“What do you mean, there’s no buyer?” The voice was Maya’s. It was deceptively quiet.
Marcellus shifted uncomfortably.
Jango, stonily returning her stare, shrugged his shoulders. “The guy never showed up.” His wrinkled shirt was a tad too small. The rump of his potbelly peeked out from underneath. “It's not my fault.”
Maya clenched her teeth and glared in frustration at the ceiling. “Jango, you had one job to do. You couldn’t even handle that!”
“I drove the getaway car.”
“I can drive, too, you know,” muttered Icarus.
“Not like I can,” insisted Jango. “We didn’t hit any flashpoints, did we?”
“Are you saying you knew where they would be?”
Jango smiled mysteriously and didn’t answer.
Maya stomped her foot. “What are we going to do with a microchip, Jango? Hang it on the tree at Christmas?” Her hair was long and delicate, her face pale. She was wearing plain, bell-bottomed slacks and a short, beige, buttoned-down vest. Her shoes looked like big, brown clogs.
Despite himself, Icarus chuckled.
“It’s not funny!”
Icarus’ car had been abandoned in the parking lot of one of the city’s run-down bus stations. No doubt it had been spotted. No doubt it was being watched, if it was still there at all. Inside the car they had left their PA’s and their ID cards: their draft cards proving when and where they had served, their national guard issued identifications (the serial numbers of which matched the letters tattooed on their backs), their birth certificates, and their now invalid proofs of employment. They weren't ever going back.
Two days had passed since the heist. Jango had arranged a safe house, a crude apartment in one of the shady parts of town. Every once in a while the police would drive an armored convoy through the area and pick people up at random, but the ones who really didn't want to be found always seemed to know about it beforehand. Interspersed among the criminals there were also the junkies – unhealthy, desperate looking creatures – and the sim zombies, shambling slowly down the street in no particular direction, mumbling quietly to themselves and occasionally growing enraged at a fire hydrant. There were, of course, the people who lived there simply because they couldn't afford to live anywhere else. They gave the place its legitimacy.
The apartment's kitchen was infested with cockroaches and at night they could hear the mice scampering joyfully inside the walls. The only toilet kept flushing itself spontaneously. The living room was drafty and there were water stains on the ceiling. Some of the wallpaper was torn and hanging down in jagged strips. And there was a slightly sour smell to the air. Jango thought the place had character. The others thought it was disgusting, but no one complained, not even Jennifer. They hadn’t had to submit to a background check or register themselves with the national guard. If they got caught without valid identification it would mean a freemocracy camp for sure, robbery or not.
They were gathered in the living room. There was a dirty, exhausted two-seater where Marcellus and Jennifer sat. Across from it, Jango was sprawled in what must once have been a comfortable chair. You used to be able to lean back in it and the footrest elevated, but not anymore. Bits of yellow-colored fluff showed through the various cigarettes burns. Icarus, dressed in black pants and a black T-shirt, was sitting cross-legged on a towel on the floor, looking up at everyone. Maya, fuming, was the only one standing.
“It’s not my fault,” Jango repeated defensively. “The guy sounded serious enough when I talked to him. How was I supposed to know?”
Icarus pulled at the rug. “Well, I held up my end,” he said. “Everything turned out like I said it would.”
“Not everything,” said Jennifer brightly. She was bedecked with jewelry of all shapes and sizes. Her ears, wrists, neck and an ankle glittered excitedly. “They tried to stop us just before we got away. Remember?”
“Is that what happened? I thought they were handing out lollipops.”
Jennifer giggled. “I passed the chip to Maya without their scanners picking it up.” She grinned at them all vainly.
“And I infiltrated the security team and arranged the exit,” Maya reminded them.
“Yeah, yeah, yeah,” muttered Jango.
“So you see,” Icarus finished grandly. “The plan couldn’t have worked without any of us. Except you, Jango.”
“I drove the getaway car. Without me, they’d have followed us.” He paused. “Did you check the contents?”
“Check it?” Jennifer’s eyeliner arched inquisitively.
“Maybe they replaced the data!”
“They never found the chip,” Maya retorted defensively.
“How do you know?”
Icarus glanced at Maya. “They could have tried to wipe it and upload anything they wanted over the ether. But the chip’s fine. I encrypted it myself. You’re the one who screwed up, Jango.”
“Stay healthy,” Jango snapped irritably. “Shut the fuck up.”
Jennifer shuddered. “They locked me up with a dead body.”
There was moment of silence. It was measured by the sloppy sounds of Jennifer's chewing gum. At irregular intervals Maya would loudly sigh and refold her arms. Icarus was absently twirling a few stray strands of the rug between his fingers. Marcellus, conspicuously quiet, was staring absently at Jango, who was calmly drinking a beer and making a point of looking very relaxed.
