Serpent and the Sun, Chptr. 8 – Xperience Fiction – by Liam Sweeny.

“Gentleman, I apologize that we must meet on such short notice,” said President Liu, “But recent developments have forced me to call in a special session.”

The round, polished-marble table was ringed with Presidents, some ill-dressed for a business meeting. It had become a frequent occurrence in recent days. In the center of the table was a holographic image of an abandoned city. There appeared to be a tunnel that had caved in, its entrance a concrete ramp that had collapsed.

“This,” President Liu flipped out a pointer, aiming it at the hologram, “is Albany. It was formerly the capital city of the state of New York, abandoned in 2022. Up until two days ago, the terrestrial resistance was using a sub-level parking facility as a weapons storage depot.”

President Liu walked about the table, his pointer remaining on the hologram. As he moved, the hologram changed, the rubble dissolving to give the board members a view of the depot.

“The depot held small arms, DE, transports, weather transmutation devices; whatever they could steal.” President Liu continued, “A contingent of Guard, headed by Cyrus Swift, was dispatched. The depot was destroyed.”

One President spoke up. “So why are we here?”

“The depot was destroyed by Blake Chaplin,” said President Liu, “and Cyrus Swift was killed.”

The Presidents gasped in unison.

“That’s impossible!” one President shouted out. “Swift is,”

“Dead, Jordan,” answered Liu, “immortal, and dead.”

The boardroom erupted in chatter. Liu pulled a metal clapper together, striking the plates together three times to restore order.

“PEALE has developed an incident reconstruction based on tachyonitry.” Liu said. “It’s a new field, so the reconstruction’s not perfect. It is, however, apparent that Blake Chaplin did not, kill, Captain Swift.”

“Who did?” another President asked.

“A terrestrial,” Replied Liu, “Ralph Summers,”

“…also deceased,” he replied. He flicked the side of his pointer, causing it to retract. The hologram on the table faded.

“The nano-systems in Cyrus Swift’s body were metallicized,” Liu went on, by this time making his way back to his seat, “By a device the terrestrials call a godkiller. It’s a variation of a transmuter.”

“I will not be putting up the specs,” he added, “needless to say, it’s banned in the Sanctuary.”

“So wait,” asked Jordan, “where is this device now?”

Liu sat back down. “Blake Chaplin picked it up after it was used, according to the PEALE reconstruction.” He said.

“Oh fuck.” One President said. The room murmured in general agreement.

“We have other things to discuss.” President Liu said. He slid back a panel to reveal a control board. He pressed a button, and a hologram appeared of a complex chain molecule.

“Trials have finished on the AV3 molecule,” he said, “Our original testing site, the rebel-held city of Bozeman, produced a 100% mortality rate.”

“However, as some of you may know, our larger-scale scan of the area showed a woman and child with total immunity.” A few of the Presidents nodded. Liu entered another code, and the hologram changed to a woman and child.

“The woman’s name is Sarah Finn, a former exotic dancer. The child is her son, Daniel.” Liu said. “She was targeted at her work via ground strike. She escaped. She and her son were then targeted at her apartment.”

“Again, she escaped.” He added.

“Wow, lucky girl,” One of the Presidents said, “She must’ve really stepped in some dog-shit…”

Liu pressed another button. Sarah’s and Daniel’s images faded, replaced by an image of a man everyone on the board recognized. Michael Wynsee.

“Meet Sarah’s dog-shit.” Liu said.

The boardroom was silent. The snowy wind flew around the panoramic window, occasionally offering a glimpse of lower Mount McKinley. The Denali Sanctuary was the last Sanctuary built, after the other Sanctuaries agreed that a Sanctuary dedicated to military functions should be close to HAARP. Denali was the tallest mountain in Alaska. Though it was the last Sanctuary built, it was the fastest built, and the first one started after the advent PEALE.

“Wynsee, Sarah and Daniel, and Chaplin are headed to Seattle,” Liu said, “presumably en-route to here.”

“We can’t let them!” Another President shouted, “If Chaplin has a godkiller, all he has to do is get it to Wynsee. They’ll replicate it, make it more powerful, kill us all,”

“Calm down, Mr. Lucius,” Liu said.

“No, I won’t!” said Mr. Lucius, “We have to activate the Guard!”

“Go ahead,” President Liu said, pointing to the front door, “Authorize the whole damn guard to go after them.” He was met with silence.

“Well?”

“I can’t activate the Guard,” replied Mr. Lucius, “only you can, Mr. President.”

“You’d be well to remember that.” President Liu got up again, turning his back to the board to stare out the window.

“Cyrus Swift had gone mad by the time he met up with Chaplin,” he said, “He killed five Guardsmen himself; we would have had to execute him upon his return.”

“We’re better off with him dead.” Liu added.

“So what are our options?” asked Jordan.

Liu paused. “We can’t let them take the fight to Denali,” said Liu, “The two of them with a,” Liu cleared his throat, “godkiller, could easily over-run us.” Liu looked at Mr. Lucius. “Marcus, I do understand your concern, and it is a valid one.”

