Marcellus opened his eyes. Staring back at him in the dimness was a pretty girl he vaguely recognized. Her face was mere centimeters away. She looked tired and annoyed. “What?” Marcellus asked grumpily, rubbing his eyes.
“You were snoring awfully loud.”
“Did I wake you?”
She rolled over and showed him the narrow lines of her back. Marcellus stared at it emptily for a moment. She must be tired, he thought to himself. How much did we drink last night? He wasn't sure, but it was a lot. The sex hadn't been very good, either. They had groped each other sloppily and it took him a long time to cum. She never came at all.
Marcellus threw the covers back and slid his legs to the floor. His feet glided automatically into his slippers and he stood up. Familiar objects loomed at him from the dimness as he shambled slowly through the apartment. He didn't request the lights because he didn't want to disturb the girl. What was her name again? Marcellus pondered the question as he made his way to the kitchen. He found the Drink-O-Matic and pressed the button for cool water.
Carlotta, he told himself. That was her name. He had borrowed her from Gessus at the party last night. Oh yes, the party. He rubbed his forehead. Is that why he felt so badly?
Bessus and Gessus had followed him around gleefully pressing mixed drinks into his hands. Vassily, too, had been egging him on. Each time he had protested, and each time less convincingly. After a while they had settled by the roulette table. He had lost quite a lot of credits, if he remembered correctly, but he didn't mind – he had an ample budget – and anyway, that's when he met Carlotta.
Settling down into a chair by the kitchen table, Marcellus couldn't help but smile. He actually enjoyed the parties Epstein hosted, even if the top dog himself rarely put in an appearance. Sonya, too, was absent, but that was to be expected. She disapproved of such things.
Jennifer and Icarus hadn't made much of an effort to speak to anyone. Tina Martinez, though, seemingly oblivious to their mood, had chirped brightly at them for a while. Sipping on a white wine spritzer, she gossiped happily about the staff (especially Betty), but eventually Jennifer said something rude to her and she backed off. Later on the two of them slipped off together unnoticed.
Vassily had spent a good part of the evening chatting up Maya. Sipping quietly on a caipirinha, she had let him do most of the talking. Marcellus wondered vaguely what they could possibly have to talk about.
The Dutchman had remained aloof in the corner, sipping soda water. No one seemed to notice, though, because hardly anyone said a word to him the entire evening except Jango. He amused himself by sauntering over and making obnoxious comments of the kind the Dutchman was surely not to like. When he had bored of the Dutchman's stoic facade, he tried Harvey Cash.
“Not a bad bloke,” Jango told Marcellus afterwards, his breath stinking heavily of cheap, American beer. The champagne didn't interest him, nor the Kentucky bourbons, nor the single malt scotches, not even the Irish whiskeys, rare treasures which on the outside were the stuff of grandparents' fond memories. Absinthe tasted too much like licorice, rum was too sweet, and Campari was for grandmothers. Women drank cocktails and faggots liked to pour imported beers into a cooled glass. Jango was the only one at the party who was drinking cheap, American beer of the kind that could be found in any corner bar on the outside. They had stocked it especially for him.
“He looks boring,” Jango admitted, thrusting the can in Harvey Cash's direction. Some of the flat, brown liquid splashed over the side. “He looks fucking retarded actually. But he's got a castle in the sim. He kidnaps children and locks them up in a dungeon underground and has his way with them.” Jango observed the Secretary of State, who kept pulling up his ill-fitting pants, admiringly. “He wouldn't tell me how to get there or how to get in. But one day he will, Marcellus. One day he will.”
Marcellus looked disgusted. “No one gets hurt, do they?”
Jango shrugged. “You know there are no prisoners in the sim. You can get out of the sim anytime you want.” A broad smile clambered over his face. “Oh, c'mon Marcellus, don't pretend. You know exactly how the sim works.” He nudged his mate in the ribs and gulped down some more cheap, American beer.
“Icarus says they conduct interrogations in the sim.”
“Yeah, well, fuck Icarus and anything he says.”
Marcellus wasn't sure how long he had been listening to it when he became aware of a soft, slithering noise coming from somewhere above. He looked up. Suspended in the gloom he could see the plain, white, panelled ceiling. There was nothing else to see. Still, there it was. The scraping was almost directly above him, and it was heading out of the kitchen and into the narrow hallway that connected it to the living room. Mesmerized, Marcellus stood up and, head craned back, started to follow it.
It led him through the hallway and on towards the bedrooms. Whatever it was, it moved slowly. Marcellus could follow with baby steps. By the time he entered the hallway that fed into the bedrooms, a quarter of an hour must have gone by.
The slithering abruptly stopped. Marcellus stood just outside the entrance to the room where he had been sleeping. The door was cracked. He pushed it silently open. Carlotta lay still in the bed, her back exposed. She was breathing gently. She must be sleeping, Marcellus thought to himself. He glanced upwards. Nothing. Nothing except the soft green warning light glowing dimly above the door.
He looked upon Carlotta once again. And as he did, something remarkable happened. A narrow beam of intense, pink light sprung from the ceiling just inside the doorway, pierced the air, and struck Carlotta in the back of the head. It cut a quick path down to the back of her neck and was gone.
Marcellus blinked. The intensity of the beam in the darkness left a glowing ribbon hanging in his vision. What was it anyway? Carlotta hadn't reacted, whatever it was. She still lay there, fast asleep.
And then he smelt it. It was the crisp smell of burnt meat.
Marcellus lurched, leaned over, and loudly threw up. He threw out an arm and gripped the side of the doorway for support.
There were sudden, muffled noises above him. He heard surprise in those movements, alarm even. Focusing his mind, he ignored his stomach and threw him body onto the floor of the hallway. Just in time. The narrow, pink beam burst from the ceiling above where he had been standing. It flit across the carpet. A slight smoke arose. The smell of burnt flesh was now grotesquely mingled with that of melted, synthetic fibers.