Finally, Jennifer blew a bubble and asked, “What happened back there anyway?”
“The drones knew, that’s what!” snapped Maya.
“Knew about what?”
“Yeah, Icarus,” purred Jango. “Your plan was shit.”
“It was Marcellus’ plan,” Icarus retorted sourly.
“It was a good fucking plan,” Marcellus snapped. “We got the chip. Everybody's alive. Or not, Icarus? Huh?”
Maya wasn’t listening. Now she was speaking directly to Jennifer. “I just assumed the drones would follow wherever I took you. I mean, they’re just drones! Stupid, ignorant drones!”
Icarus’ eyes narrowed. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying they goddamn knew!”
“Knew what?”
Maya stared at Icarus in disbelief. “Hello? Icarus? Didn’t you notice when they pointed their tubes at us?”
“You mean those weren’t lollipops? Yeah, okay. I figured they managed to find some data on Jen passing you the chip. When you staged that fight in the cafeteria.”
Jennifer giggled. “I think I pulled some of your hair out.”
“No way.” Maya shook her head. “Those helmets are equipped with mics. The drones were reporting back that I wasn’t following orders.”
“I don't see why you're making such a big deal, Maya.” Icarus said, shrugging. “They had an exit of their own. So what?”
“There shouldn't have been any orders,” Maya continued, ignoring Icarus.
“They wanted us to take the exit they prepared. You heard what she said! They wanted to keep an eye on us.”
“Christ,” murmured Jennifer nervously. “They could have tailed us. Do you think they tailed us?”
“No, they didn’t tail us,” snapped Jango.
Maya suddenly turned on Marcellus. “You told them to go away. And they did. For no apparent reason.”
Marcellus looked uncomfortable.
Jango laughed. It was a deep, laborious rumble. “Hard to imagine anyone scared of you, Mark.”
Marcellus realized he had to say something. “I think we're getting off track. We've got a chip and no buyer. Jango, you're the only one who ever met this guy. Is he reliable?”
Jango looked at him blankly.
“Don’t try and change the subject,” Maya began, advancing on him. “I know how those drones work. They follow orders, every single –”
“Maya, will you let it fucking drop!” Marcellus shouted, his face turning a light shade of red. He took a moment and swallowed. “I understand you're concerned. We'll talk about it later. Right now I want to know about the deal. Okay?”
Sourly, Maya retreated. She stared at him viciously from the corner but otherwise held her tongue.
“You want to know about the buyer?” Jango asked him.
“I want to know about the buyer,” Marcellus told him, a slight smile spreading across his face.
“He didn’t show up.”
“You don't say. Have any idea why?”
“It was snowing and he got in an accident.”
“Really? It’s amazing.”
“Hell if I know what happened! Anyway, I could try and arrange another meeting.”
“No,” Marcellus said quickly. “Bad idea. If he’s been compromised, they’ll be waiting for us.”
Jango pulled a swig of beer. “If they got to him, they might know where we are already.”
“Maybe,” Marcellus agreed reluctantly. He glanced around at the others. They had been following their exchange closely. He made a decision. “We’re gonna split up.”
“What?” exclaimed Icarus.
Jennifer frowned. “And go where?”
Jango nodded his head. “Good idea,” he said. “Let's get the fuck out of here.”
“Far, far out of here,” agreed Marcellus.
“And meet back up later.”
Marcellus shook his head. “Not here. Somewhere else.”
“Where?” Jango asked.
“Outer Mongolia,” Maya suggested.
“Amsterdam!” exclaimed Jennifer.
“Las Vegas,” muttered Icarus.
“Casper, Wyoming,” purred Jango.
Marcellus frowned, “Casper? What’s out there, Jango?”
Jango shrugged. “Hell if I know. But I always wanted to go there.”
“You got awful taste,” Marcellus said, shaking his head. “Alright then. Casper, it is.”
Icarus moaned and slammed a fist petulantly into the floor. Jennifer had a vaguely confused look on her face. Maya stood stony-faced in the corner.
Only Jango looked pleased.
They agreed to meet up in exactly six months. There was some discussion who would keep the chip. In the end, Maya won out, partly because everyone trusted her, but also because she adamantly refused to give it up. It seems that she trusted herself, too. Jango passed out their new ID cards. He had gotten them on the black market a few days before the heist. They had gone one-by-one with him to some dark, poorly ventilated room in a sprawling, subterranean complex under one of the slums where the police and national guard rarely dared to go. There they had posed for the 3D photos and given thumbprints and DNA samples. The national guard identification had a hologram which was harder to fake, but it looked genuine enough. The cards were sufficient to get by on the streets and at random flashpoints, but if they ever had the misfortune to stumble into a security screen or got into some other trouble and their cards were checked against the central database, they’d be nabbed.