President Liu continued. “Though Cyrus was, by all accounts mad, he was the most powerful of the Guardsmen. Now the most powerful Guardsmen is-,” Blake, “not a Guardsman anymore.”

“What we need,” Liu said, “who we need, is not a Guardsman.”

“Mr. President, you’re not referring to… him, are you?”

“And by him, you mean…”

The man sighed, and slumped forward in his seat.

“Go ahead, Mr. Barnes,”

“Coulson BlackLake.”

The boardroom erupted in hushed whispers, as if the entire board was aghast.

“Unfortunately, gentlemen; Coulson BlackLake is the only, being, on Earth that can challenge Chaplin and Wynsee.” President Liu paced the room.

“I’m sorry for being new here,” one President said, “but who is Coulson BlackLake?”

President Liu walked to the panel by his chair, but stopped short.

“Coulson BlackLake was the first super-soldier created with the advent of PEALE.” Liu said. “This was twenty years ago. Back then PEALE’s intelligence was not fully realized, and it was grafted into Coulson’s brainstem.”

The President was silent for a moment, looking around the table.

“So what did that mean?” He finally asked.

“Coulson acquired PEALE’s intelligence, and it’s detachment,” said Liu, “And all of the strength of PEALE’s earth-system and nanotech-control.”

“Well, where is he?”

“He’s in Apep.” Liu replied.

“Apep?” asked Barnes, “You mean the crater? What’s he doing there?”

“Avoiding humanity,” Liu stopped pacing. He scanned the boardroom. So often he had to battle the egos of the men sitting around the table; now they looked out of empty husks at the center of the table, at the hologram of Michael Wynsee. No doubt the word godkiller was on each of their minds.

“So how do we get him to help us?” asked Mr. Lucius.

President Liu paused. He looked out at the snowy gale they were protected from.

“Carefully.”

***

The rim of the crater was just visible on the horizon. Apep left a thirty-mile wide impact, turning the earth beneath it to something the consistency of volcanic glass. President Liu had been to the impact site; a heavy deposit of iridium was left, and HAARP had uses for it. He’d never gone in; automated machinery mined the ore as he stood at the edge watching. There was a presence in the crater that learned men were warned to steer clear of.

Today, President Liu was seeking that presence.

He was traveling with a contingent of Guardsmen, the best Denali had left. But he knew it would do no good. Coulson BlackLake was akin to a force of nature. BlackLake started out a soldier, picked for his military test scores. PEALE was barely finished when the board at Everest felt the system needed to bond to a human, for better control. BlackLake was chosen, without his knowledge, in fact. He was sedated at a night-club and irrevocably brain-damaged. A replicated core component was then grafted onto his brainstem. They thought BlackLake could use PEALE to become the perfect soldier. They also thought PEALE could be controlled by a single person.

They were wrong on both counts. Liu knew personally of the thousands of inventions PEALE had come up with since it came on-line, thousands more that had to be shelved because men like him couldn’t understand their value. But Coulson’s brain had developed a symbiotic relationship with PEALE. Had he not lost his attachment to humanity, he well could’ve ruled it. Instead he preferred to rule a crater in the former country of Nicaragua.

The unirotors fanned out as the President’s pod-cruiser floated to the edge, hovering for a moment before touching down. He didn’t trust Coulson to fly in. He would have to hike down the steep edge. The Guardsmen covered his movement, one advance, one rear and two on each flank. It was blistering hot, and the humidity soaked his shirt. The Guard has temperate suits, but he felt that diplomacy required him to suffer a bit.

A breeze seemed to pick up in the distance, whipping up curls of black sooty soil in their direction. As they neared the bottom, Liu was waiting for that breeze to provide a little relief. But he didn’t feel anything. The sooty dust was swirling towards them, but no wind appeared to be carrying it. It wasn’t until the black dust was swirling about each of them that President Liu realized there was no wind, and the dust was taking the form of gaunt assassins, murdering his Guardsmen and pinning him to the ground.

“We need your help,” said President Liu, choking in BlackLake’s grip, “P-please,”

“That’s unfortunate.”

“Regardless of what’s happened in the past, you’re still one of us, a part of you, anyways.” Liu tried not to show fear, but the humidity had him sweating.

“I’ll bet you can’t find that part.” BlackLake eased his grip some. He was no longer choking President Liu, but he had him pinned to the ground.

“So you need my help,” he said, “state your request.”

“We need you to track and terminate three people who pose a threat to the system.”

“Don’t you have Guard for that?”

“They took out our strongest Guardsman,” said Liu, “You’re the only we know of who’s strong enough to kill them.”

“I have just as much reason to kill you as I do anyone else.”

“They’re trying to destroy PEALE.” Liu said.

“Let them try.”

“They may succeed,” he countered, “They’ve constructed a replacement. A superior one.”

