Jewel stepped out of the shadows of the darkened hallway. The rest had already gone on ahead.
“Oh my God!” Marcellus breathed, slumping against a wall. “You scared me.”
Jewel pressed up against him. At once he felt a thrill gallop through his body. “Oh, Marcellus, how you make me want to act rashly,” she purred, looking down at him with burning eyes. Her face was only inches from his. He could feel her hot breath on his cheek.
“I love you,” Marcellus told her helplessly.
Jewel giggled. “A particularly dangerous confession, don't you think?”
“Are we being watched?” Only a part of him was aware of what he was saying. The rest was captivated by the soft tendrils of warmth that coursed through his body where she was touching him. He felt he was floating somewhere.
“Probably,” Jewel whispered into his ear.
“Won't he find out?”
“It's not a person watching, Marcellus. It's a computer. Computers don't get jealous.”
“Maybe it's programmed to.”
Jewel paused. “Maybe.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“Doing what?” Her face slid before his. He knew if he kissed her she would not resist.
“How far are you willing to go?”
“I love my husband,” she began. “But –”
“But what?”
Jewel shrugged. “We rule together, Marcellus. We need each other.”
“You mean it's more of a business relationship than anything sexual.”
“Marcellus!” Horrified, she drew away from him.
Hurriedly, he pressed against her. “I'm sorry. I – Sometimes I say things and they don't come out the way I meant them.”
She laughed softly and stroked his hair. “You're so sweet.” A more serious, almost stern look, mastered her face. “Why won't you use the ring, Marcellus?”
Marcellus blinked. “The ring?” He drew away, suddenly wary. “Why?” The soft tendrils of warmth were fading.
“You're wearing it now. I would be unable to resist you.”
Marcellus stared at her. “That's not the kind of love I want.”
A soft, almost vulnerable look drifted by her pupils and was gone. “You used it in Bequba,” she reminded him.
“That's different.” Marcellus was starting to feel uncomfortable. He looked up the corridor in the direction he had been going.
She drew up against him. “Why?”
“Judas is right. The ring won't make me a good ruler.” He faced her squarely. “Who else knows?”
“About the ring? Only my husband and myself.” She paused. “And your friends. And Xiling. And the other Justices. And their acolytes. And whoever else they told.”
Marcellus swallowed.
“It's only a matter of time, Marcellus.”
“What do you care?”
Jewel stood up straight. She was a good head taller than he was. “Oh, I care a great deal.”
They stood together in the darkness for a while, hardly touching, bodies incredibly close. Eventually Marcellus said, “If I were to use the ring on Judas, it would – ” He shrugged. “It would change things. Just like it would if I – ” He gestured meekly in her direction.
Jewel cocked her head slightly to one side as if she were gazing upon a precious wonder for the first time. “How sweet,” she purred. “You still think you're friends.” Gently, she caressed his cheek. The warm tendrils were back, this time shooting from her fingertips along his skull to the back of his neck. He could feel them pricking his toes. “How I envy you, Marcellus. You still don't know what power really is.”
When Nameless first appeared to me, it was as a bearded, young man carrying a fish tank. Eventually, though, he took the form that is the one I now associate with him: a tall, lean man with limbs slightly too long for his body, completely hairless, a nondescript face. The eyes are the most remarkable thing about him. They are colorless, like glass. No matter what he says or what I have said to him, they have never flashed, nor have they softened. They have, in fact, never been disturbed in any way whatsoever. They remain what they always have been: unobstructed windows into a calm, infinite interior.
The train lurched on its swift, harrowing passage through the darkness. The lights continued to speed by beyond the windows, chasing each other through the unending gloom.
“But why,” I asked, “if we are all God – if everything is God – do I feel so alone? Why do I feel like I'm me?”
“Very good,” Nameless replied. “The question shows you are making progress.” He paused and pointed with the stick at the easel. There was, of course, nothing to point out. “God split itself up in all that we see and feel and think and mean in order to have experiences. But the sense of experience is intimately tied to isolation. Think about it. If I knew I was you, if I knew your thoughts and all that you are, I'd understand enough that there never would have been a question in the first place. This is exactly the situation God wanted to get away from when the Universe was created. It is this ignorance that is at once the cause of all suffering and the illusion masking the greatest joy. For even in this seeming isolation, all these bits of God are seeking to reconnect with each other. The world and everything in it wants to come together, Marcellus. It is the natural way of things.”
At the time none of it made sense. “Why do you care?”
Nameless' eyebrows – had he had them – raised. “Excuse me?”
“Why are you trying to help me?”
Nameless' gaze deepened in a way that made me think I was faltering on the brink of an abyss whose bottom did not exist. I could keep Judas's gaze, feverish as it was or furious, but not Nameless. I looked away.
“I am your guardian angel, Marcellus. I thought you'd figured that out by now.”
I stared uncompromisingly out the window. Suddenly, to my great surprise, the train began to slow down. The high-pitched screech of wheels filled the compartment. “We're finally getting somewhere!”
We entered an old fashioned train station. As the train slowed to walk, I could see a jumble of people out on the platform – men, women, and children of all backgrounds and persuasions. There were a great many, all surging eagerly forward as the train rolled in, hoping to get a seat. It was raining and there didn't seem to be any roof to shield them. The platform was not well lit, but still I could see the desperation on their faces. Wherever they wanted to go, they wanted to get there very badly.
And just as the train was about to come to a complete stop, incredibly it began to speed up again. The platform and the many faces began to dissolve into the quickly building gloom. I could see some of them twisting in anger. More than a few struck it with their bare hands, shouting angrily. The banging echoed accusingly throughout the compartment.
“Why doesn't the train stop?” I protested bitterly to Nameless as we pulled out of the station. “Those people want to get on!”
“This is not their train,” Nameless responded sternly. “Now pay attention.”
Jennifer's black puppy pranced around the observation chamber to her incessant delight. The couple she bought her from had named her Lila. Jennifer, though, thought it was a stupid name for a dog. She called her Precious. After a bit of haggling and conniving, she finally got permission from Jewel to bring her into the compound. That was a week ago. Since then she brought the dog with her everywhere she went. Jennifer didn't like people very much, but she loved that dog.
Harvey Cash stood next to her, watching expressionlessly as Precious urinated in the corner. Jennifer crooned encouragingly.
The observation chamber was a simple, rectangular room with a few folding chairs, a door, a Drink-O-Matic, and a one-way mirror that looked out onto what could easily have been mistaken for a classroom. Long, metallic fixtures out of which blasted a cold, white light were laid out along the ceiling in strips. Large cut-outs of the letters of the Latin alphabet lined the tops of the walls, block letters first and the script ones underneath. A large, colorful map of the world hung on the back wall. Two large chalkboards in the front of the room had been pulled down. Their faces were greenish and blank, the ledges set with chalk and erasers. The teacher's desk was set between the chalkboards, looking out onto the rows of much smaller desks behind which sat the students. The teacher's desk was empty.
The reason anyone observing who didn't already know might have concluded that, whatever its purpose, it was not a classroom after all, is this: sitting in the cramped, little chairs were fully grown men and women, although they appeared to be very well behaved.
“Thank you, dear Harvey,” Jennifer told him, flapping her eyelids at him, “for finally showing me your office.”
Harvey Cash looked at her over the tops of his crooked bifocals. His hands were buried deep in the pockets of his unbuttoned, grey pants. “It's your reward for being a good girl,” he told her.
Jennifer, scantily clad in what looked to be entirely of rubber and aluminium foil, smiled at him mischievously. “I think I prefer being punished.”
At that moment, Precious ran over, seeking encouragement.
“Oh, isn't she adorable?” Jennifer said in that particular tone of voice people reserve for pets, infants, and those they think are inordinately stupid.
“Are you going to clean that up?”
“Are you fucking serious?” Jennifer snapped icily. “There are people around here for that.”
“Yes, but it smells.”
Jennifer knelt down and scratched under the puppy's neck the dog eagerly tried to climb up on her. “If you want me to be nice to you,” she sneered at him, “you'll have to live with it.”
