Egregoros

As she trudged through the filthy streets toward her Team Labor Assignment, Daenerys’ attention was absorbed by the Ally speaking on the massive Unity News Network screen that hovered above the street. It was wonderful that the Unity Regions’ Central Authority had decided to place these screens in public venues in all the Unity Regions to make sure that everyone could be equally well-informed. Even though access to live-streaming had been declared a human right by the Continental Equity Council in 2032, there were still some Allies who lived only on their Universal Basic Income which was insufficient to pay for the cost of having the video feed delivered to their dwelling units. Daenerys sighed with resignation. So much work remained to be done.

The Unity News Network speaker, Kardashia Kumar, was a female-presenting Ally with sepia-toned skin who was wearing a bright red skirt suit. Xer lips were boldly hued with matching red lipstick. In a chipper tone, Kardashia delivered news that Central Authority Leader Jayden Jiminez had decided was most important for Allies to know that day.

As she plodded through the streets, Daenerys watched Kardashia calmly inform viewers that Netflix Unity Region Team Leader Malia Obama had been under fire since hacked photos emerged of her wearing a vintage, pre-Unity “Pride” t-shirt. An apologetic Obama defended her display of the pedophile-phobic-and transspecies-exclusive image, emphasizing that she felt the archaic symbol embodied her family’s heritage of promoting what, in less enlightened times, had been viewed as progress, and was not, as critics claimed, a promotion of hatred toward marginalized Ally groups.

Next, UNN Arts correspondent Ming-na Ogumbawa excitedly announced that the K-Pop band P#ndaz00a was set to receive the best song award of the year, marking the first time such an honor had been granted to a trans-species trio. The award would be presented by music legend Ivy Blue Carter at the Cardi B Center for Fine Arts in Detroit, capital city of the Proctor and Gamble Region.

Male-presenting ally Vladmir Al-Hazmi reported from the northwest that an angry, armed Melaninated Ally group continued to occupy a food distribution hub in the Walmart Unity Region. Ally Group leader Tyrone Randhawa was claiming that Team Lead Gunter Chen failed to provide adequate food rations to Melaninated dwelling compounds, while Chen blamed regional leaders for allowing the Unity Agriculture Authority’s armored food trucks to be seized by local gang members.

[continues]

“Sorry about the misunderstanding…” Cummings was saying.

“Some guy starts yelling and grabs me in a dark room, what else am I going to do?” she said flatly. She has a point.

“On behalf of my employer, I apologize for that, miss.” Leslie said. “He can be bit, er, absorbed in his work.”

She scowled, her brows knitting together.

“His work?” She looked again toward Cummings. “Who are these people?”

Just then they heard the rumble of the motors. Going outside, they saw the transports entering the compound. One scout car led them. The other parked at the gate. The light rain was now little more than a mist. Now her face showed shock.

“You… you’re taking Pookie!” That’s twice now….

“I’m sorry,” Leslie said. “Pookie?”

Cummings had to laugh at that. “It’s what she’s taken to calling the reactor. She dotes on it.”

“But why that name?”

Her face fell back to its reserved blank look. “Because it’s cute.”

Carell took that moment to step out and join them. He looked bewildered.

“Who… how did…? He stopped and started over. “That thing is further on than I was told! Who’s been doing that?”

Cummings looked puzzled. “So far as I know, Callie’s the only one that ever comes to this building.”

Carell stared at the girl.

“You. You did all that?” She held his look and shrugged. “What’s up?” Leslie asked. Carell shook his head.

“It’s almost ready to be activated.” He pointed. “She somehow finished prepping it. I’ve got to have her!”

Her hand went right to her knife. “Like hell, pervert.”

Leslie had to laugh at that. “It’s okay, miss! He doesn’t mean that in the way you’re thinking.” At least he better not. He looked to Carell. “You said ‘almost ready.’ What does that mean?”

“It can’t start itself. It needs power to get the pumps started and the control systems up.” He raised his hands. “After that, it’s self-sustaining.”

“How much power?” Carell considered that. Ah. He saw what Leslie was getting at. “One of your Dragoons should do it. This unit just isn’t that large.”

He smiled. “And there’d be a colony of the modern world right here. If,” he looked significantly at Cummings, “there are people willing to defend it.”

“You mean that you can get that thing running,” Cummings asked, “giving us electric power?”

“Enough for a village of about five hundred, yes.” Carell was thinking now. “I’ll have to train you as quickly as I can; I want to be out of here before it starts snowing….” He looked at Callie.

“She could probably run it, but I want her with us.” There went her eyebrows again.

“The young lady is staying wherever she wants, Carell,” Leslie said. He looked at Cummings. “Time is short; we can do this now and leave in a month, or retrieve what we came here for and be gone tomorrow. Your call, but we need an answer by nightfall.”

Cummings pulled at his beard. “I… I’ll get everyone together. Yes. Excuse me.” He pulled out his walkie-talkie as he moved off. Leslie went to the transport and told the men to get with Carell and start loading. Turning, he was surprised to see that the girl, Callie, had followed him.

“Who are you people?” she asked.

“Me? I’m just the hired hand to get him,” he waved in Carell’s direction, “where he needs to be.” She blinked as she took that in.

“So, who’s he?”“I don’t know, exactly. But it seems he and some like him are trying to re-boot modern civilization.” He paused. “And I meant what I said: we’ll not force you to go anywhere. You can stay here with, ah, Pookie, and the rest of your family—”

She stopped him with a sharp look. “My family abandoned me. I was staying with my friend Laurie when everything fell apart. The Cummings have been taking care of me.” She looked at the ground. “I guess I don’t belong anywhere.”

He sighed. The Breakup claims another victim.

“Hey,” he said. “Let’s start over. I’m Leslie Hartmann.” He held out his hand. “Better than you pointing a gun at me with it,” she said, taking it.

“I’m Callie Barrett.”

* * *

They stayed a month.

There turned out to be six families living at the compound. Leslie and his men set about training them as best they could while Callie instructed Carell as to the changes she’d made. When he’d asked, she said that she’d always been good at math and had a knack for puzzles. ‘Pookie’ was a combination of the two.

Leslie also suspected it was a way to keep herself occupied and not thinking about what might happen next.

After two weeks, they started the reactor. It was Carell’s show at that point: first getting it up, running, and stable; then, training a cadre to keep it up, running, and stable. That had left both Leslie and Callie with time on their hands. Time that they seemed to spend more and more with one another.

As the day of departure grew nearer—and Carell increasingly concerned about the weather—some of Leslie’s men from central Ohio asked if they could stay. With an armored car. Thinking about that, Leslie knew he’d still have enough strength to get them to Knoxville, and leaving such behind would be a huge deterrent to wreckers and raiders. Cummings was overjoyed at the news.

On Thanksgiving Day, they loaded the last of their gear and went to their vehicles. Just at his scout car, Leslie saw Callie come out of building two, with a bag over each shoulder. She walked across the muddy ground to him.

“I’m coming with you,” she stated in her steady, quiet voice.

“Excellent!” Carell called. “You’ll be a great addition! I’ll make room in my hummer—”

There go her eyebrows again, thought Leslie.

“Not you, pervert!” She took one more step, not quite touching him.

“I’m coming with you,” she whispered.

* * *

We know that the Chihoda Hua colonists told the Iron Soldiers of this secret route to other colonies. From Chihoda Hua, they traveled to the colony of Dalniy Ugol. From Dalniy Ugol, they ventured to Antima Cauki. They travelled from colony to colony, raising the prospect of rebellion wherever they could find a population dissatisfied with their subordination to the TransGlobal Borean Alliance and their impoverishment at its hands. Resentment fed their successful diplomacy. The Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers played the statesman with unparalleled expertise. Some colonies had no desire to attack the great capital. Happy in their position, the Great Colonel simply negotiated transport to the next colony. He never let the colonial representatives know the size or scope of the plan and he acted fast. From colony to colony, he assayed his counterpart and acted decisively. Rumor and spies would undoubtedly bring word of his travels to the High Councillor sooner or later. Wherever he found a restive population, he offered the colonists an opportunity to exact revenge and quickly built his ready forces of marauders.

The Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers formed two plans in his mind. He told only one to his Iron Soldiers and colonist-confederates. The plan as told was another suicide mission for the Iron Soldiers. Using the credentials of Chihoda Hua laborers, they would enter the central porter station at the great capital of Borea. In the First Interstellar War, the Iron Soldiers had done this to destroy the central porter station in the capital of the World of Hindia. This time, they would have to fight the Borean Thuraphulanx for control of the porters. They sought not to sever the great capital from its colonies, but to seize control to allow for unencumbered transport of colonists to the great capital. The colonies intended to plunder and punish those who sent them to the far corners of the universe and exploited their labors. The Iron Soldiers promised to give them the opportunity.

The Iron Soldiers believed the raid was their justified revenge on the degenerate people of the great capital. They thought it might teach them the error of their ways and serve as a warning to change their course. But the Great Colonel held no such illusions or intentions. He understood what course he set upon. He briefed his loyal soldiers of the plan. They would steal into the central porter station of the great capital, just as they had against the World of Hindia so long ago. They would fight the unsuspecting guards, wrestling their weapons away from them. They would suffer casualties, undoubtedly. But they would take the station and seize the control authority. From the controls, the Iron Soldiers would allow a few allies to enter the capital and cause havoc. With a small riot to occupy the attention of the local thuraphulankees, the Iron Soldiers would be safe in their place for a time. They could threaten to unleash more chaos as they dictated terms to the High Councillor. They would have their revenge by humiliating the political leadership which had cast them out of their homeland.

But the Great Colonel held secret his true mission. This attack would be no mere raid to humiliate the High Councillor or the pompous Senatates. The Great Colonel intended to hold the porters open from colonies across the Trans-stellar universe. A seething mass of furious colonists would storm and burn the great capital. No Thuraphulanx could stop the numbers the Great Colonel planned to release. The raid would increase to invasion, to cataclysm. The Great Colonel presented the brief moment of plunder as a screen for his larger plan. Initially, the invaders would have to face the nearby Thuraphulax mustered outside the central porter station. But if they could overcome those, the colonists would find little resistance from the weak, degenerate population. Nor did the Great Colonel expect the corrupt, demoralized Thuraphulanx to put up much of a fight. On the contrary, he expected them to be overwhelmed and run for their lives. The people and government of the great capital would dissolve into isolated pockets of individuals, helpless against never-ending waves of violence at the hands of vengeful colonists. He even thought it likely that the colonists would fight each other as well, for all had degenerated in the Trans-stellar universe. The carnage would not end until the wealth and prosperity of TransGlobal Borea had been annihilated. This was the Great Colonel’s hidden aim.

And so it happened, by the Great Colonel’s plan or close enough to it. Why do you think we find so many bones and ruins beneath the dirt under our feet? Why do we find twisted metal, charred remains, and broken landscapes strewn across our world? The terrible revenge of the Iron Soldiers brought the last age to its end. They stole through the porter of Chihoda Hua back into Borea. Each disguised Iron Soldier targeted a thuraphulankees and overpowered their weak and surprised opponent. Taking the pulse cannons of their defeated enemy, they fought onward to gain complete control of the porter station of the great capital. Sending messengers to the prepared colonies, they signaled their confederates that they succeeded in eliminating the immediate guard of Thuraphulanx. With the marauders ready, the raid commenced. Bands of colonists poured through the undefended gates of their porters, lusting for violence and plunder against the decadent people of the Borean capital. The Iron Soldiers held the porters open for who knows how long. They used the moment of carnage to open discussions with the High Councillor as to terms of his humiliation. But the Great Colonel ensured that no agreement was sealed with the High Councillor. Stalling negotiations, the Great Colonel allowed messengers loaded with plunder to return to their colonies to call for reinforcements. The victorious colonists showed the wealth they had seized in the brief raid. The display of a shining victory and sparkling wealth instigated a wave of colonists to follow their kindred raiders through the porters and into the great capital of Borea. Did the Iron Soldiers understand what their Great Colonel had done? Did they come to agree with him or did they turn against him? We do not know. We will never know. We only know that the invasion turned into a tide of fire, blood, and death.

The end of an era is always fire, blood, and death.

* * *

The light coming from the bottom of the well grew brighter—the ignition flame had activated. He didn’t even pay attention to the final countdown, just felt a sudden pressure as he sank into his seat, saw the circle of sky growing rapidly as flames shot past the canopy and suddenly he was out and rising. The sky grew blacker and the stars brighter as reports from the command center streamed in through the radio. A clang, and the rocket was gone, his bird was free just as the day’s first rays of sunlight reached him.

Argentina rushed past below him, titanic clouds of dense smoke streaking the surface, now like the Earth’s own bleeding wounds, now like the tentacles of a lovecraftian beast gripping the world. They grew larger and more numerous as he sped toward the ever-shifting horizon, a crimson glow rising above the limb of the planet. Jones could now make out what looked like a violent sandstorm from which the glow emanated.

“Your distraction is arriving, boys, prepare to engage boosters.”

Jones checked his main screen, where myriad arrows converged on the south pole—one large group arrayed from the South American side, a mirror image of that from the Australian side, and several smaller formations coming in from above on all sides, well ahead of the bomber waves. The largest live ICBM launch in history, and it was the distraction.

He checked the position of the closest missile swarm and searched for it in the sky. His visor quickly highlighted them, up and to his left, moving in considerably faster than he was.

“They’ll cross the estimated reaction threshold in five seconds.”

Right on cue the cloud woke up. The scarlet sandstorm wall receded as if taking a breath, and a red colonnade rose at impossible speeds, sprouting branches as it grew—a forest of dead trees, many-fingered skeletal hands reaching for the incoming missiles, their long shadows reaching far to the west.

The first blinked out, then the second, then they started vanishing too fast for Jones to tell the order. Two managed to get through, though, and split into twenty independent warheads, their limited evasion systems doing what they could to throw them into diverging arcs. New branches of red smoke coalesced around the nearest pillar to intercept those, but he had no time to follow the action above: the signal arrived and he flipped the switch that would activate the booster rockets built into his bomber.

Suddenly crushed against the back of his seat, Jones focused on the sight ahead. The red sandstorm had done much more than recede: entire canyons had opened through it as it rose to fight the incoming nuclear bombardment.

[continues]

"What? No," the chief chuckled. "No!" He laughed harder. Then he realized. "Of course. This is your first day as Inspector. You wouldn't know." He leaned back in his chair. "The collapse was indeed an accident, just like all the others. Tragedies, really." He paused for an obligatory moment of silence. "Your job is to find the undesirables who think it was on purpose, who want to join the group responsible. Real lowlifes, these guys."

"Y-yes, sir."

"Also, we have a quota from the Administration. So try to get a lot of them, Inspector."

Back at his own desk, Roddy felt the weight of his promotion. He had heard about the duties of an Inspector, and how one typically prepared for them with a great deal of field training under experienced officers. But his seniors had vanished mysteriously, like O'Malley, or were confirmed dead in recent accidents. "Tragedies, really," Roddy told himself.