“You’re lying.” BlackLake said.  “I would have felt it by now.”

“They haven’t put it on-line yet.” Liu said. “I have a spy in their stronghold. Look in my eyes; you’ll know I’m telling the truth.”

BlackLake stared in President Liu’s eyes. After an uncomfortable moment, President Liu felt BlackLake release his grip.

Liu rose to his feet. As he looked about, he noticed that all six Guardsmen were dead, with a bronzed look. They’d been metallicized, just like Cyrus Swift. He turned toward the center of the crater. Coulson BlackLake had formed a body of sorts. If President Liu had to guess, he would’ve said BlackLake was just over nine feet tall. He had the build of a weightlifter, and was wearing all black. In reality, Liu realized that Coulson could look like anybody. That trait would help them. He just hoped it wouldn’t also be used against them.

Coulson was silent, apparently thinking about it. Then, without warning, his large mass dissipated to a vapor that surrounded President Liu. Coulson reformed: short, lean and gaunt, and inches from Liu’s face.

“I’ll help you.” He said. “But if I don’t find that replacement, I’ll destroy each and every Sanctuary… ending with yours.”

President Liu didn’t have time to thank him. He disappeared into the same non-wind he came from.

***

“For centuries, humankind desired to understand the weather, so that they might predict catastrophic events,” Jameson said, “And beginning in the 20^th century, the world’s great powers began to understand the weather. Then they set about learning how to control it.”

Adam had a distant gaze. He’d had it all morning.

“Adam, are you paying attention?”

“Yes, Jameson,” he said, “they wanted to control the weather. Go on…”

Jameson stopped. “Adam, something’s wrong,” he said, “I’d like to know what it is, if you don’t mind sharing.”

“Blake’s coming to pick me up,” Adam said, “Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Where did you hear that?”

“You were on the phone with him yesterday.”

“You weren’t supposed to be listening in, Adam,”

“Sorry.” Adam was sulking, his arms wrapped around his body. His customary white background was dark gray.

Jameson sighed. “Yes, Adam.” He said. “Blake is coming to pick you up.”

Adam was silent.

“Are you coming with us?” Adam asked.

Jameson paused.

“Well?”

“I’m not sure,” Jameson said, “I have responsibilities here, and,”

“You’re chicken-shit.”

“Adam! Watch your mouth!”

“That’s what Blake called you,” Adam responded, “Don’t be such a chicken-shit.”

“Adam! That’s enough!” Jameson shouted. He looked at the screen; Adam looked glum.

“Adam, I said I’m not sure,” Jameson stared out the window at the ghost-street, “You have to understand; there’s a lot holding me here…”

“There’s a lot holding you down here.”

“Adam, that’s not fair,” Jameson said, “Now can we continue the lesson?”

“Fine,” Adam did his best to look disinterested, but Jameson could tell he was hurt. Adam was becoming more and more human.

“Shortly after the turn of the century, scientist and inventor Nicola Tesla was a pioneer with electricity.” Jameson said, “Now, you have a detailed collection of conventional history files, so I’ll concentrate on the unconventional history behind Tesla’s work; in particular, a tower in Wadcliffe, Long Island.”

“Tesla believed, rightly so, that the earth’s ionosphere could be used to send wireless electricity to consumers; in effect, electrifying the entire earth.” H continued. “He set up a tower at Wadcliffe to show this, but the tower was de-funded.”

“Why?” asked Adam.

“Tesla’s benefactor profited from electricity,” Jameson replied, “so giving it away wasn’t in his best interest.”

“OK.”

“Moving on,” Jameson continued, “In the late 1940s, nuclear power came to the scientific forefront, radically changing man’s view of his own power in relation to the world in which he lived.” Jameson drew a circle on the chalkboard. “It seemed limitless then, the possibilities; radiation was poorly understood. And atomic tests were conducted in the upper atmosphere. In the ionosphere, these blasts would create auroras, illuminating the night sky.”

Adam was absorbing the lesson. Jameson could still see he was distracted.

“Skipping ahead,” Jameson said, mindful of the time, “In 1993, a project was begun in Alaska called the High-Frequency Active Auroral Research Project, or as we know it, HAARP.”

“HAARP was originally for research purposes only, and though part of its funding came from the military, it was considered for communications and radar, not weather control.” Jameson paused.

“Now Adam, please pay attention. I’m going to go through years of recent history, and as I’ve told you before, recent history is more difficult for me. Please ask questions if you don’t understand.”

“Okay,”

“HAARP is effectively a transmitter, capable of super-heating a small part of the ionosphere.” He said. “He drew rings around the circle on the board. He pointed to the outer ring.

“This,” he said, “is the magnetosphere. It is where the magnetic field of the earth exists; the Van Allen Belts.”

Adam nodded. Jameson pointed to the inner ring.

“This is our atmosphere.” He said. Then he pointed to the center ring.

“And this,” he said, “is the ionosphere. It is essentially a region of charged particles; more than the magnetosphere, less than the atmosphere. Every day the sun’s energy ionizes these particles, hence, the ionosphere.”