If only he could repress the irresistible urge to vomit, if only he could find his voice, he could command the assassin to stand down and show himself.
Maybe the assassin, whoever he or she was, knew this. The banging and pounding above him began to move off. Not the way they had come, but over the bedroom and towards the far wall. By the time Marcellus gained control of himself, the assassin had already crossed over into the next apartment. If he had run to the far wall he might still have been able to make himself understood, but Carlotta's smoking body repulsed him. He glanced into the room. She was lying there just as he'd left her, back exposed. He strained but he could no longer hear her breathing. Marcellus knew if he turned on the lights he would find a dark, bloodless slit cutting through the lower half of her head.
For a time, Marcellus remained on the floor, unable to do anything. Thoughts tumbled uselessly through his mind. He still felt like puking.
There could be more of them, he thought. Maybe there's someone else inside the apartment.
He strained to hear.
Inside the bedroom, the warning light still burned green.
Jango burst through the door, swinging his head anxiously from side to side like a charging elephant. His breathing was belabored. The whites of his eyes were bloodshot, his skin pale and sweaty. Precious darted between his legs and then circled back to the door. The black and white husky had grown considerably over the last few months. Following closely were Jennifer and Icarus. They immediately sought out opposite sides of the room. Precious trotted next to Jennifer, sniffing the air curiously. Maya, sitting in a comfortable chair in the corner, was already present. She observed them calmly.
Jango snorted obnoxiously and, with a quick glance down both ends of the corridor outside, pushed the door shut. “Where's Mark?” he gurgled, eyes bugging from his head.
“You on coke?” Maya asked casually, gently stroking the arm of the chair she was in.
“Here I am,” Marcellus said, loitering in the entrance to the hallway. “Carlotta's still lying in the bed.” His voice shook slightly.
“Let me see,” Jango insisted and took off.
“You okay?” Jennifer asked gently and approached. She seemed genuinely concerned. Stopping next to him, she brushed his cheek with the backside of a hand.
“Yeah,” Marcellus murmured. He closed his eyes as she stroked him. “No.” He opened them again. “Somebody just tried to kill me.”
Icarus sat down on the floor. “Yeah, well, I'm surprised it didn't happen sooner.”
“You're full of shit,” Jennifer sneered, dropping her arm and turning on him. “You pretend you know everything.”
Icarus shrugged. “Everyone here wants him dead. That's a fact.”
Marcellus let out a disgusted breath of air. “What do you think, Maya?”
Maya studied him a moment. “Are you asking me what to do? You go out there and you find Epstein and you make him tell you if he's behind this. If he isn't, I'm sure he knows who is.”
“Vassily,” Icarus insisted.
Maya shrugged. “It could be any of them. The point is, you have to take decisive action.” Her eyes hardened slightly. “You might have to take power tonight, Marcellus. Are you ready?”
“Slit his fucking throat, Mark.” The voice was Jango's and it came from behind. Marcellus jumped. Jango stepped out from the hallway and moved to the center of the room. Precious ran up and sniffed his leather pants briefly. “You use the ring and you make one of his guards do it.”
Jennifer shivered. “I never thought it would happen like this.”
“Look, Mark.” It was Icarus. His fingers tried to pick apart the strands of the carpet, but they were too short and too closely packed together. “What you've been doing – it's not working. Trying to make friends isn't working.”
“You're not really going to kill anyone, are you, Markie?” Jennifer squatted and snapped her fingers. Precious ran up to her and plopped down at her feet.
“Mark will do what he has to,” Maya told her plainly. “He needs us to help him. All of us. In any way we can. Whatever it is. You, too”
Jennifer was stroking Precious' belly. “Jesus Christ, Maya, do you realize what you're saying? We're out of our league!”
Maya shrugged. “You should have thought about that before.” She turned to Jango, eyebrows slightly raised. “You didn't bring any mods with you?”
“I don't trust them,” Jango told her, snorting violently again.
“We own them, Jango,” Icarus ejaculated, pounding the floor. “Who else are they going to take orders from?”
Jango's eyes narrowed. “Right now I don't trust anybody.”
Marcellus sank to the floor. “Not even the mods?”
“Good thinking, Jango!” Icarus shouted. “Right now we're sitting ducks.”
Stormclouds gathered on Jango's forehead. “If you think –”
“We're five sitting ducks now instead of just one!”
“Stop it!” The voice was Marcellus'. He had his head in his hands. The others stared at him. “Let me think.”
“Christ,” whimpered Jennifer, got up, and ran off to the kitchen. Precious remained where she was on the floor, panting loudly.
Marcellus didn't say anything for some time. Every once in a while Icarus looked over at him, peering intently through his thick, squarish glasses. He was growing anxious.
Jango, too, was anxious. After a minute or two of silence he started pacing the room. He strode back and forth like a caged lion.
“Would you stop that?” Maya demanded peevishly from her chair.
Jango stopped and glared at her.
“You're pacing,” Maya told him.
“I'm thinking!” Jango snapped back at her.
“Do you need your legs?”
“You rather I used my fists?”
Maya grunted, stood up, and followed after Jennifer.
Now it was Icarus who stood up. “It's morning already. We can't stay locked up in here forever, you know.”
Marcellus sighed. He was exhausted. “Yeah, I know.” He pursed his lips as he, too, climbed to his feet. He chuckled darkly. “Funny, isn't it? No one's come to see where I am.”
“You're supposed to be dead.”
Jennifer barged into the room. “Maya told me we're making a move,” she said urgently, playing nervously with her hair.
Jango turned around. “Did she now?”
Maya appeared behind Jennifer. “Have you made a decision?”
Jango was staring eagerly at the front door, rubbing his hands together. “Just give the word, Mark. We all know what needs to be done.”