Harvey Cash licked his lips hungrily. “I really wish you would let me urinate on you. I've told you so before.”
Jennifer grimaced, but she was careful not to let Harvey Cash see. “I told you, Harvey dear, you haven't earned it yet.”
“I was hoping now that you got to see my office – ”
Jennifer leaped up, rushed over, and started to be very interested in his office and the various goings-on there. It was a familiar ruse meant to distract him from asking all the questions she wanted to avoid saying no to. She knew exactly what they were because he kept asking them.
“Who are those people out there?” Jennifer asked, hanging on his arm.
“Those,” Harvey Cash began slowly, pushing the bifocals up his nose, “are the ambassadors from all of our provinces. Don't you see the little name plates on each desk?”
“They look very uncomfortable, Harvey. You should get them bigger desks.”
Harvey Cash snorted in contempt. “They have exactly the desks they deserve.”
Jennifer studied the various ambassadors. She could see two distinct groups: tall, white men with light complexions sitting perfectly straight and still in the front rows, and behind them a mix of black, brown and white skinned men and women, generally shorter and dark haired, who tended to slouch and were speaking to each other softly but quickly. Jennifer remarked on this to Harvey Cash.
“Yes, yes,” Harvey Cash agreed dully as he surveyed them. “The ones in the front are ambassadors from our Northern provinces. The ones in back are from the Southern provinces. I prefer to have them sitting in blocks. It helps stoke the jealousy between them.” A slight frown crept over Harvey Cash's face as he looked through the one-way mirror. “I think the Germans have been sitting in front too long,” he decided quietly. “I think it's time to offend that tremendous pride of theirs. Yes, I'll move them to the back, let the little Hispanic monkeys up front.” He smiled to himself like an out-of-shape librarian who knows where a much sought-after book can be found, but decides not to tell anyone.
“Germans?” Jennifer peered at the desks. “Why would you single out poor old Germany?”
“Germany?” Harvey Cash scoffed. “I said Germans.” He sighed deeply. “Okay, follow my finger.” He pointed towards the front at the stiff looking man sitting behind the desk that read DENMARK. “Cimbri,” Harvey Cash told her. Now he was indicating his neighbor behind the sign that read GERMANY. “Alemanni,” Harvey Cash informed her. His finger moved down the line. The ambassador of NETHERLANDS was apparently – unbeknownst to him – ambassador of the “Frisii”. The ambassador from BURGUNDY was actually the representative of the “Franks”. The people of Sweden were not Swedes at all but rather “Goths”.
“Do they know all this?” Jennifer asked him uncertainly.
“You'll see there also the ambassadors from England, Scotland, and Ireland. The English are half German, and the others are Celts.” Harvey shrugged. “Not much of a difference, though, as far as I can tell.”
There were a few others seated near the front, too: AUSTRALIA, NEW ZEALAND, CANADA, and POLAND among others, but Harvey Cash didn't point to them.
“The ambassadors in front look like the Dutchman,” Jennifer murmured. “Why are all the German ambassadors men, Harvey?”
“They're not all men. Look. There. That one's a woman.”
Jennifer peered intently in the direction Harvey Cash indicated. “Oh yes,” she agreed after a moment. “You're right.” She looked to see what Precious was up to. She was lying peacefully in the corner, head splayed out between her front paws. When she saw Jennifer look her way, the tail began to thump happily against the floor. “You don't seem to like these Germans very much, Harvey,” Jennifer pointed out and started to trace patterns on his shoulder with two of her fingers. “I thought I was the only one you were mean to.”
“I don't like any of the ambassadors. The ones from the Southern constellation are dirty peasants who live in shacks made of sheets of rusting metal. They breed like rats.” He pushed his bifocals once more up his nose. “If anything, I prefer the Germans to the Hispanics. You see, we are Germans, too. Right now we are standing in the center of the Germanic world. Did you know that? For the first time since the wild days of the tribes – ” he jutted his chin at the window “– we are united.” His voice had attained that gravity which usually meant something important was being said.
Jennifer, though, could not find anything the least bit important in it at all. But she smiled anyway and pawed his arm. “Oh, Harvey dear, how interesting!”
“Our time started after we toppled the Mediterranean world. You know, the Phonecians, Greeks, Egyptians. The Romans. You've heard of them?”
Jennifer nodded her head absently, her eyes slightly glazed over.
“Anyway,” Harvey Cash continued, staring off through the window, “the peak of the Germanic world has since passed. Decline has set in. And one day, our world will collapse.”
Jennifer frowned. “Are you saying,” she slowly began, “that the United States won't always exist?”
Harvey Cash pushed his bifocals up the bridge of his nose. “That,” he told her gravely, “is exactly what I am saying.”
Jennifer pulled slightly away from him. “Isn't that treasonous?”
Harvey Cash smiled at her grimly. “It is on the outside.” He waved at the far wall. “In here, in the compound, treason has another meaning entirely.” His eyes stared at her without expression.
“Well, if the world's going to end and all, don't you think you should try and do something about it?”
Harvey Cash shrugged. “There is nothing I can do. The forces at work are far greater than I am.”
“But won't it be terrible, with lots of devastation and starvation and murder?” Jennifer's clasped her hands in earnest in front of her, feigning shocked innocence.
“Oh yes, Jennifer. But not in our lifetimes.” He smiled at her comfortingly.
“Oh,” Jennifer replied as if his explanation satisfied her. Her eyes strayed towards the window. “Who are those two wrestling on the floor?”
“What? Where?” Harvey Cash craned his neck. In the back corner almost hidden from view, one of the ambassadors had another in a headlock and was banging his head against the wall. Harvey Cash sighed wearily when he saw it. “Oh, it's just the ambassadors from Flanders and Wallonia. Don't pay them any attention. They always do that. You see, Jennifer, that monstrous pride, the abandoned love of aggression, the rigid thinking – they served the Germans well once, but by now that mentality has exhausted all its possibilities. It's the inevitable fate of any great culture, of course, that is not itself refreshed by outside influences. And the Germans have always hated outside influences. I imagine it's why they like to drink so much.”
“They do?” Jennifer breathed the words as if they probed a great secret.
“Yes. It's the only way they can escape their complex, regimented, materialistic little realities. They cast wonder and spirituality and imagination from their worlds a long time ago.” He sighed and looked gloomily out the window.
“What about the Hispanics?” Jennifer wanted to know.
Harvey Cash, for his part, was slightly surprised. Maybe she was smarter than she let on, he thought to himself. “Yes, well, I've had this conversation with Tina before. Nothing ever fits nicely into a little box with a neat label, does it?” He smiled at her grotesquely and pinched her ass.
Jennifer squealed and leaped back. Precious in the corner put her head up and barked. “Oh, you naughty boy!” she said, genuinely taken aback. “You're lucky I don't have Markie's ring or I'd make you do something fucking awful!”
“Markie's ring?” Harvey Cash echoed, cocking his head.
Realizing what she had said, Jennifer put a hand to her mouth and stared at him as if she were a rabbit and he an oncoming passenger vehicle.
Harvey Cash stuck his hands innocently into his pockets. “What's so special about this ring of his?”
“Oh, nothing,” she said quickly. “It's just a game we play. Do you believe in magic, Harvey?”
Harvey Cash stared, trying to decide if she was being serious. Nope, he concluded to himself. She really is that stupid.
Gessus Parsa Achaemenes was having an argument with the distinguished Senator from the state of Rhode Island.
“Every Senator has the right to sponsor and introduce legislation,” the Senator insisted. “It is not the prerogative of the Majority Leader or any other Senator for that matter to deny me that right.” Senator Parriman stood among his colleagues, the twenty-eight or so that were present. Most were from the states of New England, although a few Westerners were present as well. This was the faction that called itself the “Republicans”, although to Epstein and his gang, they were known as “the troublemakers”.
The Senate met in the building that was constructed especially for the purpose after the destruction of the Capitol during the civil unrest in the long days before Murroughs. It was a grand old building dedicated to a pomp and magnificence meant to satisfy the want of real power inside. The Senate Chamber itself was shaped like a small amphitheater. The ninety-nine chairs for the ninety-nine Senators sloped ever so slightly downward in a concentric series of semicircles that focused on the Majority Leader of the Senate himself.