“So the HAARP is like the sun?”

“Not exactly,” Jameson replied. “HAARP doesn’t have anything near the power of the sun. It can’t affect the ionosphere as a whole. It doesn’t have to.”

Jameson drew a smaller line around the top of the circle.

“Suppose this is the North Pole.” Jameson drew a point. “All of the Earth’s fluctuations in the ionosphere come to a head here.” Jameson marked another point just off the first one.

“Here’s HAARP,” Jameson said, “Its location allows it to affect great change with little energy.”

“So when did HAARP start changing the weather?” Adam asked. “I mean, the Earth went through a bad time with the weather in the ‘20s, right?”

“Yes, it did,” Jameson said, “Unfortunately, HAARP was of little help at the time. HAARP could affect changes that would have stabilized the earth’s weather system, but back then we didn’t understand the Earth’s weather pattern. What was required was a superior intelligence.”

“PEALE.”

“Exactly,” Jameson said. “And PEALE came on-line in 2028, long after the earth’s climate began to change.”

“Well, couldn’t they fix it afterwards?”

“They could have,” Jameson replied, “And eventually, in certain areas, they did. But there was more than one use for the HAARP equipment.

“Wait,” Adam said, “Question.”

“Go ahead.”

“Why is it still called HAARP?” He asked. “Is it still a Research Project?”

“No, they changed the last part of the acronym to Resonance Projector.” Jameson answered, “Which is what it is.”

Adam nodded. “So what was the other use?”

“OK, now this gets strange,” Jameson said. Mostly for himself. “HAARP was capable of creating Extremely Low Frequency waves, or ELF waves, in the ionosphere, and beaming them down to earth.”

“What do they do?”

“They can, among other things, inhibit mental function.” Jameson said. “We’ve spoken about the devolution before, correct?”

“Yes, that’s where people became stupid.”

Jameson laughed. “Pretty much…”

“So they made everyone stupid?” asked Adam, “Why?”

“They didn’t make everyone stupid,” replied Jameson, “They targeted the large cities. They felt they had to in order to control them.” Jameson stared back out into the street.

“In the end they just used weather to kill most of them.” He added.

“Were you affected?” asked Adam. “was New Rochester?”

“No.” Jameson replied. “We had luck on our side; the geography of the valley put us in a pit. But we weren’t immune to raids.”

Adam and Jameson were quiet for a while.

“I’m gonna’ miss you, Jameson,”

“I told you I didn’t make up my mind yet,” Jameson said,

“I’m just saying, if you choose to stay here,” Adam said, “I’m gonna’ miss you.”

“Well, I’m gonna’ miss you too.” Jameson replied, “but we’ll deal with that when the time comes.”

Jameson went back to the chalkboard when he heard the alarm bell go off. Once; it wasn’t a raid, just an alert. His communicator also went off. Blake.

“The time’s come.”

***

Elle sat in stunned believe as she listened to the audio recording.

“…Denali said we’ll have to wait three months for the viral components to stabilize in the atmosphere. It won’t kill anyone who’s infused, but the First- and Second Tier populations will be susceptible…”

She had begged her father to tell her where Gerhardt was; he had the technology to track him, even outside of the Sanctuary. But he refused, telling her he promised Gerhardt he wouldn’t. Of all the nerve, using Gerhardt to hide behind what was surely his preference. It infuriated her. When she left the recorder in his office, she felt she had no other choice. She knew politics; she knew that with enough record-time she’d have her father over a barrel, and he’d have to locate Gerhardt for her. She never expected this.

Gerhardt is susceptible, she thought, Father sent him to his death. It was far easier to see it that way than to see it as Gerhardt’s own wish. Had he only known what deadly thing was lurking out there, surely he’d have not gone. Elle couldn’t bear to think that it wouldn’t have mattered.

The phone rang. She looked at the number. Frederick Fitch. Ever since Gerhardt left, he’d been on her like a burlap dress. She could sense her father’s hand behind it. Yet she could do nothing to throw off his advances. Becoming married to Fitch meant becoming infused, and becoming infused meant survival on the outside. It was all she could do to hurry up the wedding date without making Fitch suspicious.

“Hey Freddie,” she said, trying to sound sincere.

“Hey darling,” he said, “You sound tired.”

“Yeah, I just woke up.” She lied.

“Oh,” he said blankly. It was four in the afternoon. “Well, I was just calling to see if we were going to the Olympus Pageant tonight.”

“Oh, I don’t think so,” she said, “I have to do research for one of my classes. I should have started it already.”

“Oh. OK.” He sounded depressed. She didn’t care. He didn’t deserve her.

“Call me later.” She said, and without giving him a chance to respond, she hung up.

Elle had no intention of doing anything except plotting her revenge. As apparent from his conversation with the President, her father knew damn well there was a virus on the Earth, and he sure as hell didn’t tell Gerhardt. But the more Elle sat there, the more times she replayed the recording, the more she came to see the magnitude of it.

