Marcellus tossed his luggage in the rear bed and swung into the front seat. Jango, behind the wheel, greeted him coolly. To Marcellus’ surprise, his oldest and dearest friend was wearing a wide-brimmed cowboy hat. Behind them in the back was a thin, almost anorexic looking girl – she couldn’t have been more than eighteen – wearing a short miniskirt and too much make-up. All around them the lights of the aerodrome sparkled. The sky above was drenched in a wholesome, fading purple. In the distance a stream of lights well above the horizon marked the end of the restricted zone.
Marcellus had stood waiting for about an hour in front of the main entrance. When he saw Jango drive up in this gas-guzzling, cherry red, Chevy pickup truck, his irritation thickened. There was a gun rack mounted in the back. But what annoyed him most was –
“They fucking shoved something up my ass,” Marcellus complained bitterly, trying to get comfortable in the oversized, overheated bucket seat.
Jango chuckled as he pulled away from the curb. “Did you get the bloke's number?”
“It wasn’t a bloke!”
“Hey,” purred the girl in the back, leaning into the empty space between the two front seats. “You told me your name was Iggy.”
“Iggy?” Marcellus echoed, raising his eyebrows.
Jango shrugged. “Shut up, bitch.”
The girl rolled her eyes and settled into the back seat.
A soldier wielding a heavy machine gun waved them on. As they passed, Jango asked, “Why’d they stick something up your ass, Mark?”
“I don’t know. Said they were looking for bombs.”
“Bombs?” Jango sucked in hard through his nose. “They have machines for that. What do they have to go looking up your ass for?”
The girl in the back piped in again. “I saw something on the link – ”
“Missy,” Jango interrupted, throwing the girl a menacing glare through the rear-view mirror, “I told you once already. Now shut that suck-hole of yours and don’t let me hear it again.”
“I was just going to say – ”
“I ain’t gonna repeat myself.”
Missy mumbled something unpleasant and looked out the window.
Jango was fidgeting. He sucked in hard through his nose again.
“You doing coke?”
“You want some?”
“No.”
They rode for a while. Outside the purple was deepening. It showed splendidly off pools of water in the road. To the right was a huge, electrified fence with large, menacing signs mainly featuring silhouettes of soldiers with guns. Beyond lay the newly constructed spaceport, reserved for the exclusive use of the military. All they could see of it was an empty grass field losing itself in the gathering darkness.
“Hey, big boy.” It was the girl in the back again. “Can we stop for a minute? I need a Coke.”
Stirring, Marcellus asked, “No trouble while I was gone?”
“Not a thing.”
“You hear me?” insisted the girl.
“I think she's talking to you, big boy,” Marcellus remarked sourly.
Jango shrugged and sucked in through his nose. “I need another hit.”
“I still got some,” Missy told him.
“Give it to me.”
“Wait, Jango,” Marcellus protested. “There's a screen coming up.”
A bit further up they came upon it. A few large, transports from the national guard and smaller, tank-like vehicles were parked off the side of the road. Guardsmen lounged confidently about, smoking cigarettes and looking at the passing traffic. One or two were holding readers aimed at the oncoming license plates. No one was being stopped.
“Are we almost outside the zone?” Marcellus asked.
“Yeah.”
“Better get rid of the bitch then.”
“Bitch?” Missy clicked her tongue testily. “Who are you calling a bitch?”
“You!”
“You don’t even know me!”
Marcellus snorted derisively. “I know enough.”
Jango gurgled. “You wouldn’t say that if you knew half the things I know.”
“Jango,” Marcellus suddenly exploded, “this isn’t a fucking game! We need to talk!”
“What do you want me to do, Mark? We’re in the middle of nowhere.”
“I don't know! You fucking brought her! Just get rid of her!”
Missy laughed. “Who does he think he is?” She pulled absently on the long strands of her hair.
But Jango was already pulling over to the side of the road. “Sorry, babe,” he said dryly, pulling at his nose. “Looks like this is your stop.”
“But how am I going to get back to town?” she whined.
Jango shrugged. “Figure it out. You're a big girl.”
“Show your tits to the passers-by,” Marcellus suggested unhelpfully.