Marcellus headed out to visit his cousins in Caracas. His trip through the aerodrome to the ship that was eventually to take him there felt long and harrowing. As he passed from security checkpoint to checkpoint, as they quizzed him on the reasons for his trip, as they poked and prodded him in that long, snaking line, one sheep among many, he repeated over and over to himself that he was going to get safely on that ship and in a few hours he would be breathing the warm, tropical air tinged with the fresh smell of the beach. And that's pretty much what happened.
Nefertitis Ximena drove a gas-guzzling, pink and blue, Indian-made tanker that was barely capable of flight. He hadn't recognized her at the airport, window rolled down, arm hanging out, head thrust out on the lookout. A cigarette dangled from her mouth. She waved enthusiastically when she saw him and started speaking excitedly with someone in one of the back seats, the cigarette whipping wildly. A few moments later, his cousin, Elvis Presley, was walking next to him, dragging his suitcase across the uneven pavement and spewing out a stream of words not all of which were easily understood.
Elvis tossed his suitcase rather roughly into the back and pushed Marcellus inside. He spent the next few minutes being smothered under Nefertitis' rather ample breasts. Teary-eyed, she showered the top of his head with kisses and repeated over and over that he'd grown up and how well he looked. Afterwards, as they rocketed along the speedway, she tried to fill him in about what had happened in the family since he had come last. Did he know that Fidella Darwin over in Guarenas had breast cancer?
Marcellus, though, was hardly listening. He was staring out the window, slack-jawed. “Where's the restricted zone?” he interrupted.
Nefertitis, one arm draped casually over the wheel, turned around and peered at him through her rectangular lenses. “The what?”
Marcellus was unable to answer. Now he was staring riveted out the front window, which in his view was where Nefertitis ought to have been looking. The tanker was drifting hard to the left towards oncoming traffic. Not that there were clearly delineated lanes of traffic like he knew back in North America. The markers were there, but the Venezuelans seemed to treat them as mere advice.
Elvis, sitting next to him, shook his head. “We don't have anything like that here. I've heard about the restricted zones on the link, though.”
Someone off to the right side honked at them furiously. Nefertitis squinted in that direction and muttered a curse. To Marcellus' relief, she turned back to the road and spun the wheel to the right just before they hit a marker.
“I just walked out of the aerodrome, Elvis,” Marcellus said. “I showed my passport when I arrived, picked up my bags, and walked out.”
Elvis laughed. “Hey, mama, he loves it here already!”
Nefertitis giggled. “Mark, you're going to have a fantastic time down here. I promise you! Just relax and leave it all up to us. We'll have a parilla tonight at the house. Chuletas, chorizo, morcilla...”
“We have whiskey and rum,” Elvis told him.
They stopped at a red light, the cars crowded all around at irregular angles. Some of the people inside were calling out to each other. Where Marcellus was from, conversation was impossible at red lights. The animated billboards demanded all the attention, advertising wares of poor quality at affordable prices, or blasting in frightening reports from the link. These last usually had something to do with the war or violent crime. Where he was from, you kept your windows shut tight at the red lights for fear that someone might try and break in. He had never himself heard of anyone actually being assaulted at a red light, but he had heard about it.
“And we'll go to Puerto la Cruz. You've been there before, when you came with your mother. Do you remember?”
Dumbly, Marcellus shook his head no. His parents had died a long time ago.
Nefertitis turned around to look at him again. She began ticking off on her fingers. “Agua Moises, Isla Margarita, Colonia Tovar....”
“Okay, okay, Nefertitis!” Marcellus interrupted hurriedly. The car had begun to drift again. “I can't wait!” He offered her an exaggerated smile and tried to spice it up with a wag of his eyebrows.
Nefertitis responded with a throaty laugh and turned around. As she adjusted herself in the seat, she looked at her son through the rearview mirror. “It's the war,” she told him by way of explanation. “Most people up north are strung out that like. Give him a few days. He'll take to the sun. He always did.”
“Yes, mama.” Elvis glanced over at Marcellus and smiled warmly.
He had no idea what was happening in the world, and after a few days of fretting that he didn’t know which school or café or hospital had been reduced to smoking ruins and how many people had been killed and how many injured and how many severed hands and splotches of blood could be spotted by journalists, or which terrorist chieftain had been picked off by a missile from a super-stealth combat helicopter and how many civilians along with him, he realized he didn’t care. In fact, it simply felt better not to know. He started worrying less, and he liked that more.