It wasn’t just Gerhardt. There were billions of people outside of the Sanctuaries. President Lee spoke of extermination and terrestrial cleansing. Billions were going to die, and as Elle thought of all her family and friends, acquaintances and such, she could only think of one person she felt confident to talk about this with. And he left her.

Elle packed up the recorder, tucking it in her pocket before shutting the door to her apartment. She wanted to burst into her father’s office to confront him, but she was far too angry to be effective. She needed to cool down some. So she took off to the Second Tier to wander. She was aimless, a stranger amongst strange people. It dawned on her how little she thought of people in the Second Tier.

The whole time she had with Gerhardt she spent trying to bring him up to her Tier socially. Very seldom did she ever meet any of his friends. The only one she remembered was Albrecht Ralstein, because he brought her to visit him when they were just getting to know each other, before it got serious. Back then she found Albrecht to be paranoid. But as she walked the main walk, surrounded by the ranks of the oblivious rat-racers, perhaps he had it right all along. Elle found herself in his sector, and before she realized it she was ringing his buzzer.

She stood outside his door, unsure of what to say, or if he’d even recognize her. After a moment of silence, she began to doubt she was even home. She was just about to turn to walk away when she heard a voice behind the door.

“Who is it!?”

“Elle Renier,” she said, “Gerhardt’s fiancé.”

“I don’t know where he went.” The voice said.

“Please, sir,” she said, “I just need to talk to someone.”

She didn’t get a response. She was about to make a final plea before she heard the sound of multiple locks unlatching. The door opened just enough to get through.

“Hurry up.” Albrecht said as she made her way in. He locked all the locks behind her. She’d have been alarmed, but he did that the last time she was there.

Albrecht’s apartment was eclectic, to say the least. The living-room was scattered with books, magazines and paper printouts strewn about, piles on top of piles. Every apartment had a video-film wall, but his appeared to be broken. It would have been a simple maintenance call, but Albrecht preferred it broken. In fact, it was he that broke it. In its place was what he called a ham radio. Elle didn’t understand why he called it that. It didn’t look like a ham.

Albrecht walked into his kitchen, and Elle followed. His kitchen was likewise eclectic. All apartments in the Sanctuary came with dining rooms, but Albrecht used his to grow vegetables. The home-grown vegetables were piled atop every surface in the kitchen, save for the antique stove-top. Albrecht’s apartment was the first and only place in which she’d ever seen a stove. His transmuter was also broken, by choice. Albrecht didn’t trust anything to come from the technological revolution.

“He didn’t tell me where he was going,” Albrecht said, “But he said you’d probably come asking…”

“I figured he wouldn’t tell anyone.” She said. “Albrecht, I really just need someone to talk to.”

“Okay, then go ahead,” he said, “What’s on your mind?”

Elle pulled out the recorder, setting it down on a free space of the table and she pressed play. She let Albrecht hear the whole conversation. Oddly he didn’t react the way she thought he would. He didn’t react at all.

“Doesn’t this piss you off?” She said.

“No, not really,” Albrecht replied, “They’ve been planning it for a while…”

“No they haven’t!” Elle cried.

“Oh, I forgot, your father’s one of them,” Albrecht said.

“And what is that supposed to mean!?!”

“Look, no offense to you or your father,” he said, “but think about it; they made everyone on the outside stupid, then crazy, and let over two billion people starve to death. Now they’re finishing the job.”

They went out to the living room as they talked. Albrecht grabbed a folding chair for Elle, plopping down in a maple rocking chair.

“I know you love your father; there’s nothing wrong with that,” he said, “…and he may be a good man. But the system itself is diabolical, and like it or not he’s a part of it.”

Elle buried her head in her hands. As much as she hated to admit it, Albrecht was right.

“What am I going to do?” She said. “I don’t even know what to say to my father…”

“Don’t let him know you recorded that conversation.”

“He won’t do anything.” Elle said. “Gerhardt recorded him before.”

“Was Gerhardt getting official business?”

“Well, no,”

Albrecht took off his right shoe and began rubbing his foot. Elle remembered him doing that the last time she was there. He gave her and Gerhardt a speech on the health benefits of foot-rubs.

“There’s a fine line between getting back at daddy and treason.” Albrecht said. “Make sure which side of the line that recording sits on.”

***

Gerhardt sat alone at the far end of the bar. He ordered vodka, but the bar-tender told him they didn’t have it. He had to settle for white-lightning. After one shot, he decided to go for beer. He then found out that all they had was a nasty concoction called scrape-beer. It was awful, but at least he could stomach it. He wasn’t much of a drinker; it would probably be his only other drink.

He was being eyed from the opposite end of the bar. Three grizzly-looking men with thick, black beards and work-jumpers like the kind the Sanctuary maintenance crew wore, only shabbier. They were talking too low to be heard, but Gerhardt didn’t have to hear them to know they were up to no good.