Missy appeared to have a sudden idea. “Can I use your PA? I want to make a call.”
“Don’t got one,” Marcellus pointed out.
“Not you,” she sneered.
“Big boy doesn't have one either.”
Jango came to a stop on the side of the road and turned around. “Give me the shit.”
“Why?”
“Because I want it.”
“You’re about to dump me on the side of the fucking road!”
“We’ll reconsider. Right, Mark?”
“Sure,” Marcellus said.
“See?”
“But I bought it! It’s mine!”
“Baby, don’t make me mad.”
Reaching into her purse, she pulled out a tiny, white envelope and handed it over to Jango.
“Thanks,” Jango said, tucking it into his jeans pocket. “I’ll call you later.”
“But you just said –”
“I know what I said.”
Missy didn't look like she was going to budge.
“Missy,” Jango said darkly, “if you don't start moving I’ll drag you out of here by your hair.”
Missy stared at him, caught between rage and fear. But when Jango made to get out, fear won out and she clicked open the door. “Don’t bother calling,” she spat and dropped out of the truck.
Marcellus drew a relieved breath of air. “Bad call, Jango,” he said.
“Yeah, well, you could’ve called some other time,” Jango replied as he pulled back onto the road.
“We past the restricted zone?”
“See those green lights up ahead?”
Marcellus saw them. He waited patiently until they reached them. Jango flipped a switch. A deep, throbbing sound filled the cab. The truck gave a little jolt.
Swiftly, Jango pulled back on the steering wheel and the red Chevy pickup soared into the air.
They coasted above the empty plains in the direction of Casper. All around them was darkness except for the crescent moon above, a multitude of stars, two planets, and the guiding lights on either side. Somewhere up ahead there were the double pinpoints of more cars.
“They singled me out.” Marcellus was still complaining. “Out of everybody on the ship, I was the only one.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Jango, I was the only fucking one!”
Jango stared disinterestedly out the windshield and scratched his balls. “They didn’t just pull your pants down in front of everybody, did they?”
“They took me to a private room.”
“So you don’t know what happened to anybody else.”
“You weren’t there, Jango.”
“You’re just pissed off because they – ” Jango let his sentence hang. “You think they knew?”
Marcellus shook his head stubbornly. “I would never have made it out of there if they did. I told you The Company won't alert the authorities. What's on that chip is too important.”
“They could be following us.”
Marcellus swallowed uncomfortably and glanced behind. There was only blackness. “Cut the trip, Jango. What would they want with my ass?”
“What would anyone want with your ass?” There was a moment of silence, and then Marcellus and Jango were laughing.
Marcellus held the wheel while Jango dug a key into the tiny, white envelope. After he had snorted and stuffed them back in his pocket, Marcellus asked, “Everybody back yet?”
“Yeah.” Jango took control of the wheel again, eyes popping out of his head. “No. Everybody except Maya.”
“What happened to Maya?”
“I don’t know. She ain’t here.”
“It was a rhetorical question, Jango.”
Jango sucked in sharply through his nose and put on some speed.
Marcellus thought for a moment. “And Icarus, Jennifer…”
“Did I drop some on the floor?” Jango lifted himself off the seat and tried to get a look at what was under him.
Marcellus nodded. “Just probably got side-tracked or something.” He shrugged and stared out the window. “I don’t feel like heading back just yet. Why don’t we grab a beer?”
“Sure,” Jango agreed. It sounded like a splendid idea.
The Good Ol' Boy Saloon was not exactly Marcellus’ sort of place. And before today, he didn't think it was Jango’s sort of place, either. But Jango had on that stupid cowboy hat, and sitting among all the other blokes wearing cowboy hats, Marcellus was amazed to find that he fit in. Or he seemed to fit in. Marcellus actually knew Jango. He was no cowboy, even if he thought he liked his hat.
Marcellus, Icarus, and Jennifer definitely didn’t fit in. They might as well have been African, Hispanic, or Asian, because they weren’t any of them there, either.