Gessus Parsa Achaemenes – short, fat, and bald with loopy, golden earings – sat on the ostentatious, stone chair that was his throne, and stared back with slightly distracted eyes. Fortunately for everyone involved, he had taken a green pill before the day's proceedings. Gessus' throne was hewn of real stone and was placed behind a broad wooden table. A tiny gavel was lying on it in front of him. Next to it was a slot of some sort and what looked like a hand-print. Two empty chairs of much smaller stature were on other side. All this had been set on a raised dais which was the focal point of the attention of the surrounding Senators. All were seated except Parriman.
“You may, honorable Senator, submit any legislation you wish provided it is at the proper time. Rules are rules, you know, and the Senate has many.” He smiled wanly in the Senator's direction.
“And when is the next proper time?” Senator Parriman demanded.
“Let me consult the calendar,” Gessus stated dreamily and pulled out his PA. He spent a few minutes flipping through it.
Senator Parriman, for his part, grew more impatient.
“Ah, here we are at last!” Gessus exclaimed. A slight frown overcame his face. “Oh, it doesn't look good, I'm afraid. It seems there are a great many unlucky days coming up.”
Parriman clicked his tongue. “Unlucky days! We should never have agreed to that legislation. You tricked us!”
“And yet you did vote for it and the law passed,” Gessus reminded him with a twinkle in his eye. “The Senate cannot hold session on days that the Augurs have declared unlucky. It's as simple as that.”
“The law gives them complete discretion to decide!” Parriman protested. “And the President can appoint anyone he wishes to the College of Augurs. The Senate's approval is not required!”
“If you had objections you should have raised them at the time.”
The other Senators grumbled unhappily. Parriman bit his lip. He knew very well what such objections could have meant.
Sitting around the very top of the chamber in chairs provided for them were the various Chiefs of Staff of the Senators who were absent. Icarus was among them. At that moment, a familiar figure slipped in through one of the chamber's many entrances. Maya's sharp eyes quickly located Icarus. He knew that Maya sometimes liked to join him during the Senate's rare sessions. He had kept a seat available for her.
A quick glance at the floor below told her something was afoot. “What's going on?” she whispered as she sat down.
“Senator Parriman wants to introduce legislation requiring a court hearing for anyone seized by Population Control and accused of being a mod.”
Maya nodded her head. “I hear a lot of his sympathizers have been disappearing lately.”
“The whole lot of them down there is scared shitless. That's a fact.”
Senator Parriman was conferring with his colleagues. After a moment, he stood up and addressed the Majority Leader below. “Then I'll submit the legislation now.”
Gessus nearly choked. “That's impossible.”
“The Senate is in session,” Senator Parriman observed.
“There isn't a quota!” Gessus barked, kicking his feet.
“I'll submit it into receivership and the other Senators will automatically receive a copy on their PA's.”
Gessus rubbed his bald head. “That's an antiquated procedure. It hasn't been used in a long time.”
Senator Parriman smiled triumphantly. “Time does not render procedure invalid, I hope.”
The United States Senate was the last remaining government body free of foreign-born citizens, a vestige of the old chauvinism that once upon a time almost smothered the nation into non-existence. Years of civil unrest amplified by the purge Murroughs initiated at the beginning of her term decimated the ranks of the bureaucracy, the Congress, and the courts. That brilliant mind immediately perceived the benefits of allowing ex-provincials to take their places in these esteemed institutions. Her strategy was extraordinarily effective. Not only did she have the support of the native born and downtrodden middle-class, which had suffered greatly at the hands of the combines, but now suddenly a new body of wealthy and influential citizens had appeared with no qualms whatsoever about trampling on traditions they had never known. They proved slavishly loyal to the woman who had provided them with opportunity and rank equal to their former masters.
No so the Senate. That body had resisted, and it had resisted with such prowess that she was forced to compromise with it. Laws were passed by both houses of Congress stipulating that to be eligible for membership in the Senate, one must be of a family whose ancestors were citizens going back at least three, unbroken generations. In return, Murroughs reserved for the President the right to strike names from the lists of candidates before elections. The Senators satisfied their vain pride, it is true, but at the same time she robbed them of their vitality. In the years since, the Senate had been slowly reduced to the Majority Leader's pet.
Well, largely his pet. The current Majority Leader, despite the green pill, was visibly fuming. It's not something he did very often.
Senator Parriman had already retrieved his PA and was descending triumphantly towards the Majority Leader's station. His colleagues were stomping their feet and loudly cheering him on.
“I am submitting counter-legislation!” Gessus shouted, trying to make himself heard over the din. “I will override your bill.”
The ruckus from the Senators above abruptly ceased, but Senator Parriman did not hesitate. He was already on the floor. “It is only permitted to submit counter-legislation for a bill that has had a first reading,” he said firmly, stepping up onto the dais. The Senators above murmured their approval. Senator Parriman was a master of bureaucratic intrigue.
Gessus bit his lip and watched icily as Parriman came to a stop in front of him and inserted his PA into the slot. It was received with a resonant click. He was reaching for the hand-print when, in a sudden and spasmodic movement, Gessus screeched and lunged forward, knocking the Majority Leader's gavel to the floor. “Ah ha!” he cried out triumphantly, pointing. The eyes were bugging from his head.
Senator Parriman's hand froze.
Gessus looked up at the ceiling and ceremoniously lifted both hands above his head. “I bear witness to ill omens,” he declared in a loud, resounding voice. The stunned Senators above were struck silent. “By the will of Heaven, this day's proceedings are invalid and without the force of law! The Senate is adjourned and will reconvene at a later time.”
“What?” Senator Parriman's face transformed into a vicious snarl. “You can't even see the sky from here! I protest!”
Gessus put a hand to his chest and took a few deep breaths. How fortunate, he thought, that he had taken that green pill. After a moment, he cleared his throat. “If you look, you'll see the rules do not specifically mention being able to see the sky, distinguished Senator.” At that, the Senators above muttered darkly among themselves.
Senator Parriman's mouth hung open. “But no one has done such a thing in years! Not since Sindhra's term!”
Gessus leaned back and smiled at him coldly. “Time does not render procedure invalid, I hope.”
Senator Parriman was a master of bureaucratic intrigue, it is true, but he was no match for a Parsa Achaemenes.
Once a year in the middle of the summer, both Houses of Congress used to gather in the Senate chamber to hear a speech from the President concerning the State of the Union. It was an event attended by a great deal of pomp and circumstance. The Congressmen started to assemble early in the morning. There was, after all, a lot of congratulating to do, and since no one else was inclined, they happily congratulated each other. Sometime before noon, the five hundred United States Representatives, who remained standing, had settled into the space afforded them at the top of the chamber. The ninety-nine United States Senators had long since retired from the members of what they considered the inferior body and were sitting comfortably in their seats, waiting with affected dignity to hear from the President.
For Epstein, of course, the annual State of the Union address was a complete waste of time. And yet, each year he set aside a full day from his busy calendar, took the secret, underground passage from the White House compound to the Senate chamber, and pretended to pay homage and respect to an impotent institution. Everyone knew that the House of Representatives and the Senate were empty husks, devoid of real power. But for Epstein, the reality was enough. Human beings, when deprived of the substance of power and influence, will often settle for its appearance.
In days past, it was one of the responsibilities of the Vice President of the United States to preside over the Senate when it was in session. Murroughs the Younger, fearing conspiracy from all quarters (and rightly so, as it turned out), used the office to raise up the one he feared the most, only to strike him down once he thought he had uncovered all the fellow conspirators, real or imagined. One of the first acts of his successor – that active innovator and reformer, President Sindhra – was to banish the office altogether. She regarded it as a danger to government by freemocracy.
Gessus, the Majority Leader, sat in the stone throne, presiding. To his left was Epstein, wearing a ten-gallon hat and old-fashioned britches, and to his right, his twin brother, Bessus.