Who would think that the accidents weren't actually accidents? Xypher's face flashed in his mind: "But I can't say more right now. Not with that… thing in your ear." Xypher had removed something from his front shirt pocket and placed it in Roddy's hand. Remembering this, Roddy reached into his own pocket and pulled out Xypher's strange present, a complimentary mood manager. It was an individually packaged pill, the sort left on a hotel bed, or handed out to preschoolers.

Out of habit, Roddy unwrapped the pill and tossed it in his mouth. It was actually a breath mint. He glanced at the packaging, upon which was printed the address of a business, BAR BELL, located in Smile Funtime District 8.

"Niqua," Roddy said.

"Mm-HMM?" she chimed.

"Ready an unmarked Bureau car," he said, putting on his coat. "I'm on my way."

"A'ight."

Roddy took the nearest pneumatic tube and was deposited in a work vehicle, nauseous.

Several hours later, the electronic chauffeur system guided the car along its programmed route. Dark, empty factories and warehouses lined the way, silent witnesses to the once active industrial sector on the outskirts of the tiered centropolis.

Roddy picked up the last of the documents that he had brought to consult as he rode along. He was particularly curious about the recent history of each pod tower prior to its sudden destruction.

Official records were of no use: Inspection and maintenance reports were routinely fabricated, as property managers paid off the bureaucrats tasked with approving and filing them. Roddy relied instead on unexpurgated social media postings on the public grid, without NIQUA Central's automated removals and emendations.

[continues]

In truth, the High Councillor barely needed his careful effort. The shock of the Great Colonel’s speech reverberated through the degenerated people of the great capital. No one had dared rebuke them for their vices. No one had called their treasured luxuries “decadence.” No one called their prideful vanity “weakness.” No one had called their progress “degeneration.” No one said such things aloud. No one, that is, until the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers did. The degenerated people withered at the burning, crushing truth. They grew ill and suffered from their experience. So quickly did the Iron Soldiers change in the eyes of the public, from resurrected heroes to immanent villains, that the High Councillor was compelled to act against them. If High Councillor did not avenge the sore and inflamed public, they would take their wrath out on him.

And so the media campaign blitzed the once-esteemed icons. Some messages mocked them. Foolish actors marched in derisive imitation of the Iron Soldiers’ orderly step. They sarcastically saluted each other. They ridiculed the discipline of the past to insult and belittle the Iron Soldiers.

Some messages accused the Iron Soldiers of insanity and irrelevance. “What can we expect of them? They are ancient. They should be dead. The long stasis probably caused brain damage. They ought to be in a Borean Wellness Institution for total-care rather than talking in public.”

Some messages reveled in taking priggish offense at the Great Colonel’s speech. “How dare those old fossils criticize us! Who are they to judge? What terrible deeds did they commit in their awful wars? They should be tried as war criminals and caged like the troglodytes they are!” The masters of communication crafted their message to reinforce the vicious minds of the degenerated people. The SelfScreens relayed the content to all. If anyone wanted to escape the propaganda, no one could.

The agents of the High Councillor fed all these attitudes to the thoughtlessly consuming eyes of the degenerated people. He had a grave foreboding about the Iron Soldiers from the first news of their resurrection and now felt smug in his instincts. They were men outside of his time and beyond his control. The High Councillor was cunning enough to know he could not rule over them as others, and as such they presented an odd threat. Initially, he hoped to hide them away after their necessary display at the grand parade. The Great Colonel’s terrible rebuke now offered an easy path to banish them from the great capital forever.

“Exit! Exit! Exit!” the crowds of degenerate people cried at the High Councillor and Senatates as they prepared to convene a trial of inquiry. The people lined the walkway to the sacred dome where the Borean Grand Senate had met since the days of the long-ancient republic, far before the First Interstellar War and the rise of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance. The spoiled people could not bear the insult offered by the Great Colonel. The High Councillor’s propaganda had ensured their inflamed pride would not yield. Now he led the government to take action against the resurrected heroes. The accusation was clear and the punishment well-known: exit. The Iron Soldiers would be escorted through a porter and sent to a distant colony, never to return to the great capital of Borea again. The solemn process inside the halls of the dome was a procedure rather than a substantial trial: The accusation declared, the evidence obvious, the conviction foregone. The Senate unanimously agreed to exit the Iron Soldiers forever.

Normally, the central porter station is off-limits to the people of the capital. It is reserved access for trade directors, transport laborers, and the Thuraphulanx guardians. For the occasion of the exit of the Iron Soldiers, the High Councillor had picked special guests from among the most rude and boisterous of people. He wanted the Iron Soldiers to exit under conditions of ignominy, to show to all how hated and reviled they were. The Iron Soldiers had acceded to the judgment. The whole affair filled them with revulsion. The great capital disgusted them. The people disgusted them. They no longer considered them true Boreans. They had lost all feelings of kinship with their degenerated heirs. As they marched inside twin columns of thuraphulankees, the Iron Soldiers recognized even the degeneracy of the soldiers who escorted them to their banishment. These would not have lasted long in the First Interstellar War.

The wild degenerates invited by the High Councillor fulfilled his scheme. They howled and jeered at the Iron Soldiers from behind barricades and marching thuraphulankees. They hurled abuse and detritus at those who had justly rebuked them. They taunted the convicted Iron Soldiers and celebrated as if they had won a great victory over a terrible enemy. The media agents captured the political carnage and fed the images to everyone in the great capital through their SelfScreens. The scene pleased the High Councillor. Vanishing through the porter one by one, the Iron Soldiers disappeared into the trans-stellar empire. He considered the affair concluded. Anyone traveling through the porters to the great capital would be screened by the Thuraphulanx. Anyone who tried to fight would be killed one by one, as travel by porter allows. Nor did he suspect the Iron Soldiers would find any help in the distant colony to which they had been exited. Though a far-seeing man, the High Councillor allowed his own shame and sense of inferiority to those heroes blind his oft-acute judgment. In this case, he knew he had entered combat against men better than himself—against men good in themselves. They were unlike the villains he had always bested. These unusual circumstances warped his usually keen foresight.

One by one, the Iron Soldiers emerged through the porter at Chihoda Hua. Their exit landed them in a desolate colony founded three generations ago by refugees from the great capital of the World of Hindia. The descendants of those defeated by the Iron Soldiers did not greet their ancient enemies. They only stared with the tight face of ancient hatred. The High Councillor expected the Chihoda Hua colonists to kill or shun the Iron Soldiers. We will never know what words or deeds the Great Colonel did to win the favor of the Hindians at Chihoda Hua. But we do know that the old enemies came to trust the Iron Soldiers enough to show them their secret means of traveling to other colonies.

Corruption and crookedness was rife throughout the Trans-stellar Empire. The Trans-stellar Governors tolerated it and engaged in it. They even reported it to the High Councillor, who had many informants across the stars. Many people will say many things if they receive payment for their words. The High Councillor himself understood the necessity of corruption and took advantage of it. In one particular aspect, this corruption offered an escape opportunity to the Iron Soldiers. Though all porters in the Trans-stellar Empire were to lead to the great capital of Borea, many others had been put into surreptitious service. Covertly and corruptly, colonies had established contact with each other by porter to circumvent the trade representatives and tax collectors at the great capital of Borea. The Trans-stellar Governors knew this and exacted their price to look the other way. No one can keep a widespread practice secret for long in an empire, so the governors had also told the High Councillor and offered a tribute payment to protect the well-known secret from official revelation and sanction. Small amounts of contraband trade flourished from colony to colony. To keep their hidden market, colonial peoples bribed their governors, who bribed the High Councillor. Such is government in an empire.

[continues]

Jones followed the checklist mechanically, his mind wandering through a past that he could scarcely convince himself had existed. He was too young to have seen blue skies and the idea still felt unreal to him. When he was born the moon had already disintegrated—an explosion in slow motion watched by an almost catatonic mankind.