Sitting one evening in a plastic chair on the open patio in the back of Nefertitis' huge, two-story house, Marcellus suddenly became aware of the vast disconnect between himself and his happy-go-lucky cousins. It happened in the way that most sudden realizations do – for seemingly no reason at all. But, of course, there was a reason. Even though Marcellus had finally left the war behind him, the anxiety still lingered. Back home, he was a criminal. He had offended the very people who pulled the strings of their society, who guided it along, people whose names he had never heard. Of course, they knew who he was. Governors, senators, the chief executive officers of the combines – they were just lackeys. Marcellus knew this, just like everyone else did. He glanced longingly up at the blue sky.
“Marko!” It was Jhon Beiker. “Venga! Come see how we cook the meat here in Venezuela!”
Inwardly, Marcellus sighed. He just wanted to sit in the sun and sip his fruit juice and be left alone.
The patio was paved in cement with a large drain in its center and was enclosed by high, white, plastered walls. There was a covered portion that gave way to the back of the two-storied house. Proper chairs and a couch were set before a vidscreen hanging from the ceiling. Three hammocks could be suspended from hooks. The windows on that side of the house had no glass panes, allowing full circulation of the air. Only the bedrooms upstairs had air-conditioning, the hulking, metal backs of which protruded from the windows above. A small, isolated kitchen was located to one side of the patio. There was a fuller, better equipped kitchen in the house as well, but Nefertitis preferred the smaller, slightly cramped one. She was in there now, apron tied about the waist, busily cutting and chopping, prodding and stirring.
Standing in the corner in front of the openings in the wall separating the smaller kitchen from the patio were Jhon Beiker, Nefertitis' second husband and Jesus' natural father, and Patron, an older son from a previous marriage. Both were shirtless. Jhon Beiker had a full head of grey hair, thick eyebrows, and a hairy chest. A few beaded necklaces hung about his neck. Patron was a bit taller than Jhon Beiker, not much younger, and very fat. The detailed tatoo of a green and red dragon perched on his shoulders and the bridge of his back, tail coiled around his waist, head pressed up against one side of his neck.
Patron was prodding some pieces of meat with a long fork broiling over hot coals in a little, metal box. “I don't care who gets in my taxi,” he was telling Jhon Beiker, “as long as they pay the fare. It's dangerous enough driving a taxi around Caracas. I can't afford to pass people by just because I don't approve of their lifestyle.”
Jhon Beiker shook his full head of grey hair and stroked his moustache. “When I was growing up, if a man put on a dress and make-up and walked down the street in the full light of day, he wouldn't get very far.”
“They've always been there on Avenue Libertador, Jhon,” Nefertitis said matter-of-factly from inside the kitchen. “No?”
Jhon Beiker shrugged. “That was the Avenue Libertador. Not the marketplace.”
“So, the transvestite asks me to take him to the airport. I start driving.” Suddenly Patron started shouting and waved the fork in front of him wildly. “'Stop! Stop the car!' So I stop the car. He throws open the door and runs out onto the street. Mama, it was three in the afternoon. The street was crowded. And this guy in a wig and dress runs up to another guy walking hand-in-hand with his girlfriend.” He thrust one of his hands out in front of him. “The people were stopping and staring, mama. But he didn't care. What does he do? He pulls off one of his high heels and smacks the guy in the back of the head! The poor sop never saw it coming!”
From inside the kitchen, Nefertitis started laughing.
“You had to see it, Mama! Crack! He falls to the ground!”
Jhon Beiker started rumbling in a deep baritone.
Patron's voice rose and his tempo quickened. “The transvestite gives him a few good kicks. 'Rodriguez you slut! Who's the tramp?' Now the girl starts shouting, too. First at the guy on the ground but he was out cold. So she starts slapping at the transvestite! 'You want some, too, bitch?' he says. Pow! He cocks her right in the eye!”
“Ooooh,” Nefertitis breathed her disapproval. “A man should never hit a woman.”
“She hit him first,” Jhon Beiker observed with a smirk.
“He puts his shoe back on his foot and struts back to the taxi. 'The airport!' he tells me.”
In the corner of the patio under the covered portion there was a sliding door that led to the garage. As Patron was speaking, it slid quietly open. In slipped Jesus pulling a slender, pretty girl after him. “Hola, Mama!” he called out.
Jhon Beiker and Patron turned to look. Jesus put a finger to his lips and wagged an eyebrow.
“Hola, my boy!” Nefertitis called out from the kitchen.
“I'm going upstairs to shower!” he told her, nodding encouragingly at the young girl as he made for the inside of the house.
Patron smirked and glanced at Jhon Beiker, who was smiling proudly back at him.
“Did the police come?” Nefertitis asked.
“I don't know, mama. I drove him to the airport!”
They all burst out laughing.