To Epstein's left sat his stunning wife, Jewel, elegantly dressed for the occasion with a great, colorful headpiece, long, dangling earrings, and a rich, flowing dress of some heavy material that trailed along on the ground after her. The two sat, hands entwined on the table in front of them in a public display of unity.
To Bessus' right sat General Munib, the Secretary of Defence and – as some styled him – the Shadow of God on Earth. He was a little, elderly man dressed in an impeccable, white suit in the Persian style – no necktie – carefully steamed and pressed. He sat patiently, one leg crossed over the other, elbow resting on one of the arms of his chair, chin cradled between his thumb and a few folded fingers. He seemed to be pondering something.
In front of the dais behind a little podium set up especially for the occasion stood Marcellus, haltingly giving his speech. Epstein had afforded him a singular honor. This year, it was not the President himself, but one of his ministers who was to deliver the State of the Union address. Such arrangements have significance. Most people interpreted it as meaning Marcellus was the President's hand-picked successor. There were, of course, those who liked to believe the matter was as yet undecided.
Sitting in a row of imposing chairs slightly behind the Majority Leader and his guests on the dais were Harvey Cash, Vassily, Tina Martinez, Sonya, and the Dutchman.
There was something else unusual about this particular State of the Union address. The ambient light was dim. All round the top of the depression poles had been set up at three-meter intervals, spewing a martial fire. It was a simple effect, and yet it added greatly to the solemnity of the occasion. The idea had been Jennifer's. By now, most of the upper echelons of government had come to acknowledge that she had in no small way contributed to Marcellus' growing popularity. She not only dressed him and taught him how to pose, but she insisted on controlling even the setting and circumstance of any public appearance he made. As a result, Marcellus was cultivating the reputation of a distinguished man of the people. The ordinaries were distrustful and disdainful of those they regarded as superior to themselves, but they received with open arms anyone they viewed as their brother, if only slightly more gifted and favored by Fortune. Jennifer wanted them to think of Marcellus as a superstar, not as a minister of government, and she was succeeding brilliantly.
Sitting behind them partway up the depression across the Senators were the Justices of the United States Surpreme Court. Kaela, Michael, Tizoc, Frey, Ramuel, Murasaki, Rhea, and Talisman sat in a row, dressed in thick, black robes, heads uncovered, hands folded in front. Behind each sat a young man or woman, presumably their assistants. The Chief Justice himself sat a little apart.
The whole of government had gathered. Only the College of Augurs was absent. Epstein knew that state religion was a fresh and somewhat unconventional concept in America. A time would come when the College would be as familiar to the ordinaries as the Presidency. But this was not that time.
Behind the Justices of the Supreme Court, at the top of the chamber opposite the assembled Representatives, were crammed the occasion's privileged observers: the various husbands, wives, assistants, and reporters who were broadcasting the event live to humankind via the interlink, supplemented by their own, admittedly uninspired commentary. Jango, Maya, Icarus, and Jennifer were somewhere among them, although they could not be seen.
“I've never sat through anything as boring in my entire life,” Sonya sneered and clicked her tongue.
“Yes, well, whatever Epstein sees in him, it can't be his speaking.” Tina Martinez reached into her black pocketbook and drew out a handful of wrapped mints. “Candy?”
“See how she's dressed him?” Sonya took one of the mints and unwrapped it with deft fingers. “Clothing is meant to hide the body, not show every nook and cranny! It's effeminate. It invites temptation.” She reached out a hand and absently fingered one of the large studs harpooned through her nose. “It's becoming fashionable, precisely because of this sort of wanton glorification!”
Vassily giggled. “Oh, Sonya! You're so old-fashioned.”
“Yes, well, we love her just the same.” Tina Martinez smiled wanly, popped a mint into her mouth, and dropped the rest back into her pocketbook.
“I'll be damned before I ever take orders from him,” Vassily told them haughtily.
“You know I made some special recordings.” Sonya was playing with the stud in her tongue, rubbing it up against her top front teeth. It made a hollow, knocking sound. “I have a whole series linking the arrests over the last few months to Marcellus. I showed them to Epstein.”
“Really?” Tina Martinez breathed. “What kind of recordings?”
“Oh, the usual. Ordering the national guard to be vigilant and show no mercy. Rabid and foaming at the mouth.”
“What did he say?”
Sonya shrugged. “He said he didn't want to use them.”
“Oh.” Tina Martinez thought for a moment. “You didn't destroy them, did you?”
“No. Why?”
“Keep them safe.”
Harvey Cash stirred and picked his nose. “He's got that ring on.”
“He always has the ring on, Harvey,” Sonya remarked dryly. “Who cares about the damned ring.”
“Jennifer asked me if I believed in magic. I think she was being serious.”
Sonya rolled her eyes. “Harvey, sometimes you like make no sense! What does the – ”
“She was talking about the ring.”
They all took a moment to study the ring on Marcellus' finger. It was, indeed, a very nice one.
“How much is left of this speech?” Vassily wanted to know.
“More than half,” Sonya replied.
“Couldn't you have made it more interesting?”
“Interesting? What was I supposed to put in it? A manual on how to seduce your son's friends? Would that have pleased you?”
“What's got into you today, dear?” Tina Martinez asked brightly. “Perhaps I've got something in here that could help.” She patted her pocketbook.
Sonya let out a huge sigh of frustration.
“Is it the terrorist attack last night?” Tina Martinez asked gently. “There's nothing to be afraid of. I know there hasn't been one in months, but Samuel knows how to deal with this kind of thing. Remember how it used to be? Hmm?”
Vassily giggled. “Oh, Tina, do you really believe all that nonsense about terrorists?” He jerked a thumb in the Dutchman's direction. “There's your terrorist.”
The Dutchman pretended he hadn't heard.
“Is that true?” Tina Martinez wanted to know, leaning forward so she could get a better look. “I hear that arrests have been taking place all over the country. Parriman and his merry band of Republicans are losing their most dedicated supporters. It's not going unnoticed. Is this your way of trying to take the heat off? Jan Pieter? I'm talking to you.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” he hissed unpleasantly in return.
“The Dutchman is always so secretive,” Vassily observed. “He's not very good at making friends.”
“I don't need friends,” he retorted and clutched his notebook ever closer.
“Why don't you use a PA, Jan, like the rest of the civilized world?” Harvey Cash, all the way from the other end of the line, called out to him. “That binder thing of yours is so unnecessary. And pencils! I didn't even know you could buy them anymore.”
Apparently, he spoke out too loudly. Bessus and Gessus turned and bathed the five of them with angry, piercing looks. Epstein's ten-gallon hat, too, swivelled around, eyes blazing. “Can't you at least pretend to pay attention!” he whispered angrily, squeezing the words between clenched teeth. “The whole world is watching! You're embarrassing me!”
The Secretary of the Environment had more responsibilities than preserving the remaining species of bee and cleaning up the foul air. There were formalities that had to be observed. Pensioners abandoned in old age homes thirsted for attention. Hospital victims and those without medical insurance required some measure of public sympathy. Grateful water refugees were being provided the homes and possessions of those who had disappeared into the camps. One of the basic duties of the press corps was to capture Senators and Representatives who had the President's favor engaged with such groups. It was an invaluable ally at the polls. Epstein had made it clear he thought it was a good idea if Marcellus exposed himself to the public eye. Sometime during the late summer, Marcellus, Jango, and Icarus jetted out to an old-age home on the coast of Delaware. Jennifer had arranged for an event with some of Sonya's high-profile news outlets.
They stood in the lobby, Marcellus in front and Jango and Icarus standing on either side behind, surrounded by a wall of goons in sunglasses and black suits. On the perimeter were the reporters, pressing up against the goons' massive bodies and pointing strange looking devices in their direction. Lurking somewhere in the background was Eddie.
These days, Icarus liked to dress in crisp, finely-tailored, dark-colored suits. His hair was still untamed and he hadn't done anything about the pustules on his face nor exchanged his thick, plastic glasses for the more stylish contact lenses. But even so, the suits fit him well enough and he looked quite snappy.