The smoke had arrived soon after that, with the impact of lunar fragments that had killed millions. For a few months large red clouds had roamed the Earth, destroying crops and forests, killing animals and men, corroding machines and buildings wherever they passed. Panic killed millions more, but true horror only dawned when the clouds began to move against all winds and coalesce in the South Pole—when it had become impossible to deny its intelligence. That had been his world. His memories of it all as a child were of missing a moon and sky he had never seen.

“All set, Colonel, launch is in ten minutes. Good luck, hit that thing hard for us.”

The leader of the support team gave him an enthusiastic thumbs up.

“Will do, Sergeant, we’ll hit it right in the mouth. With a nuke.”

The Sergeant laughed, saluted, and was off, the armored hatch that sealed off the tunnel through which they all had arrived closing swiftly behind him just as the immense blast doors that formed the floor began to slide apart. Ahead of him the tunnel continued for what seemed like miles, faint stars glittering in the maroon circle of sky at its end. Straining to look backwards he could glimpse the missile that would shoot him away, sinister in the dim light of the silo, the shaft of a gargantuan arrow with his bomber acting as a nuclear arrowhead.

He tried to smile, feeling that a little of the Sergeant’s enthusiasm had seeped into him.

“Five minutes to go, global synchronization confirmed.” The voice had come from mission control. The countdown continued on the center screen on his console—similar numbers would be flashing through forty-nine other cockpits on this base and fifty more in Australia. He willed it to go faster, a flash of eagerness to see himself rid of all the rock and metal that buried him briefly overcoming the sullen moodiness that appeared to have hit almost everyone in the base. The numbers dwindled.

“Thirty seconds.”

[continues]

“That this whole area is radioactive? Your people have detected nothing, though.” He stood. “If I was an enterprising chap that wanted to hole up some safe place, I’d want stories like that circulating, too.”

Leslie glanced at his watch: 0930 on Tuesday, the sixteenth. I wonder if that’s auspicious or not, he thought.

“So, we just stroll in, or should I shell it from here?” Carell turned, surprised.

“Would you? I’d love to watch that!” Damn. Leslie forgot for a moment that his employer was crazy. He raised his radio.

“Mitch? Hartmann. We’re headed to the main gate.” “Copy that,” his second in command replied.

“Let’s see who’s home.” They started walking down the slight incline of the hill.

Hanging from the chained and padlocked fence was a handmade sign: ‘Danger! Radiation everywhere! If you stay here you will die!’ Leslie glanced again at the detector on his belt. Nothing.

“If there’s this sign, why a padlock? They didn’t think that all the way through,” Carell noted. Crazy, but astute. He took the bolt cutters from Leslie’s rucksack. With a clatter, they pushed the gate open enough for them both to pass through. Leslie’s eyes kept snapping from window to window, waiting for a shot.

Carell went into the compound about ten feet and stopped. The buildings were fairly identical: about two stories high and fifty by fifty yards wide.

“The prototype was in building four,” Carell said. “We’ll need some of the controls from there and also the fixtures in building two.”

“If, that is, anything is still here,” Leslie said, coming up next to him, hand on his radio.

“I think your mechanic’s starting to wear off on you. Always with the negative waves, Mister Hartmann! Ah, there’s building two, let’s take a look.”

A large sign with the number two painted in blue over a yellow background hung over a door to their right. Carell twisted the handle and went in. Crates had been pushed to form a corridor about twenty feet long. Absolutely perfect for an ambush. Carell stopped after a few steps.

“Good morning!” he called. “We are neither thieves nor marauders. We are just here to retrieve some equipment! We are even prepared to pay for it.” Was he talking to the empty air, or would whoever was there take the bait?

“You may not be thieves, but you are trespassers. Hands up, please.” That answered that.

Right before he raised his hand, Leslie clicked his radio twice.

“Sorry about your chain. We’ll replace it for you. I’m John Carell, this is my hired help, Leslie Hartmann.” Leslie stared at the back of Carell’s head. Really? “And your name would be…?”

There was a pause, “I’m Steve Cummings. Come on forward. Slowly.”

At the end of the crate tunnel, they saw a bear of a man; balding, but with a large beard. He wore a camouflage jacket over his overalls. The trench gun in his hand was pointed just away from them. Typically, Carell walked right to him and extended his hand. Cummings stared at it.

“You do know there are others covering you two?” he asked.

“Certainly,” Carell replied. “But there’s no reason to not be civil, is there?”

Cummings slowly shifted his large shotgun and shook Carell’s hand, followed by the same for Leslie. Now out of the tunnel, Leslie could see that the entire building was a large open space. The left, or north, side was mostly a machine shop. Opposite that were stacks of electronics. He also noted the bedding and personal effects in a corner on the electronics side. Squatters.

“Dad!” There was a young woman’s voice from behind and above them. Turning, he saw a girl—late teens—with a rifle, looking out the windows from her perch on more crates.

“A bunch of tanks and stuff just came over the hill!” She looked out the other windows. “I think they’re all around us!”

Now the trench gun was pointed.

“Just retrieving some equipment, huh?”

“I never said we were alone,” Carell said easily. “And how did you think we were going to transport what we want?”

Cummings eyes remained cold and impassive. “But, tanks?”

“Armored fighting vehicles and scout cars, actually,” Leslie said. “Your sharp-eyed daughter mistook my Dragoons for tanks. You will please note that they’re staying put. Unless they don’t hear from me in about three minutes.”

Still staring at them, Cumming called out, “Laurie! How many do you count?”

“Uh,” she replied. “Seven that I can see. If they’re all around us, I guess that many more I can’t.”

“What I said is true, Mister Cummings,” Carell said softly. “We’re just here for some equipment. We load, we leave. You’ll never see us again.”

The shotgun’s nose went down. Better.

“Call your men, Mister…Hartmann, was it?” Then, louder. “Clay! Keep them covered while I tell the others.” So, at least one more in this building.

As Leslie raised his radio, Cummings withdrew a few paces and spoke in a low voice into a walkie-talkie. I wonder how many are in these buildings? Carell pulled a thermos from his backpack and gestured at a nearby table. Cummings nodded. The girl stayed where she was and there was no sign of ‘Clay.’ These are careful people.

“If you’ve a cup…?” Carell asked. Cummings pulled one from a nearby shelf.

“Honest to God coffee,” he said. “It’s been months! Oh. Here.” He passed them some jerky. Venison, Leslie thought.

“Are you familiar with this facility that you, your family, and friends, are calling home?” Carell asked.

“A little. Some kind of experimental nuclear reactor, but really small.” Carell nodded. “This was to be a proof of concept; not designed for large power output. It was just about

live when everything went to hell. I’d hoped that the facility was still intact.” He nodded over his coffee. “Thank you for that.”

Cummings shrugged. “We just live here. If I could have sold all this stuff,” he gestured about, “I would have.”

“Perfectly understandable. Family comes first.” Surprised, Cummings nodded at Carell.

“So, you don’t mind me taking what I want?”

“No….” he said slowly. “But you did mention being willing to pay…?” Carell smiled thinly.

“I will not pay you for property that’s not yours.” Don’t blow this, you idiot, Leslie thought. “However, I am more than happy to compensate you for your time. And the chain. More than happy.”

“Sounds all right to me.” Cummings said. “Help yourselves.” That drew a sound from above. The girl snorted.

“Callie’s gonna be pissed to hear that!”

* * *

The three men walked toward the fourth building. Leslie had radioed for the transport trucks to start in, covered by two scout cars. The other units stayed where they were; some pointed in, some out.