Icarus eyed Jango warily. “Mark, I'll do whatever you tell me. But try and keep your ape under control, okay?”
Jango marched up to the front door. “Is it keyed up?” he asked, placing an eager hand against it.
Marcellus nodded his head. “Just to me.”
“Well, then,” Jango said, turning around and grinning widely. He snorted. “Get over here and let us out.”
Maya stood up. “Are we ready?”
“Uh, yeah,” Jennifer began and smiled sheepishly. “I was just wondering. Precious hasn't pottied in a few hours. You think we could stop by somewhere so I could let her out before we do anything – you know, dangerous?”
Tina Maria Sanchez Martinez, the dainty Secretary of Justice and the Interior, sat at her tiny desk in her tiny, little office, tiny hands folded neatly in front of her, and listened intently to the man addressing her. He did so with an air of desperation. A few meters to the side, sitting quietly in a chair, was his attorney.
The man spoke quickly but eloquently enough. Apparently he had been given enough time to practice his speech. His words were strengthened by the force of conviction. All the while his eyes searched for some sign of the effect they were having, some indication from the Secretary – good or bad – that might help steer his pleading. But the Secretary might as well have been playing a round of poker.
At length, he fell silent. Licking his lips, he settled back uneasily in his chair. He glanced over at his attorney. But it was clear, that man would be of no use to him today. And if not today, then never again.
Tina Martinez held his gaze a few moments before pursing her lips thoughtfully. She reached into a drawer and carefully drew out two candies wrapped in foil. One she offered to the condemned criminal in front of her. Uncertainly, he shook his head. Again he glanced at his attorney. Again he was confronted with the futility of the gesture.
Popping one of the candies in her mouth, the Secretary of the Interior placed the other among the shrine of cute little photographs and drawings on her desk. Her oversize coffee mug rested near the boxy, artistic ruminations of a four-year-old who favoured dark brown. Near it there was the imprint of a tiny hand below an apoplectic, yellow sun, framed in cheap, green plastic. Clustered around the drawings were a series of photographs. There was Tina Martinez, red dress, black pocketbook, high heels and all, sitting awkwardly on a blanket under a tree somewhere with her grandchildren arrayed about her. Other faces smiled and waved cheerfully at the condemned criminal. Along with a few withering plants and a vidphone, such memorabilia were the sole occupants of her desk.
At length, Tina Martinez cleared her throat. “Do you have children, Mr. – ” Her voice trailed off uncertainly.
“Taylor,” rasped the condemned criminal.
“Do you?”
He shook his head.
“Well, I really do recommend it. The rewards far outweigh the inconveniences.”
The law did not recognize the existence of freemocracy camps. When the wizards who managed the courts sentenced a criminal to prison, it was at the discretion of the district attorney whether or not he actually went there. Criminals deemed particularly dangerous to society were shipped off to freemocracy camps, in which case the term of the sentence was irrelevant. The term served at a freemocracy camp was invariably the same.
The law, of course, did provide for an appeals process. If facing time in a camp, the condemned criminal was faced with a difficult choice: appealing directly to the courts could result in a suspension of the sentence, but if it did not, there was no way to avoid the camp. Custom, however, provided another path for the condemned criminal's appeal: he could make an informal plea to the Secretary of Justice herself. Having no official power to alter sentences handed down by a sacred court of law, she did have the power to overrule the district attorney. A criminal who desperately wanted to avoid the camps, content to serve a lifetime chopping stone in the federal prison system, was very likely to do so.
The condemned criminal swallowed nervously.
Tina Martinez smiled at him reassuringly. “I see you are anxious.” She pursed her lips again. “Your expertise, criminal – although I understand nothing of it – is cryptography, and as has been made plain to you often enough in the past, your country needs talented cryptographers. You do realize, don't you, that our access to water, metals, and minerals on the moon depends upon the secrecy of our communications? I mean, just imagine, we find a huge hoard of copper somewhere and wire the information over the ether, and by the time our excavation team arrives, the Chinese are swarming all over it!” She rolled her eyes at him. “Personally, I find your lack of patriotism disturbing.”
The condemned criminal looked at her gravely. “I am not required to offer my services to anyone.”
Tina Martinez smiled at him. “True, true,” she agreed amiably. “But you wouldn't have come to our attention at all had you not broken into the National Rationing Service, hmmm?”
The condemned criminal grunted. “My neighbors in Pawtucket are starving. They are patriotic. They work sixty hours a week and have never reported ill. Anyway,” he scoffed, “you don't get sentenced to twenty years just for breaking into a secure location on the link.”
Tina Martinez shrugged. “Let's ask your attorney here, shall we?”
The condemned criminal snorted in disgust and threw himself back in his chair.
Tina Martinez turned to the man sitting next to the condemned criminal. “Do you object to the sentence passed on Mr. Taylor here, and if so, on what grounds? Speak up or forever hold your peace.”
The attorney – bound, gagged, and muzzled – looked helplessly back at her.
After a moment, Tina Martinez brought her hands together. “So you see, criminal, no objections have been made.” She cleared her throat and made a fine adjustment to one of the photographs on her desk. “The decision of the district attorney stands. We made you an offer and you rejected it. You are to proceed to a freemocracy camp immediately. Guards! Take him away.”
Two police agents armed with pistols each grabbed a forearm and hauled the condemned criminal into the air. Another one untied his attorney and yanked him roughly to his feet. Together they were dragged like sacks of potatoes towards the other end of the room.
The condemned criminal had spirit in him yet. He yanked his head about and faced the Secretary, the muscles of his neck stretched taut. His face was purple with rage. “I will never contribute my talents to this vile tyranny!” he snarled. “Never!”
One of the agents struck him hard on the back of the head with the butt of his pistol, and he went slack.
“That's why you're going to a freemocracy camp.” The Secretary of Justice rose. “Have a nice day!” she called after them and waved.