Jango was – despite Jennifer's best efforts to convince him otherwise – still fond of alligator-skin cowboy boots with spurs, smelly, black or brown leather pants, a simple, white T-shirt under a leather vest, a heavy chain with a gold cross, and a leather cowboy hat under which he hid his lengthy, thinning strands of hair. Sometimes Jennifer was able to convince him to wear jeans instead of the leather pants, but not this time.
The reporters were laughing at a dirty joke Marcellus had just told. “That's a good one,” one of them gurgled, fawning.
Marcellus was clearly enjoying the encounter. He stood, feet slightly spread apart, arms folded, chin jutting out, just like Jennifer had showed him. A big smile was perched on his face. “I've got a few more where that came from.”
“Mr. Secretary!” shouted someone from the back. “Why so happy today?”
Marcellus feigned surprise. “Happy? Why? Is it really so remarkable?”
“As a matter of fact, for you it is,” the reporter responded dryly.
Icarus pursed his lips and glanced in Marcellus' direction. This was precisely the image Jennifer had been warning him about.
“Well it not my fault if everyone thinks I'm a sourpuss, is it? You guys put that shit on the link, not me!”
“Mr. Secretary!” shouted another.
“Please, please, call me Marcellus.”
“Do you like living in the compound?”
Marcellus whistled. “What's your name?”
“Roger,” the reporter responded uncertainly.
“Well, Roger, it's better stocked and more luxurious than any chalet or whatever they have over there in Europe.”
Icarus leaned over and whispered into Marcellus' ear.
Marcellus shrugged. “Anyway, it's good to be close to the President.”
“You two get along just swell!”
Marcellus glowed with affected modesty. “I don't know why, really.”
“Mr. Secretary, why isn't there any information available about your background?”
Icarus shook his head and caught Jango's attention. At a nod from the big man himself, one of the goons detached from the perimeter. The reporter who had asked the offending question was whisked away without incident.
“I'm a man of the people,” Marcellus proclaimed grandly, borrowing one of the catch phrases Jennifer had recommended in training.
“Do you have much experience dealing with issues of the environment?”
“Well, whatever my experience, I can't be any worse than the last guy!”
They all laughed together.
“Why don't we go and visit some of the patients, Mr. Secretary?” Icarus suggested loudly, raising an arm.
“Yeah, yeah. Sure.”
The patients lived in carefully sterilized environments, individualized, plastic bubbles stacked up one atop the other in neat little rows. The whole area was bathed in an uncanny, blue light in which the whites of the eyes showed eerily. The head nurse took them along a roofless corridor with metal railings where they could look through the transparent walls and observe the dying and the wretched. Occasionally, she prodded a control panel and the whole contraption would raise or lower itself. As they passed by each bubble, the head nurse pointed something out about the inhabitant's medical condition. Most of what she said didn't mean anything to Marcellus. Behind them trailed the reporters, all stuck together like swarming bees. Eddie was nowhere to be seen.
“This is Mrs. Mildred Tillman,” the head nurse informed them, glancing at a panel of lights embedded in the wall. Marcellus peered through the transparent fibers and looked into what seemed to be a cozy, little apartment, replete with plastic houseplants, fake gold-plated ornaments, three photo dashboards, a vidphone, and a variety of ostentatious trinkets purchased in foreign countries by distant relatives. An elderly woman was sitting on the couch, facing them. Sitting next to her was a young woman.
“Looks like somebody still remembers the old bitch,” Jango purred. The head nurse eyed him with distaste.
Icarus cringed and glanced at the teeming body of reporters. “Shall we say hello?” he suggested brightly, eyebrows raised in Marcellus' direction.
A look of disgust spread over Marcellus' face. “I hate old people,” he whispered harshly.
Icarus smiled for the cameras. “It will look great!” he spat through his teeth.
“You want to go inside?” The head nurse looked shocked.
“The Secretary wishes to offer words of encouragement,” Icarus told her.
The reporters, standing not far away, buzzed excitedly.
The head nurse was not convinced. “Shouldn't we ask her first?”
“Nonsense!” proclaimed Icarus, already pressing against the transparent material with his hands. “It will be delightful! The Secretary just loves the elderly!”
One of Jango's goons shoved Icarus out of the way and started padding down the transparent curtain. It gave slightly under the blows. In a very short time she discovered an opening and burst inside.
“Yes, yes,” Marcellus muttered absently, watching as the young woman sitting next to Ms. Tillman leaped to her feet. “My grandparents were old people.”
Icarus grabbed Marcellus' forearm and pulled him through the transparent curtain. Jango and some of the goons followed.
The first thing that struck Marcellus was that inside the bubble the ambient light was normal, not monstrously blue. The second thing that struck Marcellus was that the young woman was upset. The third thing that struck Marcellus was that Ms. Tillman seemed to be attached to the wall by a set of thin, plastic tubes.
“Yes, yes, Ms. Bodegaard,” Icarus said impatiently. “We'll take good care of her. Don't you worry.” Icarus' eyes were searching for Jango's. At his cue, one of the goons took hold of the young woman and started dragging her unceremoniously towards the exit. “Just a few moments with your lovely mother. That's all we ask.”
“I'm her granddaughter!” the young woman cried out.
“I wouldn't resist,” Jango advised her coolly. “It only excites them.”
“We will be careful with her!”
The young woman was swallowed by the transparent curtain. The reporters piled into the room after her. Ms. Tillman, wearing a light green dress with a generic, flowery print, was frowning at all the commotion. Someone knocked over a coffee table, spilling a pile of magazines onto the floor. “You're making a mess!” she complained bitterly, thrusting her hands uselessly into the air.
Jango grunted at the old woman. She curled her lower lip in his direction.
Icarus smiled. “Not at all, Ms. Tillman!” he crowed, approaching with a finger wagging. “Secretary Gyges wanted to drop in and say hello. Isn't that wonderful?”
“I don't know who he is!” she shouted. “What have you done with my granddaughter?”
“Mr. Gyges is a member of the government. Don't you watch any intercasts on the link?”
“Of course I do! I like the ones where they make the condemned criminals fight to the death.”
Jango and Marcellus burst out laughing. Icarus, however, was not amused. “Secretary Gyges is in charge of the environment. Wouldn't you like to say something to him? Maybe you have a favorite tree?”
“The government?” Ms. Tillman frowned as if the notion were just beginning to sink in. “Someone from the government. Here?”
Icarus looked relieved and glanced in the direction of the reporters. “Yes, Ms. Tillman. He's a friend of the President's.”
“Who? Samuel Judas Epstein? That useless cur is no President!” She shook her head as if the President ought to be ashamed of himself.
“Really? What is he then?”
“He's a damned dictator! That's what!” Dead silence fell across the room. “Freemocracy,” she muttered to herself. “What's that? I remember the United States of America! I don't know what a freemocracy is. Unless it's everybody being afraid to say what she really thinks. Living in one world and believing in another. I can remember before General Murroughs was President! People talked straight then.”
Icarus blinked slowly. “Is that so, Ms. Tillman? They don't talk straight any more?”
“No!” sneered the old woman, her face twisted in contempt. “Nowadays people learn first what they're supposed to say, and then they repeat it over and over again like monkeys!”
“Monkeys don't talk.”
“Look at yourself. Not the best looking man – I mean, you know that, don't you? Not stupid, either. And here you are, posing for tonight's cast. Don't you think there's better things to do with your time?”
“Like what, Ms. Tillman?”
“Preserving water! Volunteering in a hospital! Raising a family! You don't have a family, do you?”
“No.”
“Well what are you waiting for?”
“I want to avoid growing old with a woman who ends up just like you.”
Ms. Tillman paused long enough to draw a breath. “Well fuck you, sonny.” Then she turned to her wider audience and continued, clearly enjoying herself. She hadn't had so much attention in years. “I can remember when Rhode Island declared independence. Murroughs called a state of emergency and cancelled the elections.” She looked up at Marcellus proudly. “They didn't do anything about it for a long time because no one could find it on a map.”
“Oh, you little devil, you!” Eddie's voice flooded the room.