“…when the mobs stopped killing each other in Columbus,” Cummings was saying, “they started moving out into the suburban, then rural areas. Like a bunch of damned locusts. Burning everything they couldn’t take or eat. The farms along our stretch of road had about a day’s warning before they came down our valley. It was something of a fighting retreat until Bob Parks remembered this place.”

“And it’s you and the others that spread the rumors about contamination?” Leslie asked.

“Yeah.” Cummings smiled for the first time. “My wife’s idea, actually.” “A good one,” he said. “Always better to attack the mind than the body.”

Carell opened the door to building four. Unlike the other, this had fewer skylights. Beyond the small open office area just at the door, it was dark. A gas lantern stood on the corner of one of the desks.

“From a comment like that and all that hardware outside, I’m guessing you’re military?” Cummings asked. Carell lit the lantern and said he was going to take a look around.

“Careful,” Cummings said before he passed through a door labeled ‘No Admittance!’ with radiation trefoils on it. “There’s junk everywhere in there.”

“Perfect!” Carell smiled. Crazy.

“To answer your question, yes,” Leslie said. Let his crazy boss stumble around in the dark next to a reactor. “We were in the Sixteenth Cavalry, at Fort Knox. When everything began breaking down, we sort of struck off on our own.”

Cumming nodded. He didn’t seem to hold that against him. “And now?”

“We did have a nice arrangement at Bardstown, Kentucky,” Leslie continued. “Until that fellow in there came along and shook us up. Now we’re here to move him and his stuff to… wherever he wants us to.”

“What did he do to—”

There was a crash of metal. Carell shouted, “What the HELL have you done! Uff!” Another crash.

Leslie was through the door in an instant. His small flashlight from his pocket in his left hand, his pistol in his right. He could just faintly see light ahead.

“Carell! Are you okay?” Nothing. Then: “No.”

Around one pile and another, Leslie came around a huge pump to see Carell against a control panel with his hands up. The lithe figure in front of him held a long black dagger to his throat. He raised his pistol.

“I’m right behind you with a pistol. Lower your knife and live,” Leslie called. No one moved. He heard Cummings come up behind him.

“Put it down, Callie,” he said.

The blade came down slowly. Leslie now realized she was a girl. She turned, squinting her Oriental eyes into his flashlight. Her round face betrayed none of her thoughts.

With her knife still out, she looked to Cummings.

“Who are these guys, and what do they want with Pookie?”

What?

* * *

Leslie, Cummings, and the girl stood in the brighter office area. Carell continued his assessment. Her knife was back in its sheath at her waist, on a tool belt that divided her overalls. Her hands were dirty, but not greasy. Her long hair, brown as to be almost black, was pulled back with a band. She must have been about five foot six, or thereabouts. Thin, but who wasn’t these days, yet in surprisingly good shape. Nineteen or twenty, he guessed. Cute, too, he thought.

[continues]

"All teams be alert red and black active, I repeat, red and black active, advise extra caution." Drust closed down the radio and read a fresh report.

"Good news," he said to no one in particular. "Who's tracking red and black?"

"I am."

"Any word on their strength, Charlie?"

"So far resources have been deployed to Bridge North, Derby Moor, Foxwood, South Hill and New River Dock," Charlie replied.

"They're too late for three of those which is good for us. Charlie, get a couple of van drivers together, make sure they have solid identities. I’ll give you the routes to be taken in a minute," Drust said. He'd just seen Henry walk in.

"What's the news?"

"I'm organising decoy units, red and black are wasting a lot of resources. So far we have eight units on their way back here but we've not heard from Snowbird," Drust said.

"Last check-in?" Henry asked.

"That would be," Drust checked a call list running a finger by each time record, "an hour ago."

"See if you can raise them now, will you?"

"Snowbird One, Guardian Three calling, Snowbird do you receive?"

Static hissed and crackled back. "Snowbird One, do you read?" Drust shook his head.

"Foxguard and Drummer were with them," he said. "Hang on. Drummer, this is Guardian calling, do you receive?"

"Drummer here Guardian."

"Who is with you? Over?"

"Foxguard, we've just left position on way home."

"Something's not right here," Drust said to Henry.

"Drummer, any Snowbird activity?"

"Snowbird following."

Henry clapped his hands. "Thank heavens."

"Confirm visual Drummer."

"Snowbird not in sight Guardian."

Henry's face fell.

"Drummer, stand by." Drust scratched his head. "That's torn it."

Henry thought for a moment. He did some quick calculations in his head. "Drust, ask Drummer and Foxguard to double up the evacuees, and take a van back to Snowbird's position."

Drust relayed this information. Henry knew at this stage his idea would be either a rescue or a recovery. He had to chance it. Now all he had to do was break the news to Robert.

"Now let's get Snowbird on the radio."

"We're trying to establish contact now but the signal is weak," Drust said. "Charlie, any luck?"

"Faint signal and static is all I'm getting for now," Charlie said.

"Keep at it, they may just be keeping radio silence," Drust said.

"There's something I need to do. Drust, let me know of any changes."

"Of course."

* * *

It took Robert a bit of a moment to realise where he was. He sat up and rubbed his neck. He felt better after his nap and surprisingly hungry.

"I was just about to wake you," Henry said.

"Is it time?"

Henry switched on the desk lamp. Robert blinked away the sudden light.

"Robert, change of plan," Henry said. "So far we haven't been able to raise your parents on the radio. They checked in just over an hour ago now."

Robert didn't say anything at first. He didn't want to know anything further. "Okay," he said at last.

"We've sent a team back to their position but I must tell you…."

"No," Robert said, "you don't have to tell me to prepare for the worst. I did that years ago." There was nothing Henry could say to that.

"Before we were exiled I didn't have the slightest idea of what was going on, you know? I just got on with school and listened to radio shows and read books and comics. Bloody hell I'd read those things like they were going out of business. One of my favourite stories was about this superhero. He'd rescue people from burning buildings and fight crime. The Saviour. He was brilliant. One day I asked my dad if we were bad people but he didn't know what I meant. Of course, what my seven year old brain was trying to get at was why The Saviour only fought White villains."

Henry nodded.

“My dad just said: we’re not bad, we’re sun bright.”

* * *

"Drummer to Guardian do you read?"

Drust put on a headset. "Reading you, over.”

"Have Snowbird One stand by."

"Standing by Drummer," Drust said.

"Guardian this is Snowbird one."

"Good to hear from you, what's the situation?" Drust mouthed for Cosgrove to fetch Henry. "We were right behind Drummer and Foxguard when our engine failed and we couldn't follow. We had a family with us, the last ones here, they're now with Foxguard, safe and sound."

"Understood Snowbird One we'll have you both out of there now, well done," Drust said.

"Is your position safe? We can send help."

"It's safe enough for the time being but we won't be here for long. No help needed, do you read?"

Drust read very well. This would soon be a recovery. "Understood, stand by."

Cosgrove returned with Henry and Robert. It was clear by their expressions they were up to speed on the situation. Drust handed Henry a headset.

"Snowbird One, Guardian three, do you receive?"

After a few seconds of static the reply came through.

"Snowbird receiving." Sean Duncan sounded tired. "You have my boy there too?" Static crackled and the signal faded a little.

"Yes, I have Snowbird Three," Henry said. "Here he is now."

Robert took the headset. "Hello dad," he said.

"Son, it's good to hear you. Henry did a great job. He told you everything?"

"Good to hear you too. Yes, everything, he's in charge of this chapter now," Robert said. He did his best to sound upbeat.

"I just let him think he's in charge, but don't tell him that." Sean chuckled.

"Dad, is mum there?"

"She's… on watch but she loves you son, we both do."

"Love you too," Robert said.

"Listen, today didn't go exactly as I wanted it to, sorry we couldn't contact you earlier."

"Don’t worry dad. I know."

“There's something I want you to do for me, son. It's very important."