One weekend Marcellus, Jesus, and some of his friends drove out to Puerto la Cruz for a concert on the beach. Bands would be playing all day and well into the night. Most of them were metal bands. They were keen to see two in particular: a local band, Fekiee, and a band from the Netherlands called Laberinto. They made the five hours from Caracas in Jorge’s mother’s Jeep Cherokee, their things piled in the back. It was badly in need of repairs, so they had to take the slow, overland route. Liliana sat up front with the heavy, black eyeliner around the eyes. She was Jorge's girlfriend. There was also Cecilia with the yellow highlights. And there was lovely Lorena with the perfect white teeth and the flashing smile. All were beautiful and alluring and sexy and they knew it.
As usual Jesus was the center of attention. His seduction of Cecilia was going rather well. Marcellus observed how easily, how naturally, the right words tumbled from his mouth. He noticed the way she responded to his attractive energy, the way he could smile. Jesus made you feel that you were special when he was talking to you. But Marcellus – he was constantly searching for words. Sometimes there were awkward pauses. When Lorena flashed her darling white teeth at him, he knew it was only to be polite.
At one point he stalked off to the bar to buy the next bottle of rum. He was in a sour mood. He hadn’t said much the last half hour. On his finger was the ring. Usually he didn’t wear it outside Nefertitis' house, but he liked to put it on in discotheques and similar places (such as beach parties) because he felt it made him look like he had money. It was an act of vanity, it is true, but perhaps not an unfamiliar one.
He heard the Dutchman long before he caught sight of him. The hard, guttural syllables intruded upon his somber thoughts, until looking up he realized it was to find out exactly where that annoying braying was coming from.
The hastily built, wooden bar with the thatched roof had been set up midway up the beach. Banners advertising local brands of beer, especially Polar Ice and Solera Azul, flapped in the breeze. A few pretty youths – the boys clad in white T-shirts advertising Bacardi Breezers and the girls in tight bikinis with bandanas – were moving quickly about behind the bar, distributing refreshments. Crowded in front was a mass of scantily-clad people. The first thing Marcellus noticed as he took all this in was that a knot seemed to be gathered in a hostile circle around someone standing near the front.
It was the Dutchman. As Marcellus drew closer he caught a glimpse of him. The pasty faced man was yapping into his PA, seemingly oblivious to everyone around him. He was doing it very loudly. And he was blocking everyone behind from ordering drinks.
Some of the people near the back started shouting.
Marcellus knew the situation was not as it seemed. He felt his senses heighten.
The Dutchman glanced at him. Out of all the people in the crowd their eyes met, and he seemed to know exactly where to look. A chill went up Marcellus’ spine. Suddenly, he didn’t feel safe.
Someone touched his arm. Marcellus jumped. It was only Lorena.
“Relax,” she told him, flashing her seductive smile in his direction. “I came to help you with the ice.” She turned and faced the crowd. “What’s going on?”
Marcellus’s head was spinning. He was sure he hadn’t made it up. That look, it wasn’t just an innocent glance. He had seen the spark of recognition, the thirst of expectation, smug satisfaction – all rolled into one. Or was he his imagination running wild?
“What’s the matter?” Lorena inquired, pressing up against him.
“Nothing,” Marcellus responded crisply. He was being foolish. He wasn’t going to give in to paranoia. He was going to go do exactly what he had come here for. Order drinks. “Somebody ought to tell that guy to leave before he gets into trouble.”
“What’s he saying?”
“I don’t know.”
Roughly, Marcellus maneuvered Lorena in front of himself. Together they pushed into the crowd.
The shouting was getting louder and more threatening. The Dutchman, though, didn’t seem to care. Marcellus and Lorena tried to push their way up to the front, but they only managed to skirt the outer layers of the crowd.
What an arrogant, stupid man! Marcellus thought to himself. “Shut up!” he shouted angrily at the Dutchman. “Get out of the way before they attack you!”
The Dutchman stopped talking and turned to face him. A look of stunned fear spread across his face. As if against his will, the Dutchman backed away. The crowd opened up to let him pass.
Marcellus was sure that someone was approaching meaningfully from the left. As soon as the Dutchman stopped talking, as soon as people started paying attention to Marcellus, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the man falter and stop. He glanced around wildly looking for him. There! Wasn’t that the one? That man there, stumbling in the sand. He wasn’t dressed for the beach. He had on a dark suit and proper shoes.
Lorena pawed him on the shoulder. “Wow,” she purred. “What did you say to him?”
“I didn't say anything,” Marcellus insisted distractedly. It had all happened so fast. Or maybe nothing had happened. He needed a cigarette.
Lorena touched his cheek. “What’s the matter, Mark? Don’t you like me?”
Marcellus looked at Lorena. She was so beautiful. He smiled and relaxed. “Of course I like you,” he told her. “Let’s get that bottle of rum.”