“Well then.” Tina Martinez sighed and glanced down. A long, paper chain with sparkles caught her eye, lying tangled like a snake among her other effects. “HAPPY BIRTHDAY GRANDMA” was written in loud, multi-colored letters, one on each link of the chain. Tina Martinez smiled.
She was about to sit back down when the light above the door to her office turned red. Frowning, she stared at it. She couldn't recall the last time that happened. Suddenly, the door itself burst open.
“Sonya!” Tina Martinez smiled warmly. “How nice to see you.” The smile on her face faltered. “Is something wrong?”
Sonya proceeded to the center of the room and stopped. Pouring in after her now were goons in black suits and sunglasses, Jango's mods. They spread out quickly along the walls, boxing them in. They were holding automatic rifles which they gripped expertly with both hands.
“What's going on?”
“They found me while I was eating breakfast,” Sonya told her disinterestedly. “Didn't even have time to do my hair.” Indeed, Sonya's multi-colored strands fell about her head in the usual way.
Tina Martinez looked at her sympathetically. “Who found you, dear?”
Jango entered the room and snorted loudly. His face twitched.
“Oh dear,” Tina Martinez breathed when she saw him. “You look awful.”
After him came Marcellus, eyes burning. He pushed past Jango, rushed past Sonya, and came to a stop on the other side of Tina Martinez' desk. The Secretary of the Interior scornfully returned his gaze. “What is the meaning of this?”
“Where is Judas?” Marcellus shot back. He slammed both hands on her desk and leaned forward. “Tell me where he is.”
Tina Martinez blinked. “I – I don't know,” she stammered. A tiny hand flew to her chest. “Oh dear.”
“No one knows!” Marcellus shouted, throwing his arms uselessly in the air. He turned and faced Jango. Maya, Jennifer, and Icarus had entered the room and were standing just inside the doorway. Icarus was exchanging words with someone. Jennifer stood by listening attentively.
“What's going on?” Tina Martinez demanded.
“Like you don't know,” Jango sneered.
Sonya jabbed a hooked thumb in Marcellus' direction. “Someone tried to kill him last night.”
“Vassily's disappeared into thin air,” Icarus reported. “No sign of the Dutchman, either.”
“Or Harvey Cash,” Jennifer added vindictively.
“Really?” One of Tina Martinez' eyebrows arched. “And you think Samuel had something to do with it?”
“Who else?” Icarus asked.
“Nothing happens around here without his nod,” Maya observed, leaning against the far wall. Completely relaxed, she was chewing absently on a biscuit.
“It could be anyone.” Sonya hadn't moved from the center of the room. “You're not very well liked around here, you know.”
Marcellus' eyes narrowed. “Was it you?” he snapped, taking a step in her direction. “Tell me the truth.”
Sonya shuddered. “God no,” she breathed.
“We're wasting valuable time, Mark,” Icarus warned, his voice low. “We've got to find Epstein. He's hiding.”
Sonya laughed. “Is that what you think?”
Icarus frowned. “He knows Mark is still alive.”
Sonya smiled mysteriously. “You are hardly a concern to the President or anyone else here for that matter.”
Tina Martinez shook her head disapprovingly. “Sonya, don't upset them any more than they already are.”
Sonya shrugged. “Let them shoot me, Tina, if that's what they're after.”
“Yes, well, I'm not surprised to hear you say it, dear. I, on the other hand, am not so particularly eager to die today.”
“That's not what I said. I said – ”
“We don't have time for petty philosophy!” It was Marcellus, and he was steaming mad.
“You don't have time, you mean.”
The two stood facing each other tensely. “You will accompany us,” Marcellus told her.
She winced. The eyebrow arched again. “Hostages?”
“If you like.” He placed his hands absently on the desk. One of them brushed up against a framed photograph. It fell over noisily.
They both stared at it. Reaching out a hand, Tina Martinez carefully picked it up and put it back into place. “Very well,” she said icily. “Where are we going?”
Epstein was unusually calm, considering the situation. He was standing at the great table in the conference room, perched on a little stepladder, staring intently at the roll-up the Dutchman had laid out in front of him. He was leaning on his hands, fingers splayed out on the surface of the table. Ghostly light from the surface of the roll-up flickered across his ruddy features. Next to him on the left, the Dutchman was sitting on the tabletop, one bony leg folded neatly over the other. He held a pencil in one hand which he was using to point. The other clutched his beaten down notebook.
“Kaela is in San Francisco,” the Dutchman was saying, and pointed on the surface of the roll-up. “Michael is in Miami. Tizoc's got Boston. Frey is in Denver, and Ramuel is in Chicago. Murasaki has New York City, and Rhea Los Angeles.”
“What about Talisman?” Epstein growled.
“Kansas City,” the Dutchman filled in and pointed for good measure.
“And Xiling's all over the link!”
The Dutchman nodded. “There's very little traffic right now except what's carrying his signal. Their planning was very methodical. Very thorough.”
“I'd be damned if I said that it wasn't,” Epstein breathed. He leaned back thoughtfully and grabbed hold of his beard with one hand. “So Xiling has chosen all out war, has he?” He cut a sharp look at the Dutchman. “This is partly your fault, you know.”
The Dutchman stiffened. “I don't see how you can draw that conclusion.”
“Stop pretending you don't know what's in the daily briefs you bring me each morning!” He leaned forward accusingly. “The arrests have been upsetting people. The ordinaries are as jumpy as spit in a frying pan!”
The upper half of the Dutchman's face raised slightly. “If you'll excuse my saying, sir, those were your orders.”
“My orders were to round up the troublemakers! You could have been a tad more subtle, don't you think?”
“The operations have been running over a year, sir. We've been bringing them in slowly, a few at a time. I thought that would be subtle enough.”
“It wasn't subtle at all. It gave people time to notice. And the longer it went on, the more people thought they had to fear. You should have conducted a swift sweep under cover of some natural disaster.”