"Anything."

"We're breaking ground to a fresh path for all of us. We're going to reclaim our home. You are all going to need each other even more especially now. It's going to take time. Henry runs a great team, but he'll need your help. You've both got a long way to go, I need you to help him."

"I'll help him, dad," Robert said.

It's going to take a while and it's not going to be easy, but remember, every patriot out there is sun bright. They're the light in the darkness for us all. Remember: we stand together and we win.”

“I’ll remember,” Robert replied. He only heard static back.

* * *

Perhaps nightmares aren't shadows that chase you while you sleep. Perhaps nightmares show you hope jumbled inside a discordant time frame. Sun bright. Those two words seemed small, but they stood for so much, thought Robert as he stood by the window. The manicured lawn outside was a deep, healthy green. A cool breeze reminded him of a summer at the park with his parents. I thought that those were the days, he mused, but today is better.

"Robert, are you alright?" The young woman looked a little concerned.

"Oh yes, I'm good," he said. "Now where was I?"

"You were talking to your daddy on the efones," a voice said.

"Oh yes," Robert said smiling, "but they're pronounced ear phones young man."

Miss Saxon's Class giggled.

"Yes, it's a funny word isn't it? Now are there any questions?"

A child with bright green eyes and hair like straw put her hand up as high as she could.

"Yes little 'un?" Robert asked.

"Did we win?" the little girl asked.

"Win?" Robert looked over the classroom. The fair, bright faces, the soft flowing hair, the shining young eyes. It was a classroom full of the children of his people, of the people of his isles. After the long years, the blood spilled, the sacrifice and hardship… Robert’s smile broadened as he answered.

"Yes, I think so."

* * *

“Yesterday’s assessment holds. Intelligence thinks it has finally completed whatever it is it was doing in Antarctica and decided it’s time to advance. Today’s mission is confirmed, standard profile. I don’t think we need to go over it again. Any questions?”

No one said a word.

“Launch is in half an hour, so get ready.”

They all stood up and began to walk out of the briefing room in silence.

“Good luck up there.”

The General’s voice didn’t carry much optimism. Jones had expected some banter, a little bragging or friendly jabs when the time for the live mission finally arrived, but he had nothing. They knew it wasn’t going to be that simple—they had studied in detail the footage and telemetry from all the lost drones, satellites, and the one manned mission that had been sent to try to spy what was happening over Dome Argus. No one felt like joking.

His passage through the prep room was quick and silent, the only words he exchanged with the orderlies who helped him don his flight suit were the confirmations required by the safety checklist. On his way out, as they wished him good luck, he merely nodded. Pilots exchanged salutes as they boarded the carts that would take them to their launch tubes, and were gone. Jones hummed an old song as he sped through the tunnel, reviewing the mission specs in his mind.

At the end of the tunnel he stepped off the cart, and the support team helped him climb into the cockpit. The visible section of his sub-orbital bomber looked like a winged flat chisel standing on its handle, sleek and angular, the matte black paint absorbing even the copious power of the floodlights. Most of it was hidden beneath the blast doors that at the moment acted as a floor, a massive rocket that would catapult him to the edges of the atmosphere in a little more than a minute.

“Let’s go over the pre-launch checklist.”

[continues]

For one thing, the SelfScreen allowed the wearer to watch any and all media. It was a view-screen in front of their face. For another thing, it allowed for person-to-person communication with other SelfScreens. Governmental agencies could also interrupt a SelfScreen to message the people. Also, the devices also became the channel for people to communicate with government, where possible. In short, the SelfScreen became universal because it was necessary to function in the great capital of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance. Everything from personal entertainment to mundane communications to the purchase of consumption-products to bureaucratic registrations operated through the ubiquitous and necessary SelfScreen.

Some even wore the SelfScreen for health advantages. The rapid integration of Hindian colonists into Borea in the first degeneration saw the outbreak of minor plagues. The academics disputed how serious the diseases were and how far they spread, but even the old Iron Soldiers could understand that the rapid communication of diseases is a consequence of the instant transportation of peoples across the vast great capital and trans-stellar empire. By the third degeneration, the SelfScreen included an anti-pathogen filtration mechanism to reduce the chances of catching an illness while in public. If some people doubted the utility, others wore the device to reduce the effects of pollution purportedly introduced into Borea by the constant travels of interstellar commerce. The great capitals long ago had sent heavy industries to the interstellar colonies exactly to banish pollution from their world. The wellness filter on the SelfScreen sold widely. It is easy to sell promises of security to a hyper-sensitive, weak-willed public. The academics explained to the Iron Soldiers more than one reason for the people to adopt the new technology. As always, an effective government will pave many roads that all lead to their desired destination.

As the Iron Soldiers recovered their strength, the High Councillor arranged for their long-postponed victory parade. Understandably, the people of the great capital of Borea idolized the Iron Soldiers. The heroes of history had manifested from the great nothing of empty space. The dead took on living flesh. They wore the uniform of the past days of rising glory. Few remained alive who could recollect those times, and those who did retained only a childish memory of flashing images and powerful emotions. By the third degeneration, media constructions determined most people’s understanding of the past. The High Councillor perceived the opportunity. He understood the political necessity of identifying himself with the Iron Soldiers for reasons of popularity. Though he instinctively feared these resurrected relics of a bygone age, he also understood their symbolic importance and real utility. The people needed their show, and the High Councillor needed to be the central star around which the Iron Soldiers revolved. Such is politics in any time and place.

The Iron Soldiers waited for their appointed day to be introduced to the throngs of cheering Boreans in the wide causeway of the great capital. In the meantime, they saw bits and pieces of the world they had created. Little things irritated them, as is always the case when the old meet the young. Changes in fashion, new phrases for common sayings, quiet places grown loud, popular diversions out of style—time changes everything and wealth buys many vices. In a natural lifetime, these changes develop slowly and organically. But instead of the deliberate motions of organic evolution, the Iron Soldiers endured an instant transformation of their world. Even mundane alterations made their heads spin. Though they could not fail to observe the greater differences—the SelfScreens and the foreign nurses—they also could not comprehend them. What world had resurrected them from the dead? It was at the grand parade when the spell of confusion lifted and the Iron Soldiers saw and comprehended the dreadful world they had made.

In our times, we do not have the parades of old. We do not have the long boulevards and tall buildings of the long ancient past. The great capital of Borea had streets that stretched to the horizon. It had towers that reached to the skies. A mass of people could crowd those streets. More watched from windows in the towers. In times long gone, a parade celebrated those who performed some great triumph, but all enjoyed the grand occasion. In those times, the people roared and shook the very streets, towers, and skies above to show their love for the Iron Soldiers. But the old Soldiers saw into the illusion—which is to see through it. They fought for Allied Borea, their country in their time. They heard the cheers of the TransGlobal Borean Alliance, an empire won by their efforts, but not a thing of their own kind.

Slowly traversing the long boulevard, the Iron Soldiers witnessed the full change of the three degenerations before them. The people were not their people. The customs were not their customs. The symbols, the stylings, the greetings even—everything had changed for the worse. The behavior of the people would have received a lashing in the time of Iron Soldiers—unnatural, undisciplined, unseemly. The fete disgusted the Iron Soldiers. The people had devolved into a licentious mass of individuals who shared nothing in common but the base indulgence of immoderate lusts under the aegis of a gross, lascivious culture unworthy of Boreans. Out of civilization had grown a new and repellent barbarism that wore the wealth acquired only by the discipline and sacrifice of the Iron Soldiers.