Where did he come from? Marcellus wondered even as he watched him approach with long strides, projecting a smile far too big for his face. “You've got it all wrong! Rhode Island never declared independence. Who told you that? And you can't possibly remember when the Lady of the Country became President. Ah, bless her name. It was too long ago! Even for you.”
“Yes they did!” Ms. Tillman insisted, eyes narrowing and hands drawing into little, withered fists. “I know what I remember, young man. I'm not senile, you know. Are you with the damned government, too?”
“I'm someone who makes sure other people don't get into trouble.” He winked at her jovially.
Ms. Tillman looked slyly back at him. “You're an informer.”
“I'm a protector,” he told her, although far less jovially. “I look after people.”
Marcellus stretched his arms. “Icarus!” he called out. “Shouldn't we get going?” Craning his neck, he shouted, “It was nice meeting you, Ms. Tillman!”
Ms. Tillman smiled. “Thank you.”
Eddie gestured to one of the goons. “She's coming with us.”
“Who is?” Jango asked, ears perking up, thumbs hooked into his belt.
“The old woman,” Eddie said. The voice was ice cold.
Marcellus raised his eyebrows. “What do you mean?”
“You heard what she said!” Eddie's eyebrows leaped about his forehead. “We all did! It was un-American.”
Jango and Icarus drew closer. “What's the problem?” Icarus asked, brushing some lint off his dark jacket.
“That woman – ” Eddie began, turning around and pointing, but Marcellus cut him off.
“He wants to arrest her.” He turned to Jango and frowned.
“She's a traitor!” Eddie insisted, eyes flashing.
“She's an old woman,” Marcellus said. “She can't do any harm.”
“A traitor is a traitor!”
“Well, traitor or not, you're not taking her. Not even to Cuba.”
“The suits are my mods,” Jango told Eddie squarely, licking his lips. “They do what I say.”
Eddie was about to respond, but Marcellus didn't want to hear it. After all, he was a Secretary in the Cabinet of the Lord of the Americas. Thrusting his mind out and focusing it on Eddie, he said definitively: “You will leave Ms. Tillman alone and you will not bother her again.”
Jango smiled darkly.
A surprised look spread across Eddie's face. “She could be a mod!” he choked, pushing the words gruffly from his throat.
“No,” Marcellus said. “She's not.”
“There are a lot of people walking around out there who don't know they're mods!”
“You heard what I said.”
Eddie's face twisted in anger. “I'm telling on you!” he snarled and stormed out of the room.
Jango slapped him jovially on the back as he watched him leave. “Good going.”
It was then Marcellus noticed Ms. Tillman's face was turning blue. She gaped helplessly like a fish out of water. One of the goons was standing obliviously on one of the plastic tubes that fed from the wall into her back. Crying out, Marcellus rushed over and shoved the confused brute backwards.
Ms. Tillman spent a few minutes recovering. “Where's my granddaughter?” she finally managed to rasp.
“Outside,” Icarus replied disinterestedly, glancing at his watch.
When they stepped into the limousine, Marcellus sank into the comfortable, black leather seat, blew out a long sigh of relief, and was about to ask for a strong drink. Jango was already reaching towards the mini-cooler. Across from them sat Icarus, looking slightly confused at the person next to him. He wanted to say something, but he found that he couldn't. The only sound was the slow humming of the opaque panel rising over the bullet-proof glass set between the driver's compartment and their own.
Four goons climbed in and took their places at the ends of each row of seats. The doors descended after them, slamming shut with a muffled thud. There was a sonorous click as they locked. It was then that Marcellus noticed the person sitting next to Icarus. The goons, too, seemed to activate at exactly the same moment. Roaring hideously, they lunged forward from all corners. But the instant they laid a hand upon his person, they dropped like bricks to the floor, unconscious.
The view to the driver's compartment was now completely obscured. They could hear the front doors open and several people shouting excitedly. Someone was trying frantically to open the doors to the passengers' compartment.
Jango sat poised, eyes wide open and alert, staring in Marcellus' direction as if for orders. Marcellus, for his part, folded his arms and stared at their unwanted guest.
“Hi,” it said. “Remember me?”
“Running more errands for your master?” Marcellus asked dryly.
The Chief Acolyte snorted. “One must learn to obey before one learns to command.”
Marcellus' eyes narrowed. “Unlock the doors,” he ordered, thrusting as much of himself as he could in the Chief Acolyte's direction.
The Chief Acolyte winced – and he refused! His breathing grew belabored. Beads of sweat broke out on his face, but a triumphant look accompanied them. The Chief Acolyte like a vampire began at once to extended his thin fingers in Marcellus' direction, hissing quietly.
“Back off!” Marcellus shouted, throwing himself into the surprisingly soft, leather seat. The intensity of the appeal was overwhelming.
The Chief Acolyte was forced to acquiesce. He, too, leaned back into his seat and considered their exchange, pursing his lips.
“He didn't do what you said,” Jango remarked.
“He backed down, didn't he?”
“He didn't unlock the doors,” Icarus pointed out.
“Shut up, Icarus,” Jango replied automatically.
“Someone is training you,” the Chief Acolyte remarked dourly, wringing his hands under the folds of his robe.
Marcellus laughed. “Judas, you mean? Yeah, well, he's showing me a trick or two.”
The Chief Acolyte chewed fiercely on his lower lip. Then, as if reaching some kind of conclusion, he shrugged and leaned back, suddenly smiling. The hood fell back and his face was clearly visible. Bony, hairless, and underweight, the hollows of his eyes were deep and unpleasant. “I just wanted to drop by and check up on your progress.”
Marcellus wasn't sure how to respond. “Okay.” He glanced at his friends. Jango's fierceness seemed to be battling his disgust. The two emotions contested each other valiantly for dominance of his face. Icarus, though, was suspicious. He shook his head as if in subtle warning.
The Chief Acolyte rolled his eyes. “Oh, you people are so simple!” He jutted his chin in Icarus' direction. “That one thinks he's so smart.”
Marcellus grimaced. “Why are you in such a good mood?”
“Because things are proceeding just wonderfully!” He smiled again, teeth flashing.
“Yes, they are. For us, I mean.”
The Chief Acolyte's eyes widened. “Really? But you're not using the ring anywhere near as much as you should. It comes across to us as a – weakness.” He folded his hands under the long sleeves of his robes and looked at Marcellus as if he pitied him.
Marcellus stifled a condescending laugh. “What do you care if I'm using it or not?”
“We don't. Of course, if you manage to loose it, we would be very interested in influencing what happens to it next.”
“He's not going to loose it,” Jango snarled.
“Ah,” murmured the Chief Acolyte. “Your dog has teeth.”
Icarus let out a heavy breath of air. “Listen, is this all he came for? Because we have a better way to spend our time.”
Marcellus thought it was an excellent observation. He cocked his head to one side and peered at the Chief Acolyte, eyebrows raised expectantly.
The Chief Acolyte sneered. “I didn't come here merely to taunt you,” he explained, “although it's an added benefit.” As he spoke, his eyes seemed to draw Marcellus inward. At first the effect was slight. Time seemed to slow down and the Chief Acolyte's pupils seemed to grow larger. As the sensation gathered momentum, he began to feel as though he were actually moving, sliding inexorably toward them. Try as he might, he found he could not look away. “Use the ring.”
The eyes were compelling. They filled Marcellus' entire world. Two huge, fathomless pits surrounded by a porous, glassy, grey-green material streaked with fire-red and black, and around them whites flowing off into the infinite distance.
Use the ring. Yes, he thought to himself. It seemed like a perfectly reasonable idea. Why hadn't he thought of it before?
Icarus was growing uncomfortable. He saw the Chief Acolyte staring fixedly into Marcellus' eyes, and as the moments passed in silence he saw Marcellus slowly begin to slump.
“Hey,” he murmured. He tapped Marcellus lightly on the arm. When that engendered no response, he gave him a light shove. “Marcellus!” There was no reaction. Leaning urgently over, he caught Jango's attention.
“What?” Jango said irritably.