“Natural disaster?”
“Sure. Someone could have arranged it.”
The Dutchman's pale face darkened.
“But I don't blame you,” Epstein continued quickly and waved the matter swiftly away with a deft movement of his hand. “Xiling has been planning this for some time. He was bound to take action sooner or later. You just handed him the opportune moment.” Epstein pursed his lips. “Well, what's done is done.” He brought his hands together loudly before his chest. “Back to business! You find out where Xiling is?”
“We're still working on that.”
Epstein looked down at the roll-up and tapped with a stubby finger at Washington D.C. The detailed, three-dimensional view of the country zoomed in on the city. “He's here.”
“We don't know that, sir,” the Dutchman reminded him.
“The Chief Justice of the United States can't just fall off the grid! He didn't leave the homeland, so he's got to be around here somewhere. It was his last known location.” He craned his neck and looked behind. “Vassily! Why can't you just cut him off? I don't understand.”
Vassily, pacing the room like a trapped feline, was earnestly engaged in conversation with his PA. Still listening to whatever was being urgently conveyed to his left ear, he covered the lower half with his hand and hissed, “I'm doing the best I can!”
Epstein banged the tabletop with his fist. “Just tell me where the signal is coming from and I'll send Jefferson here to take care of the matter.” He gestured towards the military man standing stiffly at attention against the wall.
Vassily vehemently shook his head. “They're using master cryptographers,” he explained and turned his back on the President.
“It's still not clear to us why the other Justices have spread out across the country,” the Dutchman told him, staring at the roll-up and frowning. He had resurrected the view of the entire country. On it eight red dots pulsated brilliantly, showing the locations of the eight miscreant Justices. He was looking for some kind of pattern.
Epstein snorted. “It's obvious, ain't it? Xiling's out there inciting the country to rebellion and his lieutenants are using their skills in the dark arts to enhance the effect. Those are our biggest population centers.”
The Dutchman looked sceptically at his boss from behind his wire-rimmed glasses. “Dark arts? But Marcellus has the ring.”
“The ring is only a tool. The power behind it is everywhere.” He returned his attention to the roll-up. “Those flashing red lights,” he said slowly, “show their exact locations?”
The Dutchman nodded his head. “Yes, sir. Real-time.”
“It could be a trap. Or some clever device.” He jabbed a finger at the roll-up. “Only one way to find out. Jefferson!”
The military man stood even more stiffly at attention.
“Get over here.”
“Yes, sir!” The lieutenant colonel marched to the other side of the table and came to a stop slightly behind Epstein and to his right.
“What kind of garrisons do you have in these cities?” Epstein asked, stabbing a ruddy finger at the roll-up.
The lieutenant colonel gave a quick look and yanked out his PA. In a few moments, he was rattling off a heady series of statistics.
Epstein was nodding his head agreeably. “Excellent. I've got fresh orders for you.”
“Yes, sir!” Lieutenant colonel Jefferson straightened out at once.
“Call off all security screens.”
Despite the rigid habits of discipline, ingrained over years of repetition, the lieutenant colonel momentarily forgot himself. “Call them off?” he stammered. “All of them?”
“Nationwide! The national guard won't be harassing the civilian population for a while. There's something more important I need you to do. I'm going to give you these here coordinates. I need your units to assault them and bring anyone you find there prisoner.”
Lieutenant colonel Jefferson seemed pleased. “A real military operation?” Commanding the national guard did not present many opportunities for actual combat. It was part bullying and a great deal of administration.
“That's right. Now get to it.”
At that moment, the security light above the east entrance started burning red. Epstein glowered as if it had just insulted his mother. “What's that light doing on?” he asked darkly.
A few moments later he found out. The east entrance burst open and in trotted
an adorable, black and white huskie. No one said a word as the dog began to sniff the legs of its various occupants.
“What's this?” the Dutchman asked, face betraying an unmitigated disgust. “Kill it!”
“Don't you touch her!” The words flowed into the room as if from a distance.
At once, Betty in her maid's outfit, looking distressed, presented herself. Pressing after her were Tina Martinez and Sonya.
“Tina Maria!” Epstein called out thankfully and smacked his belly. “I was just going to send someone out for you.” He looked at her squarely. “We've got a crisis on our hands.”
“More than one, Samuel,” Tina Martinez told him wryly and glanced back through the east entrance.
Betty started sobbing and buried her face in her hands. “I'm sorry, Red,” she blabbered between her fingers. “You know I would never do anything to hurt you.”
“Hurt me?” Epstein looked sternly at the Dutchman and started waving his hands wildly.
The Dutchman leaped off the tabletop and scrambled for his PA.
“Easy there, Dutchie.” The voice was Marcellus'. He stepped into the conference room and looked squarely at the Dutchman. “Put it down,” he commanded.
The Dutchman, drawing back as if bitten by a viper, loosened his fingers and let his PA drop loudly to the floor.
Piling in behind him were Jango, Icarus, Maya, and Jennifer.
“Oh, Precious,” Jennifer crooned, squatting down and holding out her hands. The dog heard the voice and pranced up to her. “No one's going to hurt you,” she breathed adoringly, scratching an ear. Precious sat down on her haunches, clearly enjoying it.
“What is the meaning of this?” Epstein demanded, turning around on his stepladder.
Marcellus levelled a penetrating glance in his direction, eyes burning. “Did you just try and have me killed?”
“What?”
“Answer the question!”
Epstein blanched. “No, of course not.” He swallowed thickly.
“He's lying,” Jango scoffed.
“He can't lie to me,” Marcellus said slowly. “Do you know who did?”
“No.”
Marcellus considered for a moment. “Maybe it was one of you,” he suggested and turned on Vassily.
Epstein put out a hand. “Don't bother him right now, Marcellus! He's busy.”