He tried to keep his nose as close to the beer as possible, but suddenly he felt something hit his head. He looked up, and they started laughing. One of the men cracked his knuckles. Gerhardt didn’t want to fight; he didn’t know anybody there, and it was a hell of a way to make friends. But he also knew that if he let them get away with it, he’d not be able to make the kind of friends he’d need to make to survive in Alaska. He had to make a stand.

Quietly, Gerhardt got up and walked over to the men.

“Best sit back down, boy,” said the man who’d cracked his knuckles.

“You the one throwing shit at me?” Gerhardt calmly asked.

“Yeah, so what if I was? You got the stones to throw?” Gerhardt hadn’t heard that phrase before, but he could guess what it meant. When the man got up and raised his fists, Gerhardt didn’t have to guess.

All children in the Sanctuary system were taught self-defense. A child could not pass grade-school without passing basic self-defense, and in secondary education it was incorporated into physical education. Gerhardt hated it, because in order to pass, he had to fight, and he was a pacifist. But he fought, and he passed. And as he stood there in that bar, with a man standing up who towered over him, ready to fight, he allowed himself to fall back on his training. The man took a swing, which he deftly dodged, catching the man’s arm as he barreled forward. He twisted it hard enough to dislocate the shoulder, and the man hit the ground. The two men with him got up, one of them smashing his bottle against the bar.

Shit, Gerhardt thought, uncertain of whether or not the rest of the patrons would react, whether they would jump in or stay out of it. One of the other men jumped at him, and he struck him in the solar plexus with a penetrating blow, felling him. He looked up to see that the other patrons had risen. He knew he couldn’t take on the whole bar.

“C’mere, kid, I’ll slice ya’,” said the third man, the one with the bottle. He started toward Gerhardt when another man got in between them.

“Lenny, not tonight, brother,” he said, “I’ll take ya’ to the brig,”

“He started it!”

“No, you started it,” the man said, “launching peanuts at the guy.”

“Well he shouldn’t be nowhere he ain’t welcome,”

The man looked at Gerhardt, then at Lenny.

“I can remember when you weren’t welcome,” the man said, “And you keep smashin’ bottles on Sylvia’s nice bar here, you’ll wear out the welcome ya’ got.”

The man ordered Lenny another drink to replace the one he’d destroyed. He patted Lenny on the back, and Lenny sat down, grumbling as he did so. The man turned his attention to the first man. He felt the man’s shoulder, twisting it as he did so. The man cried out in agony.

“Shut up, ya’ big baby,” he said, “be thankful it ain’t broken.”

The man turned his head to look at Gerhardt.

“That was the quickest dislocation I’ve ever seen,” he said as he got up.

“The name’s Dalton,” he extended his hand, “Dalton Henry.” Gerhardt shook his hand.

“Gerhardt Schoern,” he replied.

“You fight like you’ve had training.” Dalton said, wiping the bar as he ordered two more scrape-beers.

“Oh, I really can’t,” said Gerhardt, “I’m not a drinker…”

“If you don’t have at least three drinks in here, you’ll have officially insulted Sylvia,” replied Dalton, “It’s OK, I have pills out in the float to sober ya’ up if you need to.”

They sat down to drink, Gerhardt nervously glancing at the men who’d confronted him. They looked away every time.

“I just came from the Sanctuary.” Gerhardt said.

“Denali?”

“No; Pacific.”

“Pacific?” Dalton looked at him curiously. “How’d you get the gun?”

“I made a deal to get off it.” Gerhardt said. “The gun was part of the deal.”

“You must’ve been bargaining with a big fish to get that as a send-off present,” Dalton said, “Do you know how much one of those things goes for on the street?”

“No idea.”

Dalton looked over at the men. “Enough to make three men wanna’ kill ya’, that’s how much.” Gerhardt was dumbfounded.

“So why are ya’ here?” Dalton asked.

“I had to get away from someone,” he said, “…to protect her.”

“Sounds like a loved one. Am I right?”

“Yeah.”

“I’ll leave it at that.” Dalton said. He slammed the rest of his scrape-beer and reached in his pocket. He pulled out a card and handed it to Gerhardt.

“Go there on Monday,” he said, pointing to the address. The card was for the Anchorage Security Force. “I’ll try to help you out.” Then he started for the door.

“Wait,” said Gerhardt, “what do I do until then?”

“Grab your gun, go back to your room, sleep off the scrape-beer…” Dalton said, “Oh yeah,” he added, “lock your door.”

***

“Where are we now?”

Michael looked over the side of the float at the dark earth below. He did it for theatrical effect purely; he knew where they were.

“Spokane.”

Sarah looked over the edge. “Spokane?” she said, “Isn’t that a city?”

“It was.”

“What happened to it?”

Michael flicked a matchstick, putting it between his teeth, extinguished it with a puff of breath.

“Spokane was rebel-held,” Michael said, “A battalion of Guardsmen were sent in.”