They were crammed into a booth near the back, bathed in the strange, bluish light that was reflecting off the dancers on the podiums near the front. They were beautiful girls, topless and well endowed, with long boots and cute, little cowboy hats of their own. They were wearing flimsy, transparent panties to which were attached tiny holsters with plastic guns that they occasionally drew and fired at blokes in the audience they wanted money from. Behind them an anonymous hillbilly band was playing some off-key, twangy tune. The singer was drunk. Interspersed randomly throughout the thin crowd were large, silent vidscreens. Some were depicting a baseball game. Others were showing scenes of wanton destruction, billowing pillars of smoke and flashing lights and men and women with guns trained on seemingly empty ruins or surprised bystanders. This was the War on Terror, piped in from a safe and entertaining distance.
Marcellus looked tense. Jango and Jennifer were staring off into the thin crowd, although with very different expressions. Jango’s face was relaxed but alert, eyes shifting. The coke was gone and he had taken a pill to ease the discomfort. Jennifer was holding her face in one hand, absently flexing her fingers. The brightly painted nails moved slowly and listlessly, like underwater plants in a gentle current. Icarus, thin and gaunt and dressed in black, with his thickset, squarish glasses and great mop of dark, curly hair and all his greasy pustules, was sunk as far into the booth as he could manage without actually slipping onto the floor.
“That’s a nice looking ring, Markie,” Jennifer said suddenly. “Did you get it in Venezuela?”
“Where the fuck is she?” Marcellus demanded, pretending he hadn't heard, and sank back into the spongy, plastic back of the booth. “She’s got the chip.”
Jennifer shrugged. “She'll show up.”
“You said it didn’t matter,” Jango rumbled.
Icarus, nodding vigorously, stammered slightly when he told her, “Tomorrow's the day we all agreed on.”
“That was then,” Marcellus said. “It's bugging me now.”
Jennifer clicked her tongue. “Who knows? Maybe she’ll be there when we get back to the house.”
Jango shook his head adamantly. “She’s got to make contact with me first. Just like the rest of you. She has no idea where we are.”
“If we don't get the chip back, they'll send us to a camp,” Icarus said, eyes bugging from his head. They could all see that he was scared. “That’s a fact.”
“Go stick your head in the toilet, Icarus,” Jango growled.
But it was true. They all knew it. Without the chip they had nothing to bargain with, no path to new lives. Here they were without proper ID cards, without jobs, without a way to function – to exist, even – in their society. The only way to obtain them was with something valuable enough to purchase them from people powerful enough to provide them. It was the risk they had all taken.
“All you care about is the chip,” Jennifer told them accusingly. “What if she's really in trouble?”
Marcellus took a swig of beer and said, “Jango, our cards expire by the end of the week. Can you get us new ones?”
Jango shook his head. “Not without cash.”
“Don’t got much more of that.”
“Maybe she’s hurt, or been kidnapped,” Jennifer speculated.
“A lot of cash. Anyway it takes time,” Jango added.
“No one’s been kidnapped!” Marcellus snapped.
“Well why not?” Icarus seconded. “Don’t you think it’s strange she happens to be the one with the chip?”
“Maybe she's run off,” Jennifer said, clearly enjoying herself now.
“There's no place she can hide I won't find her,” Jango said darkly and burped.
“No,” Marcellus replied stubbornly. “I don’t think it’s strange. And no, I don't think she's run off! Will you stop it, Jen?”
“But just a minute ago you said –”
“I know what I said, Icarus.”
“Maybe we should try and find her,” Jennifer continued, cupping her chin in her hands and glancing around the table between long eyelashes.
“Great idea, Jen,” Icarus mumbled, “and how are we going to do that? Get on your PA and call the national guard in Virginia? Ask if maybe she's popped up on the grid?”
Jennifer's eyes narrowed into slits.
Marcellus heaved a great sigh of frustration. “Kids, could you please kill the petty bickering?”
“You know, Markie,” Jennifer began, “I’ve been living in the same house as this piece of shit turd for three days and he hasn't taken a single shower.”
Jango smiled.
Icarus almost sat up in his seat, but then he remembered where he was. Slinking back down, he shot back, “You're no pleasure to live with either, princess.”
“I can’t think!” Marcellus called out irritably.
“Not one time,” Jennifer repeated.
“Is that true, Icarus?” Jango asked softly. His eyes twinkled with glee. “No showers?”