“Hang up,” Marcellus ordered.
Vassily promptly did as he was told.
“Did you just try and have me killed? Tell the truth.”
“No,” Vassily hissed, the hatred foaming from his lips like froth. He wrapped his dark cape around himself and rocked slightly back and forth.
“Are we going to do this all night?” Epstein demanded as he eyed the dog, which was now exploring the corners of the room.
“If I have to,” Marcellus replied. “I want to know who it was.”
“And then what, Marcellus?” Epstein demanded, folding his arms squarely in front of him. “Revenge? Is that what you want?”
Marcellus opened his mouth as if to answer and nodded his head affirmatively instead.
“Don't you hurt Red!” Betty called out suddenly from the opposite end of the table. She was brandishing a threatening fist in Marcellus' direction. “He hasn't done you any harm!”
Marcellus felt the urge to smile but suppressed it.
“Fine as frog hair,” Epstein commended him. “But you can take revenge whenever you want! Nobody's going anywhere.” Suddenly, a note of pleading entered his voice. “Whatever happened, Marcellus,” he said hastily, licking his lips, “I know we can work it out, just like we've done for the past year. But now is not the time! Right this instant Xiling is on the link calling for an ostracism. He's inciting the ordinaries to cast their lot against me! Me! Marcellus, do you know what that means?”
“It would be awful, Red,” Betty murmured, “if they sent you away.”
A slight smile played across Marcellus' features. Walking slowly towards the table, he pulled out a chair and flopped into it. Precious ran up to him curiously and sniffed him. “You know, Judas, to be honest I don't really care.” He reached down to stroke the dog affectionately. “I care about the fact that there's a dead woman lying in my bed. It was supposed to be me.”
Epstein's eyes trailed to the roll-up and then back to Marcellus again. “I see,” he said softly. “So this is it then? Tonight's the night?”
Marcellus shrugged complacently and stopped petting the dog. “That's up to you.”
The Dutchman leaned towards Epstein and said loudly enough for everyone to hear, “What about Xiling, sir?”
“Tina Maria!” Epstein suddenly shouted and spun around on his stepladder. “Thank Laws you're here.”
Tina Martinez stepped forward, but Jango laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and pulled her back.
Epstein's mouth hung open a single astonished moment before he turned on Marcellus. “Am I to understand you want to start your term right now?” he shouted, beard bristling. “Go ahead then! I'll take a seat right over there and watch you fall flat on your face! Anyone got popcorn?”
Precious trotted over to him and looked up. Epstein glowered at the dog and snapped, “Get away from me!”
Icarus loudly clicked his tongue. “Not that old story again.”
“Markie will never be ready if we keep listening to you,” Jennifer insisted as she reached for Precious.
“Are you prepared for a direct confrontation with Xiling?” Epstein demanded. “Are you? Because that's the situation you'll be stepping into.”
Marcellus held up his hand. “I got this.”
“That ring of yours won't be enough to save your hide,” Epstein snorted. “You don't even know how to use it! All you can do it make people answer questions.”
“Oh,” Sonya breathed. “Is that how he does it? With that ring?”
“But me, I've got information! I've got people in place who are loyal to me! More importantly, I've got a plan of action!”
“I thought you said you needed me to get rid of Xiling,” Marcellus countered.
“Yes, yes! You're the only one who can deal the final blow. But that's still a ways off.”
“I don't know about magic,” Tina Martinez replied softly, “but that was the most awful feeling I've ever felt in my life when he told me to come along.”
“And let me tell you something else!” Epstein insisted, jabbing a hairy finger in Marcellus' direction. “If they ostracise me, sure as hellfire it will mean civil war for you. Is that what you want?” Epstein heaved a huge sigh and glanced around as if getting his bearings. “Now, if you don't mind, let me deal with Xiling, and after that we'll clear up this misunderstanding with the dead girl.”
“It's not a misunderstanding!” Marcellus hollered even as he stood up and walked back towards his friends. They had never strayed from just inside the doorway. “Okay, fine,” he agreed, speaking loudly to the floor. “But we do it together!” He stopped and turned around. “As equals.”
Epstein, stony faced, bit his lower lip and nodded.
“Jesus Christ, Markie,” Jennifer started to complain as they gathered around. “He was so mean to Precious.” Tina Martinez and Sonya, momentarily forgotten, inched quietly away towards Epstein, trying not to be noticed.
“You're falling back into old habits,” Icarus told him, the disappointment plain in his voice.
“Remember what we talked about?” Maya insisted. “You've got to take control of the situation.”
“You're no match for that fucker,” Jango said and slapped a consoling arm around Marcellus' shoulders.
Marcellus, though, seemed to know what he was doing. “Guys, listen,” he whispered, drawing away from Jango. He took a quick look around just for good measure. He saw that Epstein, too, was huddling with his entourage. Betty was sitting at the far end of the table, staring with unconcealed hostility back at him. “Judas is about to be ostracized. Did you hear that? We don't have to do anything more but wait. By tomorrow, maybe the day after, he'll be gone.”
Jango's eyes narrowed. “What about this civil war?”
“Civil war,” Marcellus scoffed. “You see, I've got this ring. It makes people do what I want.”
“You have to know who to tell, Mark,” Icarus told him.
“I know. I've been around long enough. Can't count on Judas' crew, but the army, now that's a different story.”
“Who?” Maya wanted to know. “Munib?”
Slowly, Marcellus nodded his head. “We spoke a few times before Judas shipped him off to the moon.”
Icarus raised his eyebrows. “He promised to back you?”
“Not in so many words. But I made it perfectly clear he'd prefer to have me installed here in the White House over any of the alternatives. And I'll tell you something else: he seemed very receptive to the idea.”
“Tina, we don't have much time, so listen up.” Epstein took a quick look around just for good measure. “Reign in Population Control. Do it tonight.”