The politicians sneered through their smiles at the crowd, understanding the mockery of civilization their world had become. Why would they protest or object? They fostered the decay and grew wealthy and powerful through it. Holding contempt for the population, they lied and manipulated them daily. The people had become as poorly disciplined pets and the politicians as gross, cowardly owners. The Iron Soldiers intuited much from their observations. The wild academic talk of the Three Degenerations resonated with the sights they beheld at the grand parade.

Legend has it that the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers gave a speech to the crowd, to the politicians, and to all of TransGlobal Borea at the end of the parade route. The politicians spoke first, with the High Councillor himself heaping praise on the deeds of the resurrected warriors. At last, the Great Colonel of the Iron Soldiers addressed all. He lectured them on their ignorance. He chastised them for their lack of virtue. He scorned them for their celebration of the unnatural. He reprimanded their viciousness and weakness. He spoke with the stern voice of command and authority that most people had not heard in their lifetime. Only the elderly could recall that voice, faintly, from the distant times of their youth. The Great Colonel, the leader of the Iron Soldiers, justly rebuked the children of degeneration and called them to order. Astounded, the politicians froze in the moment. Only the High Councilor retained his instinctive wits. The people initially could not understand the Great Colonel’s speech and took his words as a jest. Slowly did they grow to understand his meaning. Offended, the people rioted as the politicians desperately issued a call for calm through the SelfScreens. Everyone panicked but the Iron Soldiers and the High Councillor.

The Three Degenerations produced politicians in the vein of the High Councillor, though he surpassed all others in their essential qualities. He rose to power telling everyone what they wanted to hear or what they needed to hear—exactly whatever would bend them to his will. Flattery and praise, threats and abuse, even pieces of the truth: the High Councillor possessed all words and manners of speaking them. Honeyed phrases and acerbic vituperation, secret knowledge shared to initiates, a silver tongue to charm the snakes of the Grand Senate: the High Councillor ruled others by his words. He also spent the wealth of the empire to buy the goodwill of his audiences. Silver words and silver coins kept a decaying empire in his power.

In the days following the parade and rebuke, the media agents of the High Councillor broadcast his artful messages to the people of the great capital. Overall, the people heard stories of contempt aimed at the Iron Soldiers and prideful reassurances of their own worth. “The Iron Soldiers are relics of a dark past. They are hateful, violent, and ignorant of fine, modern ways.” The media agents used many words which would have little meaning to the Iron Soldiers or to us today, we who live long after their rotten world ended. The power of false words is always ephemeral. But in those times of degeneration, false words held great power to ruin the public reputation of men and to stir the barbaric souls of the people to action. “The Great Colonel’s speech is offensive, tribist, and anthrophobic.” Never mind what they meant by such preposterous words. The power of the accusation created a frenzy of emotion to whip the people of the great capital into an irrational antipathy against the Iron Soldiers. The High Councillor understood that he could blame and exile the Iron Soldiers for their honesty which threatened his hold over the Trans-Global Borean Alliance.

[continues]

Xypher continued, "But I can't say more right now. Not with that… thing in your ear. We have to get somewhere safe, and—"

"No," interrupted Roddy. "I'm taking you in. That's that." What little patience he had was spent. "Any more out of you, and you're tased. Don't blame me if your bowels can't handle the shock."

"You gotta listen to me."

"Tell it to the judge." Convinced that this line sounded sufficiently cool, even cinematic, Roddy pulled the trigger and the suspect vaporized. He looked at the vaporizer in his hand. He could have sworn he'd pulled his taser.

* * *

"A promotion?" Roddy was surprised.

"Bureau Inspector," repeated the District Chief, shaking Roddy's hand. "Bureau Inspector Roderigo Hernando Cortex." He smiled, satisfied with the sound of it. "Congratulations, Cortex. First Hispanic Inspector in the whole district. Even though the district was carved out just this year. Still. Quite historic." He handed Roddy a new badge.

Roddy opened his mouth to note that he was a full-blooded Spaniard, but instead he just smiled and nodded. The chief sat down and began arranging manila folders at right angles on his desk. Roddy supposed that a grateful remark was expected. "I'm honored," he said, "that you chose me."

"Hmm? Oh, NIQUA chose you based on seniority," replied the chief, gesturing flippantly toward his computer monitor. "You know that each District Office is required to have at least one Bureau Inspector. But Inspector O'Malley disappeared last month. And, well, Inspector Ugubwe lost his battle with cancer last night, in that massive gas explosion."

"Tragic," said Roddy.

"Yes, tragic." They were silent for a moment. "So anyway," his boss went on, "no more of these petty unplugger cases for you. That's kid stuff. We want you to work on domestic terrorism. See what you can do with this." The chief danced a finger back and forth over his folders, picked one, and slid it forward. Roddy took it up and flipped through the contents as he turned away. He stopped.

"Sir?" he asked.

"Yes, Inspector Cortex?" The Chief smiled again, forming his fingers into an expectant pyramid.

Roddy looked up from the folder. "The infovids say that the pod tower in Rainbow Unicorn District 3 imploded due to malfunctions in its aging anti-earthquake systems. Had to do with the, um, polarity of the underground super magnets. Or something."

"Yes?"

"But this file suggests that the likely culprit was a supremacist terror cell—possibly White Lightning, or Der Mond."

"Der M—" the chief scoffed. "You know, it's always a terror cell, officially. And, officially, everyone is supposed to be mad at the terror cell. But the near-constant activation of Mad hormones required by this string of incidents would only contribute more to the, ah," he searched for a word, "strife already swamping the heavily rediversified districts. So the infovids call them accidents, and NIQUA Central pumps out Sad hormones instead." He returned to rearranging his desk.

Roddy stood for a moment, processing the information. "So you want me to find out who did it?"

[continues]

Jones nodded and walked off, toward the gates of the launch base that had been grafted into the small town. The round-topped mountains there were of a hard blue basalt covered in deep layers of rich topsoil. They were also old as the ages, and no seismic activity had been detected there ever since people started watching for such things. That made the place, according to those in charge, perfect for an underground launch base. It had seemed to Jones an excess in caution at first, but now he knew better.

He reached the main gate, little more than a block beyond the small park, and was quickly waved through to the elevator bunker. With a quick pause for a last look at the lightening sky, he stepped in and immediately felt the floor dropping from under his feet. The trip down took little over a minute and the capsule dropped him off a few paces from the briefing room.

Most of the other pilots were already there, filling the rows of seats in the small arena. A large screen behind the stage showed a three-dimensional schematic of the Earth, centered on the south pole. Red covered everything up to around the thirty-fifth parallel, following an irregular border. It struck him as dangerously close.

General Matthias was at the podium. The last pilots walked in right behind Jones.

“Good morning, gentlemen. As you can see,” he tapped the thick line that marked the edge of the cloud on the screen, “the red smoke expanded another few hundreds of kilometers since last night, continuing the surge that started five days ago.”

The pilots, seasoned and trained as they were, took in a collective breath. Officially everything to their south had been evacuated, but they knew many people had refused or been unable to leave. Their own town was supposed to hold only military personnel, yet many of the locals—like Karl—remained.

[continues]

Nël kept his eyes on the road as the old vehicle clanked and rumbled around him. He was in a particularly sour mood given that he’d only had the opportunity to finish eating about half of the food he’d paid for. Hot meals weren’t cheap these days as government relief packages grew fewer and further between. Stupid useless capital government, all they were good for was guarding warehouses of their goods. When he’d been a child whole ships the size of skyscrapers had carried trade goods daily and now he hadn’t seen one in months. Nël wondered if they’d found some other method of transporting the stuff, or if they just gave up on long distance trade. Didn’t really matter, he was sure he could find out if he cared to look it up. But he didn’t. This was his home now, for good or ill, mostly ill.