That night, Marcellus fucked Lorena.
In a vast hall of shadows, two people met. One was tall, surely male, dressed in a long, dark robe with the hood pulled over his eyes. This one was sitting. Standing nearby was a neat, little woman in high heels and a short, red dress. Her outfit was brightly colored – especially the shoes – but in the dimness of the Great Library it was hard to tell. All about them was the feeling of space. The only light peeked in from behind long, satin curtains disguising long, narrow windows. Staring sternly down at them from every side was an army of thick, heavy tomes. These were no ordinary books. These were the scriptures of the law, and the robed man was their chief guardian.
“Well, Ms. Vasquez,” intoned the robed man, “I’m glad you decided to come.” He clutched the heads of the elegant armrests tightly.
The woman in the red dress smiled. “I’m acting under orders of the President, your Honor.”
“How very fortunate.” The hooded figure paused briefly. “I am curious, though. Given the – disagreement – between myself and the President, why offer this truce?”
“To prevent any misunderstandings, your Honor. We don't want the situation to spin out of control.”
“Yes, well, I agree. It’s highly unusual for the Secretary of the Interior to maintain a private army.”
“As it is for the Chief Justice of the United States.” The Secretary of the Interior smiled at him warmly. “What did he steal from you anyway?”
You know damned well what he stole from me, the Chief Justice thought to himself. “A microchip.”
“A microchip? I hope nothing valuable.”
The Chief Justice bared his teeth but said nothing.
“So we have an agreement?” the Secretary of the Interior chirped brightly.
The Chief Justice rose. His robes were thick and long. Solemnly, he folded his hands. “Yes.”
The Secretary of the Interior departed. The Chief Justice stood alone for a moment in the dimness, enjoying the shadows.
After a time he moved to what appeared to be another bookcase. Placing his hand on a particular tome and uttering a particular word, the bookcase swung inward, revealing a particular passage. Swiftly, he passed through it. Moments later he entered a small but comfortable office. The curtains were drawn here, too. There was a large, ornate desk in the corner. Behind it was a cushioned chair. The Chief Justice sank into it at once. Another robed figure sat patiently next to it.
Neither man spoke for some time. Finally, the Chief Justice said as if to no one in particular, “Gyges is in Venezuela.”
His companion did not react.
“They attempted to abduct him,” the Chief Justice continued.
“Did they succeed?”
“No.”
“What was it he stole anyway?”
“A ring.”
“A ring?”
“Yes, the ring!”
“Ah.” The Chief Justice’s companion paused. “I thought Margolis was keeping it. To relieve us of the temptation of using it.” He snickered. “Or fighting over it.”
“He found out what it did.”
“I wish you had told me.”
The Chief Justice could hear the resentment in his companion’s youthful voice. He was very ambitious, this one. “Perhaps you can appreciate why I didn’t.”
“Does Epstein know about it?”
“No.”
“So you used this Gyges to relieve Margolis of the ring. Except he ran away with it.”
“Not exactly, acolyte.”
“Well, either way, you still managed to loose it.”
The Chief Justice shifted his weight. Now he was annoyed. “I knew Margolis wouldn’t give it up of his own volition. So I tricked him. I got him alone in an airtight room without an audio feed and had him gassed.”
“Now I understand. This was at the same time as the breach?”
The Chief Justice nodded.
“Did you lock Gyges up in the same room as the body?”
The Chief Justice cleared his throat.
“With the ring?”
“We were trying to make a point.”
“Which point were you trying to make, master?”
“You ask too many questions, boy,” the Chief Justice answered sharply. But inwardly, the Chief of Justice was pleased. Each Justice had an acolyte. And their customs and rituals expressly provided that that of the Chief Justice should be their leader. But it was even more fitting, the Chief Justice thought to himself, that he should have teeth.
“Does he know what the ring does?”
“Apparently.” The Chief Justice smiled grimly. “He used it on the Dutchman.”
“Really? No one has seen him for days, you know. Epstein's put the word out that he’s ill.”
The Chief Justice bared his teeth. “Is that the word they use for it?”
“Do the others know?”
“No one knows of the ring’s existence!”
“I mean the other Justices. That the ring has been – misplaced.”
Again, the Chief Justice shifted his weight. “I’ll inform them at today’s session.”
“What did the Secretary of the Interior want?”
“Epstein wants a truce.”
“A truce?”
“Yes. And reassurances.”
“Did you give them to her?”
“Yes.”
“And was that – wise?”
“Under the circumstances, yes.”
“It seems to me that you gained nothing.”