Tina Martinez seemed taken aback. “But how will we control the ordinaries?” She blinked, horrified. “Who knows what state of mind they'll be in when Xiling's done with them.”
“Just do as I say. Stop the random flashpoints, too.”
“Samuel, are you serious? But I – ”
“Sonya, you still got those recordings you made up of Marcellus?”
“You mean the ones of him ranting and raving and sending people off to the camps?”
“Those are the ones.”
“Yeah. Still got them.”
“Good. As soon as Xiling is off the ether, put them on. Play them over and over again.”
“Oh, Judas, I get it!” Vassily spoke up. “But those recordings alone won't be enough.”
Epstein frowned. “What do you mean?”
“You can't expect people to watch the same old shit for twenty-four hours straight!” Sonya exclaimed. “The ordinaries must be entertained! There have to be plot twists. Surprise revelations. Characters killed off and brought back to life again. I've got some ideas. Casts on the camps, for instance. Pointed documentaries. The ordinaries have never seen anything like it on the ether before.” She chuckled darkly to herself. “It'll bring tears to their eyes. The ordinaries just eat it up when they cry.”
“Can you prepare some fresh material?” Epstein asked her.
“What did you have in mind?”
Epstein absently played with the strands of his beard. “Make it seem like I was ignorant of Marcellus' crimes. Now I'm taking the necessary steps.” He waved a hand agitatedly in the air in front of him. “You know the drill.”
Sonya, slouching, nodded her head. “It's not like anything we've ever done before. But I think I can whip something up pretty quick. A cruel and corrupt minister unmasked. A kind but stern master taking the blame. Not that hard really.”
“What about Xiling?” the Dutchman cut in impatiently. “Time is of the essence.”
“Tina! Jefferson here is going to apprehend a number of enemies of the people.”
“The Justices?”
Epstein nodded. “From this moment on, they're outlaws. Fugitives.”
Tina Martinez bit her lip. “What are we going to do with them once we have them? I think it's better to just shoot them straight out.”
Epstein thought about that for a moment. “No,” he finally said. “I prefer treason trials. We haven't had them since Murroughs the Younger's term, but it will do.”
“Treason trials?” Tina Martinez repeated uncertainly.
Epstein's face broke out into a broad smile. “Yes, Tina. You're very own.” He clasped her eagerly on the shoulder. “Wouldn't you like that?”
The west entrance opened. Tina Martinez and Sonya were about to slip through it when Jewel strode into the room. “What's going on here?” she demanded, looking around with hard, dark eyes.
Marcellus abashedly returned her gaze. “What makes you think something is going on?”
“My husband's Praetorian Guard is missing.” She put her hands to her hips and looked sternly from one person to the next. “Samuel, who are those goons posted outside?”
“I don't know, dear,” Epstein sighed and gestured in Marcellus' direction. “You'll have to ask him.”
“Is that so?” Jewel cocked her head slightly to one side and fixed her imperious glare on Marcellus. “Just what do you think you're doing?” She didn't wait for him to answer. “You realize this country is facing an emergency of apocalyptic proportions?”
“Yes, but – ”
“Then why are you interfering?”
“If you'd just listen – ”
“Where are my husbands Guards?”
“Just listen, damn you!” Marcellus shouted at her.
Jewel's eyes bugged momentarily from her head. She was listening intently.
Marcellus briefly put a hand to his forehead. “Why did you make me do that?” After a moment he took it away. “Someone tried to kill me. I'm not safe here anymore. If I have to, I'll seize power tonight. That's what's going on.” Precious, seated at his side, panted loudly and thumped her tail.
Jewel's eyes narrowed. “Seize power? What about my husband?”
Marcellus shrugged. “Depends on him.” He paused uncertainly before sheepishly adding, “There's a place for you here after he's gone. I just wanted you to know that.”
Jewel laughed. It was a cruel laughter. “My place is here by my husband.” She walked over and came to a stop next to the stepladder. Grimly, Epstein reached for her hand.
Marcellus felt stung. It started as a slight feeling, but he knew with time it would grow. The situation, though, required his complete and undivided attention. He couldn't afford to nurse the feeling.
Turning back to the roll-up, Epstein called out to Marcellus. “Shall we review the transcripts? Fortunately we won't have to listen to much of Xiling's incessant babbling. He's repeating himself a great deal.”
Jewel leaned over the roll-up and started studying it intently.
The Dutchman returned to his place at the table.
Vassily picked up his PA and began stabbing at it with his thumb.
The lieutenant colonel resumed his place by the wall.
Betty climbed out of her chair, brushed herself off, and made for the east entrance. Jango, though, blocked her way. “It's not a good idea to let his people leave,” he warned Marcellus.
“Where did Tina Martinez and Sonya go?” Maya asked.
“By all the bells of Jezebel, it's just Betty!” Epstein thundered.
“What'd you put her up to?” Marcellus retorted.
Epstein was growing impatient. “It's time to paint your butt white and run with the antelope, son! Now leave Betty alone and get over here. We got work to do.”
Jewel jabbed him lightly in the chest.
Epstein coughed uncomfortably. “But before we do,” he added, “do you think you could get that infernal hound out of here?”
Ostracism. It was one of the many prices Murroughs was forced to pay in order to breathe life into her new world order. The Republican-minded Senators had exacted it from her, and the provision entered into the new Constitution. They thought that if there was some means to punish the tyrannical officials of her government, they would also have leverage over them and thus a means to protect themselves.
The idea was simple enough. When the body politic grew anxious, they would have a legal procedure at their disposal to exorcise the general ill-will without the need for bloodshed. One of the citizen body – chosen by popular vote – would be expelled from the nation. And in the first years of freemocracy, this is indeed what happened. More than a few of Murrough's advisors, generals, and Cabinet members fell victim to the lot.