“They were told to be creative…” he added bitterly.

“Oh.” Sarah felt bad. She grew up in a world that placed people like Michael, rebels, as bogeymen. She even entered the Security Force Academy from high school. She didn’t make it; Kyle Connor was her high school sweetheart, and he flunked out of the Academy. Not having any reason to continue, she quit soon after. The inhumanity, the barbarity of the rebels was drilled into them from day one, when their teacher produced a large glossy picture of the corpse of a mutilated child. He told them all the child was playing just outside the perimeter, and was partially cannibalized.

She looked at Michael. He was staring straight ahead, but the matchstick in his mouth was flying from one corner to another. He pulled it out just in time to cough, covering his mouth as he did so. Sarah was shocked as he pulled back his hand.

“Michael, you’re coughing up blood. We gotta get you to a doctor!”

Michael laughed, wiping his mouth on his sleeve.

“The only doctors who understand my physiology,” he said, “want to destroy it.”

“There’s gotta’ be someone out there,”

“ ’Be honest with ya’, if I get ya’ where ya’ gotta’ be, I’ll gladly die there.”

“Don’t say that!” Sarah wrapped her arms around her shoulders, turning away from Michael.

“I’m sorry,” Michael said, “I didn’t know that would bother you.”

“Maybe it’s not me, Michael,” she replied, “ya’ ever think of that?” She pointed her thumb back toward Daniel, who was sleeping soundly in the back seat.

“He looks up to you.” Sarah said.

“He looks up to you.” Michael replied.

They drove in silence for a while. It was dark; the moonlight was the only illumination. Sarah could see shapes beneath the float, ridges, recesses and the occasional tips of evergreens. Wherever they were, they were driving as close to the ground as they could. Sarah looked ahead, noticing a grid-like holographic projection on the corner of the windshield. Off in the distance, Sarah could see the blackened outlines of skyscrapers.

“Seattle.” Michael said.

Sarah chewed on the index nail of her left hand.

“Is it,” she said, “Ya’ know…”

“Dead?”

“Yeah, or evacuated or whatever,” She asked, “I mean, why aren’t there any lights?”

“It’s a center of resistance.” Michael said. “That means lights out at night.”

“Oh,” Sarah said, “Does the UEC know it’s a resistance… center?”

“Oh yeah,” replied Michael. The Seattle skyline was increasing in size, gaining definition.

“Well, can’t they do something to stop it?” She said, “Not that I would want them to, but…”

Michael chuckled. “I know,” he said, “and Seattle has… countermeasures.”

“Countermeasures?” Sarah repeated. “I’m confused…”

Michael adjusted the control stick, and Sarah felt the float descend. Though she couldn’t see them, she could hear the rush of wind through trees that were now on either side of them.

“Seattle’s been a center of resistance for a long time,” Michael explained, “The first move in Seattle happened in 1999, long before the UEC. Back then they were laying out the World Trade Organization; the UEC backbone, more or less. They met in Seattle, and were met by hundreds of protesters.”

“It got ugly;” he continued, “More of a riot than a protest. It was easily quelled, though. The protesters didn’t reach critical mass, and the media was forbidden from covering it.”

“It failed to raise the public’s awareness of the dangers of trade globalization. I doubt half the protesters themselves understood what in the hell it was they were protesting.”

“So if it failed, why is it a center of resistance now?” she asked.

“Seattle’s hard to attack with weather,” Michael replied, “Not impossible, just not easy. Plus, Seattle is the repository for all anti-corporate technology.

“Anti-corporate?”

“Anti-UEC, whatever; same thing,” Michael said. “We’re coming up on the city perimeter.”

The skyscrapers still seemed far away. Sarah could hear water beneath them. But it was what was in front of them that had Sarah’s attention. It was a barrier of sorts; a clear bubble, visible only through the pale light of the float’s UFM field.

“When we enter this, we’re going to lose consciousness,” Michael said, “but only for a moment.”

“What!?!” exclaimed Sarah, “Oh no-no-no!”

“Relax, Sarah. These people are friends. They won’t harm us.” He said. “It’s a form of quarantine; they need to scan us for viruses, trackers; things of that sort.”

“Michael, don’t you have the virus?”

“Yes. And they’ll deal with me appropriately.” He said. He twisted a knob at the tip of the control stick. The bubble-material in front of them bulged out in a square shape.

“Sarah, will you just trust me?” He looked into her eyes. As much as she hated to admit it, she did.

“Well, you haven’t killed me so far,” she said. And with that they plunged out of consciousness and into the bubble.

***

Kenny muttered to himself as he worked, slumped over a thick, rough oak table. The room was filling fast with sacks of SynMix. The philosopher stone was growing hot in his hand as he grabbed chunks of wood, concrete and steel that Borland had unceremoniously dumped on the table. He was growing hot, period. Two days ago Borland brought in two-hundred burlap sacks, each capable of holding fifty pounds of mix. Then he disappeared, coming in only to pile more shit on the table.