“You're a vulture, Jango,” Icarus replied uneasily.
“Shut up, Jango,” Marcellus hissed.
The smile clinging savagely to his face, Jango leaned back and remained quiet.
“I wash every day,” Icarus insisted petulantly to no one in particular.
“Yes, Icarus,” Marcellus snapped. “I'm happy to hear it. Now can we talk about Maya?” He looked hard at Jennifer, who winked at him and then stared at her empty beer.
No one spoke for a while. Jennifer hummed quietly to herself, some annoyingly happy but unrecognizable tune that clashed with the konky-tonk music. Jango and Icarus drained their beers. Marcellus seemed to wrestle with his. After a while the silence grew oppressive. “Where did everybody head off to?” he finally asked.
“I went to Amsterdam,” Jennifer told him cheerily.
Marcellus frowned. “Amsterdam? You were supposed to leave the country! What's the point of hiding where they can still get to you?”
Jennifer seemed taken aback. “But I did leave the country.”
Icarus gaffawed and slapped himself on the thigh. “She's not the brightest bulb in the chandelier, is she?”
Jennifer looked back and forth between Marcellus and Icarus. “I – I don't understand. I flew across the ocean.”
“The Northern Provinces aren't called provinces because their people fancy the term,” Icarus told her snidely.
“You think they've got a lock on us?” Jango asked Marcellus in a low grumble.
Marcellus looked quickly about. No one seemed to be paying any attention to them. “No, no. Let's not get paranoid.” He shook his head. “I just can't believe – ” He did his best not to be insulting. “How could you be so fucking stupid?”
Jennifer looked as if she were about to cry. “I'm sorry, Markie. I didn't know – Just look at a map! The Netherlands is labeled in bold. It doesn't say United States of America.”
“Here in the real world, we don't call things by their proper names,” Icarus remarked dryly.
“Well anyway,” Jennifer continued, wiping her nose with a napkin, “I didn't stay there long.”
Marcellus suddenly looked hopeful. “You didn't?”
“No,” she said as she blew into the napkin. “Fucking boring as hell over there. And the food sucks. Only place I've been where they treat fat like a spice. After a week or two I headed south and crossed into the Med Union near Lyons. It was pretty fucking hard getting through, too. They weren't letting Americans in, but, well, I have my ways.” She smiled at them all mysteriously and dropped the napkin onto the floor.
“You mean you slept with the guards,” Icarus remarked dryly.
Jennifer shrugged. “I got through, didn't I? Spent the time in Barcelona lying on the beach and being treated to my every desire by a rich prince from Algeria. He wasn't an old man, either. Bet none of you can come close to matching that.” She leaned back in her seat and lifted her nose at them.
Marcellus wiped his forehead. “Now I feel better. If anyone was on your tail in the Netherlands, chances are they lost you once you crossed over.”
“How'd you get back?” Jango demanded.
Jennifer looked at him out of the corner of her eye. “What do you mean?”
“You said they weren't letting Americans in. So how'd you get out?”
She shrugged. “Same way I got in.”
He smiled luridly at her. His teeth were crooked and brown. “You know, I wouldn't mind some of that, Jen.”
Jennifer laughed shrilly. “In your dreams, Jango. And not even then.”
“Hey, Jango,” Marcellus said jovially, “you don’t look like you have much to do. Go get us a round of beers. And be quick about it!”
Much to everyone's surprise, Jango jumped up and ran off.
“He only ever listens to you,” Jennifer remarked as she watched him go.
Marcellus shrugged. “Hope his wallet's loaded up.”
“It's true what she says,” Icarus pointed out. “You don't know what it's like when you're not here. He's a real monster, Mark. How'd you ever get to be friends?”
“He wants to be the boss, that's all.” A mischievous smile crept onto Jennifer's face. “He tried to take Icarus' dinner for himself the other night because – oh, I can't remember any more. Do you, Ikkie?”
“Because I burped at the table.” He shook his head. “Gas of all kinds is constantly escaping from his body, and he gets all wound up over one little burp.”
“It stank!” Jennifer pointed out.
“Yeah, well, in the end I had my dinner.”