The Chief Justice sighed. “You are quick to judge the wisdom of others and yet you have none yourself.” He paused and leaned back. The hands burrowed their way into their heavy sleeves folded in front of him. “In attempting to gain possession of the microchip,” he told his acolyte, looking deeply into the shadows stirring above them, “Epstein in effect revealed himself to us as its buyer. He didn’t know how we would react, so he approached us. They call it damage control.”
“But we already knew of his involvement.”
The Chief Justice shrugged. “He thought he was acting discretely.”
“But we didn’t know about the abduction.”
“Obviously, he overestimates our capacity to gather intelligence.”
“It was a miscalculation on his part.”
“Perhaps.”
“Master, I still don’t see the benefit of a truce. Now that we know where the ring is, we can’t retrieve it.”
“Patience, my young acolyte. It is not enough to simply know what cards your opponent is holding. You must imagine how he would play them! Not yourself. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master,” replied his acolyte submissively.
The Chief Justice doubted it. “Eliminating your enemies is only a means to an end, nothing more.”
“Of course, master.”
“The fact is, we are not yet equipped to take on the Secretary of the Interior’s militia. Not while the nation’s armed forces remain uncommitted.”
“Not without the ring.”
The Chief Justice bared his teeth. “There will be plenty of chances to acquire it,” he snarled.
They sat in a strained silence.
“Pardon my ignorance, master,” said his acolyte, not sounding the least bit ignorant, “but is it wise to allow this Gyges to retain the ring?”
“He’s an ordinary!” the Chief Justice scoffed. “A nothing! Whereas we are…” With a grand gesture, he let the matter lie. “In the meantime,” he continued, “we must concentrate on the microchip. Epstein,” the Chief Justice added wryly, “is pretending he knows nothing about it.”
“Then why attempt the abduction?”
The Chief Justice shrugged. “The Secretary admitted they knew Gyges possessed something of value to us. But she would not say what.” He laughed. “She pretended the whole operation was a gesture of goodwill.”
“They fear us.”
The Chief Justice stroked his lips. “As well they should. However, we retain one important advantage.”
“And what is that?”
“The microchip is irrelevant. Even if they find it, we'll just find replacements. But the ring is safe. They won't try and abduct him again.”
“You trust Epstein?”
“There is no reason not to. He has other worries. There's his War on Terror. He's trying to wind it down, but he's been trying for thirteen years and I don't see any reason why it should suddenly end now.”
“Yes, everyone knows this.”
“But do you also know that the Chinese are behaving provocatively on the moon?”
The Chief Acolyte did not respond.
“As I said, Epstein has plenty of other worries. Naturally he will make a grab for the microchip as soon as he determines who has it. This truce will last only that long.”
“I thought Gyges had it.”
“No.” The Chief Justice paused thoughtfully. “This is what you will do.”
The Chief Acolyte withdrew his PA and flipped the cover open.
“Epstein may know where the others are. Find out. Especially the whereabouts of the one called Maya.”
The Chief Acolyte, busy thumbing notes into his PA, glanced up at the Chief Justice. “She has the microchip?”
“We will allow them to enter the country unimpeded.”
“Have they have fled?”
“It's the only way they can be safe. But once they are back on our soil – once she is on our soil – we must move quickly.”
“What must I do, master?”
The Chief Justice waved his hand. “You will act in utmost secrecy. Hidden even from the other acolytes.”
“Yes, master.”
“Now listen carefully.”
“Don’t I always, master?”
The Chief Justice smiled. The Chief Acolyte bowed his head.
Marcellus lay in bed holding the ring in the air and rolling it between his fingers. What is this thing? he asked himself. What does it do?
The ring. They were after the ring. He was certain of it. The microchip didn’t matter.
Yes, he was certain of it. That annoying foreigner talking on his PA. And the man approaching from the left. Everyone’s attention had been diverted. No one would have seen. Who knew what danger he had almost stumbled into.
His imagination was working in full gear now. That man in the suit. He would have killed him. Or injected him with something. Or used simple chloroform gas. Or whatever. Either way, he would have lost consciousness quickly. To everyone else, he would have been just another Westerner who had had too much to drink.
The microchip didn’t matter. The others were in no danger at all. It was he. He was the one in danger. He was the one who needed protecting.
And all because of this plain, simple, golden ring.
How had he escaped? Or had he escaped? No, no, it was certain. He had escaped. But how?
He continued to play with the ring. Now he held it far away, now he brought it in close to his face.
Almost the thought burst out into his conscious world. Almost he hadn’t pushed it back down into the swirling depths of his mind. The ring… the ring…
So how had he escaped?
The automatic answer started to bubble up again. No, no, no, he told himself. It’s too good to be true. And such things don’t exist. You live in the real world, Marcellus Gyges. The real world! Magic rings don’t exist.
Magic rings don’t exist.