“Do something!”
Jango frowned. “Do what?”
On an impulse, Marcellus decided to reach out. He passed through the pupils and into desolate night. There was nothing to see, blackness all around. But there were feelings! And thoughts, too. In that tiny instant, he was battered by a storm and a heavy wind. He was being tossed about on an open sea, and each wave that knocked into him was a thought or an emotion. They came and went so quickly, it was almost impossible to catch the meaning or essence of any particular one before another was upon him. But one thing was certain: Epstein was in danger.
“Can't you see what's happening?” Icarus gestured at Marcellus. “Look! He's doing something to him. Block his eyes!”
Jango didn't seem to understand.
“Just block his eyes, you big oaf! Do it or it'll be your fault!”
Slowly, Jango reached forward and carefully covered Marcellus' eyes.
The reaction was instantaneous. Snarling, Marcellus lunged forward. “I'll kill you!” Every muscle was taught. His vital being was burning. His mental potential was focused on one thing: tearing down the protections that now prevented him from reaching that vain, flexible mind. He knew it well. He wanted in. This time he would tear it down, banish its owner into the infinite depths of insanity. He knew he could do it, if only he could get back in there...
The Chief Acolyte sensed the danger. Squeezed against the seat of the limousine, huddling in his ever-shrinking bubble of safety, he was gasping for breath. It was an effort to blink. After a brief struggle, he managed to get a grip on himself. He pushed Marcellus' snarling visage from his attention and gathered his own strength. Almost instantly, the light dropped to nothing.
They were bathed in a darkness so thick they felt it covering them like satin.
“Marcellus?” The voice was Icarus'. It trembled slightly.
After a moment, Marcellus replied. “Yes?”
“What happened to the lights?”
As if prompted by the question, they returned. The Chief Acolyte was gone. The doors were open and bright sunlight poured into the interior. Several tall, stocky figures were outlined, peering intently but cautiously inside at the goons lying inert on the floor. Marcellus shielded his eyes.
Voices jostled excitedly with one another. “What happened?” someone barked.
Marcellus shook his head. He felt calm but very tired. “Just get us back to the compound.”
“It was a number one performance!” Epstein swooned, inadvertently spitting bits of food from his mouth. “Couldn't have done it better myself!” Epstein's eyes smiled brilliantly. With huge strokes, he brandished a leg bone at the others around the table. A hunk of meat still clung to it. “Have to come straight with you, son,” he admitted, leaning over confidentially and lowering his voice. “Didn't think you had it in you.”
They were sitting in the living room of the Epsteins' private residence. It was a large room with high ceilings and a chandelier composed of hundreds of tiny, crystalline orbs, all of which were shining dimly. Together, they cast a clear but soft illumination across the long, rectangular table at which they had gathered. There was a seven-pronged candleholder at the center of the table. Seven long, red candles had been lit in an unfamiliar, religious rite before they sat down to eat. Lording over the entire room was a gargantuan portrait of President Murroughs, Lady of the Country, founder of the freemocracy. She was wearing a long, white, flowing dress, similar to the attire most people expect of angels. In one hand she held the scales of justice and in the other a long, curving sword, point buried steadfastly in the ground. Her expression was gallant and severe.
Epstein sat at one of the short ends, propped up in a special chair by a pile of cushions. He was dressed somewhat formally: a dark suit and pants and polished, black shoes. A long, mostly white, splotched napkin was tucked into the top of his shirt. Occasionally he used it to wipe his mouth. Clipped to the top of his wild mane of red hair was a little black cap and – most remarkable of all! thought Marcellus – the locks of hair that fell nearest his temples were neatly braided.
Jewel sat at the other end, ignoring the dishes arrayed in front of her and keeping an eye on what was going on. She was wearing a brilliantly colorful dress, exploding with reds and oranges and yellows. Her eyes were painted. Embracing her neck and showing stunningly in the light of the chandelier was a necklace of what must have been diamonds – not just one diamond or a single row of them, but five rows laid one atop the other of the huge, dazzling stones.
Marcellus was seated in the middle of one of the long sides of the table. Next to him in the direction of his mother was Davey, Epstein's adopted son. He was fat and wore loose clothes in a vain effort to hide it. He slouched so low in his chair he was practically sliding off. A baseball cap was pulled over his eyes. Absently, he picked at his plate with a loosely held fork. Marcellus guessed he had popped some pills before dinner.
On the long side of the table across from Marcellus, wedged closer to Epstein than Jewel, was Betty. Her hair was neatly combed and her maid's outfit had been exchanged for an elegant, grey dress with exposed shoulders and a low cut in the front. Her naked breasts poured through the opening, pressed somewhat together. She was wearing make-up, but only slight accentuations here and there. The long earrings and slim, silver necklace were nondescript. For the first time, she seemed to Marcellus very much a woman – someone's mother perhaps – and not merely a compliment to Epstein's daily routine. Marcellus noticed that she didn't say much under Jewel's ever watchful gaze. She was, however, eating with gusto, trying something from all the platters that came around and consistently complimenting the cook.
She was humming, too. The music playing in the background was some kind of classical composition, apparently well known to afficionados of the sort. The high-pitched screeching, though, put Marcellus on edge. That, and the tension flowing unimpeded between these four people. Marcellus was put out by the whole affair. He was put out by Epstein's attire. He was put out by Jewel's rigid silence. He was put out by Betty's breasts. And most of all, he was put out by Davey. Of all the people at the table, Marcellus felt the most in common with Epstein's son, and he didn't even like him.
Epstein chuckled to himself. “Marcellus Hawkeye!” That's what they were calling him. It had been all over the link. Together they had watched some of the intercasts before dinner. “The moment you saved that old woman's life, you bought the hearts of millions of Americans. Not that it's hard,” he added with a friendly wink. “They've put them up for sale at bargain prices!”
“Yeah, well, I really wish you'd do something about Eddie. You send him out with us every time I leave the compound. I don't like him.”
Epstein shot him a hot glance out of the corner of his eye. “Don't get all bothered up over Eddie. He was doing his job, that's all. I've already had a word with him about it.”
“Did you have something to do with it, dear?” Jewel asked, her voice curiously neutral.
Epstein scowled. “Do with what? ”
“That name.”
“You make it sound like I got my fingers in every apple pie from here to Saskatchewan!”
“Well did you?”
“Of course not! These kinds of things you can't control. They've got a life of their own.”
Betty put down her fork. “Well I think it's a wonderful name, Red. Even if you didn't make it up.”
“Makes me look good is what it does,” Epstein said proudly, putting down his leg bone. It had been stripped bare. “Shows I know how to pick my cattle.”
“Glad I could help,” Marcellus said glumly and glanced over at Jewel. She was staring intensely back at him.
“Can I go now?” Davey asked dreamily, looking over at his mother.
A dark look crossed Epstein's face. “Not until you finish your peas!”
At first, Marcellus wasn't sure what was wrong with that sentence. But just as one of the side doors popped open and the server entered, pushing her silver cart loaded with steaming trays, he remembered. There were no peas.
Marcellus had heard rumors on the link that Epstein had stolen Jewel from his future Chief of Staff, General Margolis. This would have happened during the political uncertainty that followed the death of President Jimenez. The Congress under Bessus and Gessus was ready to declare Epstein the new President, but there was a pretender in their own ranks. Marcellus couldn't remember the name, but he knew that Margolis supported him. And Margolis was in control of an army stationed just over the border in Mexico, not to mention half the satellites and weapon systems orbiting the planet and the moon. One night, Margolis and Jewel were hiding out in a farm somewhere in West Virginia. Epstein's soldiers were onto them and had surrounded the place. Jewel and her husband were protected from the infrared and heat-sensing gear, but their newborn infant son was with them. The soldiers were searching the basement when the infant started crying. No one knows what happened, but in a matter of days Margolis declared for Epstein, the pretender was dead, and Epstein was married to the enchanting Jewel.
Marcellus peered at Davey. If there was any truth to the stories, he must have been that child. “Judas,” he asked slowly, a slight frown creeping over his face, “how did you become President exactly?”