Icarus caught sight of Jango pushing roughly through the drunken patrons gathered in clumps between the tables, ignoring the cat-calls of the girls on stage. He approached, set four bottles of beer on the table, and grabbed Marcellus by the throat. Icarus and Jennifer watched in a curious mix of shock and wonder as he lifted him out of the booth and thrust him against the wall. Transformed, his eyes were bulging from his head and his face was burning red. A corner of his mouth twitched violently.
Pressing his face close to Marcellus', words pushed past his teeth. They were close-cropped and strained. “Don’t ever do that to me again.”
Marcellus, kicking and gasping for air, could only look back and wrestle futilely with the vice grip at his throat.
“Do what?” Jennifer asked as some men she didn’t know pushed past her. She looked blankly at Icarus.
Eventually, Jango let Marcellus down. When it appeared that there would be no punches thrown, the men retreated, but they kept looking back over their shoulders, partly to make sure there would be no surprises, and partly because Jango was so big and impressive when he was angry.
Marcellus, rubbing his neck, resumed his seat at the booth. Jango remained standing, staring down at him angrily.
“Do what?” Jennifer repeated.
Marcellus sighed in resignation and looked up at his old friend. “I'm sorry, mate. Just let me explain.” He looked around at the others. “There's something I have to tell you.”
There was little conversation during the ride back to the safe house. Jango sat stony faced behind the wheel of the red Chevy pickup, guiding them skillfully through the streets of Casper. As usual, he managed to avoid the random flashpoints. Once down a side street they caught sight of a heavy convoy, a roadblock, and flashing lights. Cars had been stopped and were waiting in a line. Jango, though, hardly gave it a glance and drove past.
Marcellus, sitting next to Jango in front, was calmly looking out the window. He was enormously relieved that he had finally told the others about the ring. A vague plan was already forming in his mind of what to do next. The question was whether or not they had the stomach for it. Well, Jango would, and probably Maya, too. But Jennifer and Icarus? He wasn't sure.
When they filed into the battered living room of the safe house, Marcellus was still deciding what he would say. But he never got the chance. As soon as he turned on the lights, he was grabbed by strong, rough hands.
“Let go of me!” he burst out angrily. In an instant, he was free. Whirling around, he saw that his friends were being held. Their captors were large and beefy with shaved heads, including an Oriental female. All were wearing brightly colored, well tailored suits. One was grass green, one was sky blue, another orange like sherbert. Somehow they seemed familiar. “Release my friends!” Marcellus ordered, and it was done.
Sitting in one of the armchairs in the center of the room was a curious figure. It was robed, and its hood was pulled down just above its eyes. Thin, young hands rested lightly on the armrests. Its pupils were fastened to the ring on Marcellus’ hand, and mixed up with the awe clearly visible there was alarm, even fear.
Marcellus took a threatening step towards the mysterious figure. “Who are you?”
The robed figure did not respond. Its eyes remained fixed on the ring. A soft, pink tongue darted from a thin mouth and wet its lips.
“Answer me!”
The robed figure winced slightly. “I am the Chief Acolyte,” it said. The voice was fully developed and yet betrayed a certain youthfulness.
Marcellus thought he understood. “You know what this is, don’t you?” he asked, holding up the hand with the ring.
Again, the Chief Acolyte licked his lips.
“Answer me!”
“Yes!”
“How?”
The Chief Acolyte paused before responding. “My master made it.”
Marcellus was stunned. In an instant he knew that a grave danger had been averted. “You know whose this is?” he asked, touching it lightly with his other hand. “It makes you do whatever I want.”
The Chief Acolyte laughed derisively. “It does more than that, you fool.”
Marcellus didn't like being laughed at. “So tell me what else it does.”
The Chief Acolyte appeared reluctant to say.
“Tell me!”
To his amazement, the Chief Acolyte appeared to resist. His face narrowed and filled with discomfort. His mouth writhed as he fought to hold back the words.
“Tell me, goddammit!” hollered Marcellus, learning forward and pouring his will into the space between them.
The Chief Acolyte moaned. “I can’t!” he whispered horribly. “It depends!”
“You're not making sense!”
