That was the name on the cross. Kid was nine when he died, recent, two weeks prior. Sam hadn’t said a word about him since Kenny got there; his wife, though cordial, was guarded. Fresh wounds were tender in even thick skin. Kenny hadn’t mentioned it, doubted he ever would. As he passed the grave he got a closer look at it. It had a symbol carved into the right arm of the cross: a triangle, the three angles ringed with three circles. Kenny’s gut started to drop. He knew rebel grave markings, what they meant. The triangle meant death. The three circles: courage, strength, valor… Sam’s boy died a combat death. Kenny tried to remember the details of their border skirmish a couple weeks ago, how he’s never forget that kid’s face…

Kenny finished the lawn as fast as he could so he could go inside. Sam’s house was a mix of stained pine and brick. It was crowded, tools, mostly, an occasional toy, pair of long-johns, couple of red flannel shirts draped over smooth wooden chairs, carved by Sam and the boys. Sam’s wife, Alice, was in the kitchen, drying the breakfast dishes. She smiled, asked Kenny if he’d like a cup of herbal tea. She apologized for not having coffee or cocoa. Kenny understood: they were hard to come by in the protected areas, near-impossible, he imagined, in rebel-held territory. Kenny pulled out the philosopher’s stone, grabbed his now-useless fur coat off the door rack.

“Won’t be needing this anymore.” He said. He held it over the kitchen table, concentrating first on coffee, then on cocoa. The coat dissolved into two piles, one of coffee beans, the other of cocoa powder.

“We weren’t required to memorize coffee and cocoa in the SF, but most everyone did.” Alice’s eyes lit up. She opened the cabinet for two jugs to hold her newly-acquired treasure.

“Sam will kiss the ground you walk on.” She said. “The boys, too.”

Kenny chuckled as Alice prepared some water. He walked out into the living room. Mitchell and Jimmy were sword-fighting with wooden swords. They had an area staked out, a circle of chalk on the hardwood floor to act as a foul-line. Pictures lined the back-wall, lining the top of a large stone hearth. Family pictures, mostly sepia images of grandparents, great-grandparents. There were only two pictures current; one of Sam and Alice alone, one with the three boys. Mitchell and Jimmy were older than the third boy, presumably Alex. He studied Alex’s face, trying to bring himself to a split-second recognition in the frenzy of live-fire. He couldn’t be certain.

“That’s Alex,” said Mitchell. Kenny turned his head to catch both their eyes on him.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought.” Kenny said. “You guys miss him, huh…”

Mitchell thumped his chest. “Alex was a hero!” Then he turned around and whacked Jimmy. “Ow!” Jimmy slapped Mitchell’s face broadside, the slap of wood brought tears to Mitchell’s eyes, and Alice into the room.

“Boys, what did I tell you about using those damn things?” She walked over to Mitchell, inspecting his face for splinters. “We have perfectly good foam swords for you guys to use…”

“Foam swords suck…”

“Watch your mouth, Mitchell Murphy!” Jimmy laughed. Mitchell’s face turned crimson, and he stomped out into the foyer, pounding up the stairs to his room. The whole house shook when he slammed the door.

“Boys…” Kenny laughed. Alice sighed, walked into the kitchen. He could smell coffee percolating, and he followed her.

“We’ve had this percolator since before Apep struck, I can’t remember using it but once.” She poured herself and Kenny a steaming cup of coffee. “I hope it does a good job.”

“It’ll be fine.” Kenny replied. She offered him goat’s milk for creamer, which he politely refused. He drank his coffee black. The quiet moment was punctuated by the arguing of Jimmy and Mitchell upstairs.

“Kids,” she said.

“Yeah…” Kenny looked Alice in the eye, then down into his cup. He didn’t dare ask.

“How did Alex die?” She said.

“Huh?”

“I saw you looking at our family picture,” she said, “and you were studying his grave earlier.” She pointed to the kitchen window, with a full view of the front lawn.

“I’m sorry, Alice,” he replied, “I didn’t mean to-,”

“Don’t worry about it.” She replied. “Sam won’t talk about it. He blames himself.”

Alice gripped her cup in both hands, stared out the window. The rising sunlight reflected in her glasses.

“They attacked the border, Borland’s group did.” She said. “Every family in the territory with more than one boy had to send one to the fight.”

Alice took a sip of her coffee and continued. Kenny could hear a motor outside: a tractor, something of the like.

“Jimmy, Mitchell and Alex all wanted to go; it should’ve been one of the older boys, but Alex was clever.” She said, “He shot out the headlights of Borland’s transport from a thousand yards with an old Browning Automatic Rifle; heirloom from Sam’s grandfather. Sam made cartridges for the kids, but Alex was the crack shot.”