The next day, in the streets of Caracas with Jesus, the thought percolated back into his conscious self.
They were walking through the jungle of people shifting purposefully along the narrow alleyways between wide boulevards, calling out loudly to each other. The sidewalks were uneven and sometimes non-existent. The sky was the deepest blue, but puddles of dirty water huddled by the gutters. The sides of the streets were lined with stores of various kinds. Some sold jewelry by the bead, some clothing and shoes, others empanadas, arepas, and freshly made juices. Hastily constructed stalls displayed pineapples and cassava root, tomatoes and nectarines, passion fruit and onions. The smell of the fish stands preceded them. The fish, laid out on wheelbarrows, had been caught that morning. Occasionally, little kiosks selling Belmont and Marlboro cigarettes, candy bars and soft drinks, flitted by. Jesus led him quickly by them. His eyes darted swiftly about. There was something about the streets of Caracas that put Jesus on edge. That’s why he didn’t notice when Marcellus started playing his little game.
He tried it out first on a cute little girl holding her mother’s hand. They were walking on the other side of the alley, partially obscured by the tangle of bodies. The woman was short, middle aged, well fed. Her clothing was revealing and her hair was piled precariously on top of her head. She pulled the little girl after her as she craned her neck, peering into all the shops as they passed. In her other hand she loosely held a slip of paper. The little girl – maybe four or five years old – was dressed much more neatly than her mother. She had on a crisp pink outfit with hearts and teddy bears embroidered on the front. A pink elastic with a pink stone held her braided hair on top her of head. Slightly less pink shoes tread on the ground. She had large, dark eyes, and of all the people on the street that afternoon, they were trained on Marcellus.
The little girl's smile melted his heart, and after a time of making faces at her (she laughed and giggled) he caught sight up ahead of a man selling balloons. Marcellus felt something mischievous stir inside him. A hand slipped into one of his pockets and felt for the ring. As they passed, Marcellus hesitated and then quickly barked, staring the man firmly in the eyes, “See that girl there?” He pointed. “Give her one of your balloons.”
The girl now had a balloon. It was sky blue and floated above her head like an angel, dancing and swooning with each step up onto the sidewalk and each step back down.
Eventually the girl, her mother, and the balloon disappeared into an indoor market. Marcellus felt a pang of disappointment. His first instinct was to go after them and order them back. But he immediately recognized the absurdity of the thought.
He battled with himself as they pressed on. Adamantly, he continued to insist that everything was as it always had been. Even so he couldn’t quite quell the excitement bubbling up inside. Something wonderful was happening.
An angry woman pushed past them followed by a sweating, protesting man. He laid a heavy hand on her shoulder and made to push her against the side of a building. Marcellus told him to leave her alone. He did.
“Hey, Marcellus, you coming?” Jesus called to him from up ahead.
At one point, they stood waiting at a stoplight. A pretty girl on a scooter was idling next to them. Marcellus glanced over at her. She looked back at him.
A few minutes later Jesus ran up to him excitedly. “Did you see that? She just called me over and gave me her phone number!”
“Really?” replied Marcellus without any trace of surprise.
Once he almost got run over by a taxi. They were crossing the street when it seemed no one was coming. But sure enough Marcellus was half way across when an aging, rusted, bandaged-together Ford with two broken windows aimed right at him. Jesus couldn’t believe his eyes when Marcellus stopped in the middle of the road and appeared to shout something at the car.
“What’s wrong with you?” Jesus shouted after Marcellus got to the other side, his eyes panic-stricken.
So there appeared to be limits. Limits to what? Limits to…
Okay, so they had to be able to hear him. That sounded reasonable enough.
Marcellus and Jesus had a wonderful day together. As time went on, Marcellus began to feel like the most powerful person in the world. Slowly, the idea dawned on him that his life was forever changed. Every assumption, every pillar and every stone in the foundation of the world he had built inside his head could be challenged. Yes, anything was possible, and even though he had heard the words many times before, the difference was now he really believed it.
Jesus couldn’t believe his luck. Pretty girls kept offering him their phone numbers, and he was holding an ever-expanding array of his favorite designer clothing, thrust into his hands by beaming staff. “Look, Marcellus,” he would cry as he ran and displayed the newest addition. “Can you believe it?”
Marcellus could.
Laughing and chatting gaily together, they turned a corner into a tiny alley (it was a shortcut Jesus knew back to their car) and suddenly found themselves alone with two thugs pointing guns in their direction. They saw the bags Jesus was carrying and the ring on Marcellus’ finger and smiled.
“Why don’t you carry our new things to our car,” one of the thugs slurred, waving the gun in their direction.
Marcellus wasn’t in any mood for it. “I have a better idea,” he said coldly. “Shoot yourself in the foot.”
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.