Now the Chief Acolyte was panting. Still, he retained his composure. His hands had never left the armrests. “My master says the only limiting factor is the wielder himself.”
“I want to learn,” Marcellus implored, taking a step forward. “Teach me what I need to know.”
The Chief Acolyte smiled condescendingly.
“You think I'm not up to it? Teach me!” Marcellus' nostrils flared.
Again, the Chief Acolyte flinched, but this time he stood firm. “No.”
“Teach me!” Marcellus roared and flung himself at the Chief Acolyte.
The goons did not stand idly by. They lunged to intercept him. Growling deeply, Jango leaped to his Marcellus' defense.
The Chief Acolyte screamed shrilly. “Wait!” he hollered. “Wait!”
Impatiently, Marcellus waved Jango away. The Chief Acolyte muttered something rudely at the goons. They parted obediently like water. Marcellus and the Chief Acolyte faced each other once again. Now they were both panting.
“I cannot instruct you,” the Chief Acolyte said quickly. “I am but a student myself.”
“You lie.” Marcellus collapsed, resigned, into the seat across from his unwanted guest and stared moodily at the floor. The Chief Acolyte gave an audible sigh of relief. Jango, not understanding much of what was being said, moved to stand behind Marcellus. Icarus and Jennifer scampered after him.
“Why are you here?” Marcellus eventually asked, still staring at the floor.
The Chief Acolyte smiled. “Isn’t that obvious?”
He looked up. “You thought you could get the ring back.”
The Chief Acolyte nodded.
“And this was the best plan you could come up with?”
“I do not question my master's orders. I simply follow them.”
“Some master,” Marcellus snorted. “What if I had decided to, you know, kill you or something?”
The Chief Acolyte shrugged.
“You don’t care?”
“Of course I care!”
Marcellus thought he understood. “It’s part of what you do. Part of your –” Marcellus waved vaguely at the goons.
“Yes, my job.” The Chief Acolyte chuckled darkly. “Anyway, our latest information indicated you weren’t wearing the ring.”
Marcellus’ face darkened. “You’re spying on us?”
“Of course. And it’s a good thing, too! You think this idiot’s friend in the National Guard is enough to keep you from driving into a random flashpoint?”
“What are you talking about?”
“The whole point of a random flashpoint is that it's random! You mean he didn’t tell you?”
Jango winked at Marcellus from under the wide brim of his cowboy hat. “It wasn’t something I thought you needed to know.”
Marcellus grunted disinterestedly and turned back to the Chief Acolyte. “What do you care if we get caught?”
“Oh, we care a great deal. You are carrying something of quite some value to us.”
“But if the police or the Guard got us, you’d have it back.”
The Chief Acolyte’s eyes narrowed. “We know where it is. For the moment it must suffice.”
“You mean no one else knows about it and if they did they might not want to give it back.” Marcellus brooded for a moment. He was wondering what he should do now that the ring's owners had apparently been able to track him down. Who else knew where they were? Even if this encounter ended well, what was to prevent this robed figure – or, worse, someone he worked for – from showing up again? But as he pondered, a question began to intrude upon his thoughts. The stream of consciousness was interrupted. He had to ask it. “The ring commands but doesn’t prevent lies?” he blurted out.
The Chief Acolyte smiled. “It depends how you phrase your commands.”
“You mean –” Marcellus paused a moment. “Ah, I get it.” Suddenly he frowned. “I don’t get it at all. What you’re telling me is this ring is magic.”
The Chief Acolyte’s eyes sparkled. “Magic,” he repeated. “Yes.”
“Bullshit.”
“Watch what you say, Mark,” Jango purred dangerously. His voice hovered ominously somewhere above his head. “Magic or not, the fucking thing does what he says it does.”
At that, the Chief Acolyte balled his hands into fists. “Can’t you control your entourage?” he demanded petulantly. “As you can see, I have full control of mine.”
Entourage, Marcellus repeated to himself. Somehow the word thrilled him.
“You’ve used it on your friend here?” the Chief Acolyte sneered, jabbing his chin in Jango’s direction.
“It was an accident.”
“There are no accidents. Anyway, he understands the power of the ring. Maybe you should give it to him!”