Kenny was pissed. Borland told him he’d be training and fighting. He was doing neither. He could be making weapons; he had a detailed knowledge of Security Force Issue weaponry. But Borland insisted he sit there and make SynMix. He sighed as he filled another sack. Well at least he was still alive. And he was lucky at that.

Every man, woman and child he came across gave him an icy recognition. They hated him; they all did. He couldn’t say he blamed them; the times he ate in common areas, he had to wonder who was related to what number kill he’d racked up. He spent most meals face down, his face buried in SynMix. Yet he could hear their whispers, and he felt like an animal, caged by the empty seats around him. He wondered if it would ever change.

Kenny worked feverishly when he realized he was on his last ten bags. Borland was impressed, if only showing it with a grunt as he brought in more junk for transmutation. When Kenny finished, he found Borland outside smoking a cigarette. Kenny didn’t smoke, but when Borland tossed him a cigarette, he lit up nonetheless.

“Havin’ fun yet?” Borland asked as he stared out at the frozen field that separated his house from the highway.

Kenny let out a sarcastic laugh.

“A blast…” he muttered, hanging his head low.

“Did you think this was gonna’ be easy?”

“No, and I shouldn’t bitch; I know,” Kenny said, “but Roger, I could be making weapons for you guys right now, instead of friggin’ SynMix…”

Roger leaned back on the bench they shared. He took a deep drag of his cigarette, letting out long tendrils of smoke through his nostrils.

“Kenny,” he said, “Ya’ can’t eat guns.” He pointed his thumb back inside.

“Those guys in there; they were whisperin’,” he said, “ya’ hear them?”

Kenny nodded.

“What’d ya’ think they were whisperin’ about?” Kenny shrugged.

“Nah, go ahead,” said Borland, “Take a guess.”

Kenny paused. He had a bunch of ideas, but he felt nauseous at the thought of each one.

“I killed family members of theirs?”

Yeah,” Borland said, “but that’s not what got them whisperin’ on ya’.” He reached down, chipping crud off of the heel of his boot. His face was obscured by a cloud of exhaled smoke.

“They was whisperin’ about the fact that you were sittin’ there eatin’,” he said, “when they ain’t had food in over a week.”

“But I just made,”

“…a month’s supply,” replied Borland, “and when we feel we can trust you, we’ll have you make us weapons.” He put his arm on Kenny’s shoulder as he got up.

“Trust is gonna’ take some time, kid,” he said, “C’mon; I want you to meet someone.” He walked inside, and Kenny ditched his cigarette to follow.

Roger’s house was, in a strange way, cozy. It reminded Kenny of the old holiday pictures he saw as a kid, back when people celebrated winter holidays. They walked through the spacious living room, trimmed in thick cedar with a stone hearth dominating the back wall. The windows were dirty with soot, with streaks rubbed in it. Most likely places for Borland to get a look outside. By then Kenny knew his wife’s name and the names of his children. They were reasonably nice to him, not like the ones at the workshop.

Roger walked upstairs, and Kenny followed. The stairs opened up into a small hallway with thick wooden doors on either side. Kenny could feel heat coming from the side that the hearth was on. Fortunately, that was the door Borland opened up. He and Kenny proceeded to join three men having a discussion. Kenny noticed a fourth presence in the room. A familiar one, panting next to the exposed chimney pipe.

Bubba.

Bubba was seated next to a bull of a man, piercing green eyes with long red hair in a ponytail and a beard to match. He was wearing beige overalls stained muddy brown. He was rubbing his hands together, and it sounded like sandpaper. The two other men were young and gaunt, wrapped in worn camouflage and flannel. When they looked up, Roger motioned to them to leave. They did so, lowering their heads as they passed by Kenny. The big man picked up a steaming pewter stein and sipped gingerly.

“Kenny,” Borland motioned to a seat for Kenny to sit down, “this is Sam. Sam, Kenny.” The two shook hands; Kenny felt how rough Sam’s hands were, and he could just think of sandpaper.

“Would you like some tea, Kenny?” he asked, “It’s juniper-berry, but it’s warm.

“Yeah, Sam, sure,” Kenny said. He wasn’t a tea-drinker, but he could hardly refuse the first offer of hospitality he’d received in Palmer. Sam poured Kenny a china cup, and Borland made the meeting clear.

“When you finish filling the SynMix supply, you’ll be going to work with Sam.” He said. “You’ll have to train him in the use of the philosopher’s stone.”

Kenny was quiet. He didn’t know how well he could do it.

“Don’t worry,” said Sam, “I’m an inventor; I’ve a quick mind.”

“Aside from that, I’d just as soon get you away from here for a little while,” Borland said, “Sam lives way out in Section 32-18.”

“Damn near east bumble-fuck,” Sam said with a laugh. Bubba nudged Sam’s leg and whined. Sam rubbed the sides of his face. “Good Bubby-Hound”

32-18, thought Kenny, Damn…

More from Liam Sweeny…