What would have been a twenty minute ride in fair weather was nearly an hour in the storm. They had to stop a few times to clear the windshield and check the street signs to make sure they were where they thought they were. On the occasion Monte would utter empty promises to his old engine to get it fixed soon as the parts were available. While traveling, they only passed eight other cars, and two of those had been security vehicles heading for Mac’s. Alescia seemed to grow progressively more nervous during the ride, made sense, thought Nël: this was her first time. For the rest of them though, they’d been living this life so long that they were almost following a routine. What had started as a few crimes of opportunity became a method of survival when the life of the city was slowly bled white by the cancerous mists and storms.

“I think… yeah, that’s it. I found this place on street view a while back, and it was a bit run down even back when the pictures were taken. What do you think?” asked Kelly as the van approached a shelled out husk of an old garage.

Most of the buildings collected a sheen of ichor over time, but generally it dripped down the windows and inculcated the wood and stone, unlikely to have permeated within. This building looked like it was made of the stuff, a pitted pustule that was never touched by human craftsmen, instead having grown out of the dreary storm winds like some malignant tumor. All the rough edges had been rounded by layer upon layer of waxy sheen. A dim streetlight, itself half obscured in the fog, flickered in front of the structure.

“That big door is just barely hanging on,” Nël observed. “Knock it open ‘n we’ll have a good spot to put the van. What’s the backside like?”

“Same as th’front, I think,” said Kelly. “Big door in the back, half crusted over. See that fence line there? That’s the normal security line, during a storm this’s about as empty as it gets. From here it’s less than a half mile inside their wire to the warehouse.”

Nël looked at Alescia and Monte before turning around to talk. “Listen, new girl, Alescia, this life is rough. I don’t know what business you got hammered by to end up with your cute ass dropped by the oligarchs, sure sucks when you have to work for your supper don’t it? Places like this ‘s mostly abandoned, but not always. You do what we say, when we say it. You don’t ask how, or why. You shut your mouth and do as you’re told, and you won’t end up in a penitentiary or labor camp for the rest of your days. It’s dirty work, you’re gonna bleed, and if you complain, we’ll leave your ass out there. The outsides are abandoned in storms, but there’s drones and security trips all over in the wire. That’s why we don’t go in unarmed. Some cagey catches us or some ticker tags us, and we’re done. So you do as you’re told. ‘Aight?”

Alescia briefly glanced around the interior of the van and swallowed before nodding. “Yeah, I think I can handle that.”

“Good,” said Nël, “now let’s kick down that door.”

It took only a few minutes for them to wedge a crowbar into a crack in the decaying metal and force it open enough to climb through and unlock it properly. Then Monte pulled the van inside and shut off the lights. After slamming the big garage door shut, the lot of them were left in darkness with only the rumble of corrupting wind outside.

“Won’t they see tracks that some one pulled in here?” asked Alescia.

“Only if they’re lookin in the next fifteen or so,” responded Kelly as he groped around for a flashlight. “Storms out here on the coasts aren’t like those little ones you’ve seen in the continent, love. They’ll wipe clean all trace of passage right quick.”

Nël squinted as Kelly switched on a flashlight. “We gonna have enough room in here to put together the wagon?” he asked.

Monte shrugged, and opened the rear doors of the van and pulled out four inflated wheels.

“See here, Alescia,” said Nël. “When we head out we try to nab all we can get our hands on, but it’s a long walk. Can’t follow the paths neither. Would be nice if security was so lax we could drive up, but we can’t. So we—”

Kelly and Monte began arguing over the wagon setup. Nël rolled his eyes. “Just… hang on. You need me to hold the light? Alescia, go hold the light for ‘em. I’m gonna pull the packs out. Anyway, going out there is easy, gett’n back with the loot’s the hard part.”

Alescia nodded and took hold of Kelly’s flashlight.

“I don’t think there’s windows in here,” said Kelly, “but if there are keep the light away from them.”

“How long ago y’think this place was abandoned?” asked Nël.

“Well, it was run down when I found it on street view, so quite a while. Maybe three or four years? Most of the buildings out here ‘re abandoned, every one concentrates into the city core because the storms make driving so damn hard.”

“Yeah, figure so,” said Nël. He looked at graffiti on the walls. It was unsteadily illuminated by Alescia as she attempted to hold the light on where Monte and Kelly were fiddling with the cart frame and attaching the wheels.

“Dammit!” exclaimed Kelly as he was knocked into a chunk of the wall which promptly cracked and fell to the ground.

“The hell’s that?” asked Nël, looking at the newly revealed crevice.”

“I dunno,” replied Kelly, “why don’t you have a look while we get this damn pin in place?”

The grotto only extended a few feet into a rear-facing false-wall. It looked like some sort of closet or other room. It wasn’t until Nël located a door to the outside of the garage that he realized he must be standing in some sort of gardening shed or something. The outer door had been so thoroughly covered by years of ichor resin that it hadn’t even been visible from outside. It was while he was thinking about what else might have gotten lost in the city, buried under countless layers of profane matter that he noticed a number of old gardening implements stacked in the dimly lit back corner.

“Ay, Alescia, hand me the light for a minute,” shouted Nël.

“Don’t you dare!” said Kelly, “we’ve nearly got it done.”

“Jus’ shine ‘er in here a second.”

After some more cajoling, Nël finally got some light to see by. “Holy shit guys! Ye see that?!”

“What, Where?” asked Kelly, poking his head in the alcove. “Holy shit, are those proper masks?”

“Looks like,” said Nël. “Couple of filters. Too. Hell yes. This’ll make life easier. I think these are the old K-25s from when those were still in production.”

Monte grunted approval to the group. “How many?”

“Looks like two, ‘nuff for a few of us anyway, an’ filters too. This is going to hurt a lot less than last time,” said Nël. “You remember on the way back you started throwing up?”

Kelly glanced at Alescia and then unconvincingly shook his head, denying the claim.

“Like hell man,” said Nël, “even I nearly puked, I was coughing up blood for a few days after our last run, eyes was all bleary too.”

“That storm was awful, don’t know what the hell’s in the air make it that rough on the eyes,” said Kelly, changing the subject.

“Don’t matter to me now,” said Nël. “We got us something worth wearing for the first time in months. This one’ll be a cakewalk. Just like those security guys have.”

There was some disagreement over who would get the K-25s they’d just located. Alescia made the discussion easier by revealing that she had a modern respirator of her own sitting in her heavily stretched backpack. Eventually it was decided that, since Monte had actual goggles, that Kelly and Nël would wear the outdated K-25s as they were the ones expected to do the heavy lifting.

* * *

The K-25 masks were a little bulky as far as respirators went, but they covered the entire face, eyes included, though the gunk from the storm still stuck to the glass goggles here and there. Nël had to keep pulling out an old piece of cloth to regularly wipe clean his vision in the storm. The respirators made the walk more pleasant than Nël had experienced in a year. Heck, this was probably the first time he’d breathed clean air in longer than that. Some family had probably put those in the back of the garden shed and forgotten them when they’d left after the storms had gone from a freak rarity to a regular occurrence.

In the hazy wind, the four of them looked like strange inhuman apparitions. Most of the land was barren, some long forgotten construction project of steel and concrete abandoned ages ago. Kelly had told Nël that the project was going to be some big research site for Hersching before they’d decided to relocate it inland five years ago. Amazing how much info Monte could pull off the internet, even with the decayed state of the city. Monte had clearly been working on this raid for a little while. Nël and Kelly were just the muscle, and they both knew it. The wagon had a harness on the front that could be pulled by two people. Nël had the thing attached to his waist while Kelly stood behind to help push when it got caught in mud or nearly tipped over by the wind. Monte and Alescia took point, with Monte keeping an eye out for any potential trouble holding an illegal short barreled rifle.

[continues]