Kenny’s gut churned. He knew what was coming.

“He got killed that day,” she said, “One of the Sec-,” she paused. Her voice dropped to barely above a whisper.

“One of your guys.”

 

***

 

The New Rochester Library died silent in alabaster, would-be combatants’ faces frozen in statuesque suspension. Coulson BlackLake’s dark form slumped over the center table, a blueprint of the building he traced beneath his pointed nails. There was a safe somewhere, a missing spot on the blueprint. The professor had it in his mind as a point of worry. Something he didn’t want to leave behind.

Fourth Floor, behind the shelf in the north-east corner. There were two stairways; Coulson became vapor and took the ventilation ducts, making form at Jameson Rivers’ desk. Papers strewn about; coffee rings, burn-marks and half a pouch of pipe tobacco, artificial cherry flavor. He walked to the north-east corner of the office. He stretched out his arm and sublimated the shelf. The wood and paper sizzled, bubbling into an oily grey slime that soon coated the floor around Coulson’s feet. Revealed was a thick steel safe, fire-proof, near impossible to pick.

Coulson didn’t bother trying. He touched the lock, the door opened to the sound of tumblers sizzling. Inside the safe, Coulson saw a pile of books and papers. He rubbed his chin; paper. He began to pick up books, holding each between his palms: shapes of letters, white and black images of charts, graphs, colors of additive mixture. Book after book he tossed as irrelevant, until he was left with a pile of loose paper.

Coulson squatted down in front of the safe, gathering up the papers, assisted by the room’s air currents. Like the books, he reached into the pile, discerning words from paper, turning irrelevant papers to ash until he found what he was looking for. It was a report, plain black and white. He read the title;

 

PEALE & ADAM: Differential Abstract

By Dr. Jameson Rivers, PhD

Ordinarily he skipped reading, preferring instead to absorb printed material, sucking dry the information like ink wrung from stained pulp. Instead Coulson sat cross-legged, reading aloud the words in his hand.

…by 2010, DARPA had unveiled the iXo Battlefield Command Grid, a semi-autonomous combat control system. This was the first step toward the development of PEALE. The iXo model was called the “extra-soldier” model, in which the iXo, though enhanced in its battlefield awareness, acted as an assistant soldier in communication with an active platoon.

There were many steps between iXo and PEALE. There were four updated versions; AiXo, AiXo-PE, PE2 & PE2.01 (Modified). Each step was designed to accomplish two separate, often conflicting goals: true autonomy and symbiosis with a human carrier. This second goal was far more difficult. AiXo-PE2.01 was, at it’s core, autonomous, with deductive and inductive capabilities. Butt an addition to the circuit matrix was developed by Dr. Gustav Volk in 2020 which turned the AiXo-PE2.01 into PEALE.

PEALE was capable of autonomous action, deductive and inductive reasoning, comprehension and cognizance; in terms of the first goal set for it, PEALE passed with flying colors. However, the second goal was quite the opposite.

In 2022, UEC scout Coulson BlackLake was picked for transplant from the ranks of soldiers due to his OPS scores (OPS is an assessment of psychosomatic suggestibility). He was rendered comatose in a ‘simulated accident’

Coulson felt a low growl rumble through his rib-cage. ‘Simulated accident’?

…BlackLake was kept on life support, and was transferred to secure UEC military installation in Brazil. At this time, the Sanctuary system was, of course, still under construction. The PEALE circuit matrix was bonded to BlackLake’s brainstem, taking over the brain-functions lost to the coma. Though the operation was, in theory, a success, it was never repeated. When the installation failed to report to UEC Headquarters, a contingent of soldiers were sent to investigate. They discovered the entire installation crew, over three thousand men, slaughtered. After their initial assessment, which included a live video report, they disappeared as well…

Coulson remembered his first ‘waking moment’, or rather he should now call it re-waking, with no emotional connotation; just memory. He scanned the page until he found something that once again piqued his interest;

…PEALE’s Tactical Flaw…

The UEC, upon seeing the potential PEALE had of causing catastrophic human destruction, re-worked the circuit matrix to include a flaw the UEC could exploit to protect themselves. PEALE is incapable of contemplating…

He tried to read the next paragraph, but couldn’t. The words blurred, glowed, burned. The harder he tried, the harder they burned. Tears began to roll down his cheek, his pure frustration evaporating them in mid-roll. He clutched the report in his stickly hands and it burst into flames, its ashy scraps quickly swirling about his body as if caught in a whirlwind.

Coulson leaned on Jameson Rivers’ desk, arms folded, his fingers roll-tapping on his sinewy triceps.

Simulated accident

He became black vapor, finding the chimney and the bitter northern air, off to meet his maker. The intercept could wait. He had a score to settle.

 

More from Liam Sweeny…