Anyone could initiate an ostracism. There was a special place on the link reserved for the voting. An ostracism was only valid if more than fifty percent of the citizens cast lots within a period of twenty-four hours. Whenever this condition was met, the person who had received the most votes was officially ostracised and had a day to flee the nation on pain of execution.
But as the rebellious Senators soon found out, when a person is invested with an office for life and given powers over life and death, no formality or ruse is sufficient to shield his intended victims. Nor was the stigma of ostracism restricted to Murrough's lieutenants. The founder of freemocracy was quite willing and able to turn its bite against the Senators themselves. Slowly, over the long course of her term, ostracism became used less and less frequently against the high and mighty and grew into a chilling popularity contest whose victims were hardly more than average ordinaries singled out in the rumor factories of the sim.
The last person ostracised was a freighter pilot who was on his way to the moon delivering much needed supplies when the lots were cast. This was just after Murroughs the Younger had been assassinated and Sindhra was still shoring up support. There was a great deal of uncertainty at the time and someone in a bar somewhere thought it would be a good idea to have an old-fashioned ostracism. Word spread quickly, and people from far and wide began to descend upon the bar.
Lawrence Lungula, the freighter pilot, lived in the neighborhood. He was the proud and recent owner of one of the newest and technologically advanced cars ever produced. These could take off and fly, and they were mighty expensive. He had saved for quite some time and had done without a lot of the other amenities people took for granted, like going out to restaurants and buying fashionable clothing. Also, flying a freighter through the vast distances between earth and moon was a dangerous vocation, even more so in those days because of the relatively poor quality of the ships' armor. Resources weren't as scarce as they are now. His wages reflected the fact.
His neighbors, though, weren't thinking about either his sacrifices or the risks of his job. Although none of them said it, they were all in agreement: with Lawrence gone, that new flying car – the only one for kilometers in any direction – would have to go to someone, and it sure as hell wasn't going to be his wife or ten-year-old daughter.
The nation quickly familiarized itself with the cruel Lawrence Lungula, a professed Satanist who beat his children, locked his wife in the basement, and ate spiders.
When Lawrence arrived on the moon, he linked up and found to his surprise and dismay that he needn't bother hurrying to find a cargo for the return leg of the trip. He had become the first person in history ostracised for having an expensive car. It was not a distinction to be especially proud of, he thought.
After the truth leaked out and the perpetrators duly punished, everybody generally agreed that ostracisms weren't a good idea and the practice was abandoned.
“You tricked me,” Marcellus breathed, and wiped a tear from the corner of his eye with one of his shoulders. A cold, winter wind ruffled his hair. “I still don't know how you did it.”
“No one tricked you, son,” Epstein replied gently, staring somewhere past him. He hated seeing a grown man cry. “You just got the short end of the stick, that's all.”
“They used to call me Hawkeye!”
“I'm sure they still do.” Epstein shrugged. “The ordinaries change their opinions as often as their underwear. They're as hard to predict as the weather. Don't take it personally.”
Marcellus stared for a moment at the jet black helicopter awaiting him. It was humming deeply, emitting a hot stream of water vapor into the cold night. Jango, Maya, Icarus, and Jennifer were already safely strapped up inside. After hasty deliberations in the confusion that ensued after the result of the vote was announced, they had all decided to come willingly. All of them, that is, except Jennifer, who protested hollowly that her precious Precious would never survive on the moon. But Marcellus had used the ring on her. “Why can't I go to the provinces somewhere? Costa Rica maybe? I always liked the beach.”
Epstein shook his head slowly, still staring fixedly ahead. “I'm sorry, Marcellus. You know the drill. You have to leave the country. Anyway, you'll be safer on the moon.” He gestured vaguely at Marcellus' hands, stuffed deep in the pockets of his jeans. “Everyone knows about it now.” He paused uncomfortably and flicked a fleeting glance at Marcellus' face. “I thought you didn't have a taste for using the ring.”
Marcellus was in no mood for sympathy. “Yeah, well, turns out I've developed one.”
They stood together in an uncomfortable silence. Epstein continued to eye the ship that would bring Marcellus and his crew to the restricted zone and the nearest launching pad. The final destination was the moon. His face, hidden behind his bushy beard, was hard to read.
Marcellus was looking behind towards the doorway that led back into the compound. It was only a few steps away. “So,” he finally said, turning back towards the chopper. “Ten years, is it?”
“Yeah, well, I wouldn't look at it that way.” Epstein studied his own feet. They pawed slightly at the hard cement of the White House roof. “Give it a little time. I'm sure I can get the Congress to pass a bill demanding your recall.” He attempted a smile and looked briefly at Marcellus. “I've got some friends.”
Marcellus snorted. “Well I guess that's it then.” He took a bitter step towards the chopper.
“Wait.” Epstein awkwardly stuck out a swollen hand. “Good luck, Marcellus.”
Marcellus cut him with a biting look over his shoulder. “We're not friends, Judas. We never were.”
Epstein wanted to reply, but prudence held him back.
Marcellus stepped out onto the pad and approached the chopper. He was half-way there when he decided he couldn't hold it in. “I'll be back. You haven't seen the last of Marcellus Gyges.”
“We're good people, Marcellus,” Epstein responded and couldn't suppress an ironic chuckle. “We Americans, I mean. We mean well.”
Marcellus smiled grimly. “Thanks for reminding me, Judas. It's so easy to forget.”
Epstein stood perfectly still, arms folded, and watched him climb into the chopper.
The last thing Marcellus saw through the window as the chopper lifted off was his beloved Jewel stepping out onto the platform. She came up next to her husband and slipped a hand into his. Curiously, she looked out onto the launching pad. The loose gown that she wore flapped violently in the cold wind. A deeply satisfied look settled on both their faces. Jewel squeezed her husband's hand encouragingly.
What a fucking bitch, Marcellus thought darkly as the world veered sharply and the pair vanished from sight.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.