The woman pushing the tray drew closer to the table. Woman? She could hardly have been twenty. She was wearing a short miniskirt, fishnet stockings, and – it was obvious to everyone – no underwear. Her pussy had a thin line of hair running next to each lip. A cute little hat sat perched atop her head. Whenever Epstein glanced at her, she giggled sweetly.
“Still hungry?” she purred as the cart came to a stop, wriggling her slim body for his delight.
“Very,” Epstein replied and licked his lips.
Marcellus glanced uncomfortably in Jewel's direction. Every time the girl came with the cart, she pretended not to notice. Now she was leaning in Davey's direction, whispering to him in earnest. Marcellus couldn't hear what she was saying. Davey, for his part, didn't appear to be aware of anything. He sat as still as a turtle.
“What will we be having?” the girl chirped gaily.
“Fruit,” Epstein demanded. There was a deep, throaty tone to his voice that Marcellus had never heard before.
“Grapes?” The girl giggled.
Betty had put down her fork and was gently picking her teeth with a long, fine, silver pin. She was staring at the young girl with stony eyes. After a moment, she put down the pin and adjusted her breasts. “Red?”
“Yes, dear?” Epstein replied, distracted, as he invited the young girl onto his lap.
“Marcellus asked you a question.”
“In a minute.”
The girl was shaking her head and smiling naughtily. Everything about her body language was silky and tantalizing.
Betty folded her hands under the table and raised her voice. “You're eating dinner, Red. Fuck the girl later.”
Marcellus almost choked. Jewel pretended not to have heard. Davey, though, let out a huge, unabashed sigh. “You do realize my mother's at the table, don't you?”
“What?” Epstein looked around as if trying to get his bearings. Suddenly, glaring in his son's direction, he snapped, “You don't say much, Dave, but when you do I wish you'd keep your clam shut.”
Davey snickered. “You're always talking. You never shut up. But you're fucking President, so we have to put up with it.”
“That's right!” Epstein hollered as the girl with the cart withdrew. “And you'd do well to keep it in mind!”
Davey snorted. He sounded oddly enough like his step-father. “What's it matter, anyway? This asshole here is going to whack me when you're gone.” Marcellus was astonished to see Davey jerking his head in his direction.
Jewel touched her brilliant necklace. “No one is going to whack you, Davey.”
“You never even asked me if I wanted to be President. You just passed me over. You hate me!”
Epstein angrily pushed away his plate. “Draw your furrow straighter, boy. We talked about this a long time ago. Didn't we, precious?”
Jewel looked grim. “You wouldn't last, dear. They'd slit your throat.”
“And he'll do any better?” Again, Davey jerked his head derisively in Marcellus' direction.
Epstein laughed suddenly. “Well, Dave, you're not doing yourself any favors putting on airs this way.” He winked in Marcellus' direction.
“It's not funny!” Davey screamed and jumped up from his chair. He strode up to a different door than the one the girl with the cart had used. He brushed his hip up against it but nothing happened. Turning on his heels, he demanded, “Open it.”
At first, Epstein did nothing. Jewel, though, threw a sharp look in her husband's direction and mouthed something inaudible to him. Grumbling, Epstein acquiesced.
Davey, though, had something else to say. “Betty!” he called out loudly. “Don't bother coming to my room tonight. I'll be too drunk!” And with that, he stormed out.
A slight smile touched Betty's face as she returned Epstein's soft glare. “You showing him the ropes?” he asked.
“I thought you knew about it, Red.”
“I knew about it,” Jewel stated quite matter-of-factly.
Epstein wasn't sure how to respond.
Betty shrugged. “I'll stop if that's what you want.”
“No, that's alright, Betty,” Jewel said smugly, looking at her husband.
Epstein fumed. “I'm the boss dog around here!” A balled fist thumped the table. “I'll make the decisions!”
Jewel's eyes widened as she held her husband's gaze. “Well, dear, if you want me to bring you a copy of the wash list each time we draw it up...”
Epstein frowned. “What's that supposed to mean?”
“You take care of affairs of state, but this is my house.”
Epstein held her gaze a moment before his ire melted into a cynical chuckling. Turning to Marcellus, he said, “You'd think she was a housewife or something.” He leaned back in his chair and tore the napkin from his chest. “She has political meetings, too, you know. Not with Bessus or Vassily, of course. She wouldn't dare. But she does with their wives. Their lovers. Who knows how much dirt she has on everyone here. Who knows what she extracts from them in return.” He threw the napkin onto the table. “We rule the Americans, Marcellus,” Epstein told him wisely, patting his pockets for his pipe. “But our wives rule us.”
“I don't have a wife,” Marcellus told him.
“Well you better get one! Americans like that kind of thing.”
“Everything I do is in our best interests,” Jewel told her husband matter-of-factly.
Epstein grunted but otherwise didn't respond.
They sat in silence. No one was eating. The classical music played on in the background. Epstein, frowning, continued to pat himself down.
Finally, Betty told him, “You left it in your study.”
“I did?” He flashed a smile at her. “Thanks, sweetie.”
Jewel coughed uncomfortably. Epstein ignored her.
“You asked me a question, son?” Epstein said, standing up.
It took a few moments before Marcellus realized he was being spoken to. “I did?” He had been keeping track of Jewel out of the corner of his eye. She seemed to be the only one who noticed.
“Yes, you did. You wanted to know what I did to become President.”
“Oh yeah.” Marcellus coughed.
“Get up, son,” Epstein suggested absently, pulling the pins from his hair and throwing the tiny, black cap on the table, “and come with me.”
“Where are you going?” Jewel asked.
Epstein grunted. “Like you care. Don't you have to run off to see the wife of the Central Administrator?”
Jewel smiled coolly at him. “Interest rates don't stay low by themselves.”
Epstein looked up towards the ceiling. “Yes, well, you know more about it than I do.” Then, turning to Marcellus, he said, “There used to be bread riots. In the beginning. When the bombs will still going off in malls and arenas, there were shortages of all kinds. Do you remember? I have to say, I wouldn't have managed it if it weren't for my lovely Jewel.”
Marcellus tilted his head and stared penetratingly in Epstein's direction.
“What?” Epstein asked, spreading his hands innocently.
Now it was Betty's turn to chuckle. She stood up and stretched her back. Her little breasts pointed straight up into the air. “Red, you're a hoot, don't you know it? How the gods ever packed so much charm into that little body of yours, I'll never know.”
“You think I don't appreciate my wife?” He was looking intently at Betty, then shifted his gaze to Marcellus.
“No one said that,” Marcellus pointed out.
“Oh, you're being mealy-mouthed. Both of you!” He gazed imperiously around the room, pretending to be offended. “Come on,” he muttered gruffly at Marcellus. “Help me find my pipe.”
Marcellus stood up. Now Jewel was the only one sitting. She was tapping her fingers on the finished wood of the table, thinking.
Epstein started towards the wall behind the chair where he had sat. Marcellus quickly fell in behind him. “You got the rest of the night off?” he asked Betty.
“The Russian ambassador is arriving tomorrow. We have to make the necessary arrangements.”
Epstein grunted. “It's not the ambassador. They sent some lowly functionary. They haven't forgiven me for refusing to meet President Illianovich in person when he landed in Washington last month. He knows how I feel about coming to the aerodrome. He was welcome to stop here. His plane would have fit. They made it to fit his ego, you know.” Epstein face bunched up as he tasted the insult once again. He reached into his pocket and pulled out his PA. He made a note. “Betty,” he announced suddenly, “take the night off.”
“Thanks, Red.” She got up to leave.
Epstein returned the PA to his pocket and put his hand against the wall. Instantly, the outline of a door appeared and popped open. Just before slipping inside, he barked, “And stop molesting my son!”
Jewel smiled. “Samuel, the boy is almost seventeen.”
“He's got quite an appetite, Red,” Betty added mischievously.
“I don't want to hear about it!” Epstein shouted. He slipped into the darkened corridor. Marcellus, throwing a last, unanswered glance at Jewel still sitting at the table, followed silently.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.