“Power is a concept I can understand.”
“But magic isn’t.”
Marcellus gestured vaguely. “I believe in things that can be explained rationally. Next you'll tell me you believe in ghosts!”
“Don't you?” The Chief Acolyte looked as if he pitied him. “What you are caught up on is a word. Magic. You think of parlor tricks. True, it’s difficult to explain, but it doesn’t mean the power doesn’t exist. You can’t accept that your mind exerts influence over the world?”
“You mean, change it? No.”
“But, Gyges, it does so all the time.”
“Stop playing games.”
“Have you ever cooked?”
“I said –” Marcellus started to interrupt.
“Answer the question.”
“Yes! I’ve opened a freeze-dried packet and popped it in the magnetron. Just like billions of people do every day. What of it?”
“In your mind you envisioned a hot meal. Minutes later, you had one.”
Marcellus felt like he had been tricked. “It’s not the same thing.”
“Why?”
“Because!”
The Chief Acolyte smiled. “Now you are talking like a child.”
“Oh, fuck you, too,” Marcellus spat while his mind grasped for what he wanted to say. “To make the food,” he began again, “I opened the freezer. I reached in and I pulled out –”
“You affected the physical world around you is my point. And the process was guided by a mere thought in your mind.”
“In ways that I can explain!”
“Well,” scoffed the Chief Acolyte, “whether you can explain it or not is of no consequence. Magic works the same way. And why shouldn’t it? You start with a clear idea of what you want, and then you use your mind to achieve it.”
“I could have opened the freezer door with my mind.”
“You could have ended up with a warm meal. If your objective was an open freezer door, that works just as well, but it’s a different objective.”
“And how would I cook using magic?”
“You mean instantly create a ready-to-eat meal without going through any steps in between?”
Marcellus nodded.
“Well, that’s a question of a different kind. The more you understand how the worlds that bind us work and the sharper your mind becomes, the more you can expect to achieve with it. Theoretically, you could accomplish anything you are capable of imagining. You could throw fireballs or give the moon a shove in her orbit, stop an oncoming train or change events in the past! You could remember the future. Of course, most of us never achieve such an intensity of focus. When we start using magic, we don't usually specify the means of achieving our goal. By impressing our will on the fabric of space and time, the universe brings it about in its own way. When we focus on the objective alone, the easier it is to achieve, but the less control we have over the means.”
“You're living in a world of fairy tales,” Marcellus scoffed, shaking his head.
The Chief Acolyte studied Marcellus intently. “I think,” he said finally, “I understand your problem. You are picturing effects without causes. Gyges, listen to me. Magic abides by the rules of the physical world. If a fireball is summoned into existence, it is real fire and it behaves like fire. If as I said before a train is stopped in its tracks, it may be because a boulder has fallen in front of it, in which case it has crashed. Or it might be that the engine has suddenly cut out. Do you understand?"
Marcellus' mind was racing. He had come across people in the past who talked like the Chief Acolyte, people who believed in spirits and magic, who professed that the most important events in life were not physical in nature at all. “Yes, I understand.” But there were, of course, more pressing matters at hand. He regained control of himself and stifled his curiosity. “So the ring is yours.” He eyed the Chief Acolyte and reminded himself that he could not trust him. “Who do you work for? You and these colleagues of yours?”
“The government.”
Marcellus was taken aback. “The government? What would they want with us?”
The Chief Acolyte smiled at him as if at a small child. “I think it's hardly relevant.”
Marcellus heaved a great sigh of frustration and looked up at his friend. “I don't know, Jango. Think we could make it relevant?”
“I don't know. You've got that ring, Mark.” Jango spoke slowly, a smile full of crooked teeth flashing in the Chief Acolyte's direction.
“There’s no need to resort to cheap threats!” the Chief Acolyte snapped. “You need me. Anyway I am quite safe. If you were going to harm me, you would have done so already. Now you are calm. We are speaking. Person to person, Gyges to –” At that, the Chief Acolyte broke off. His eyes blinked away.
“Yes, Gyges to who?” Marcellus pressed, leaning forward.
“I am the Chief Acolyte,” the Chief Acolyte replied after a moment. “My name is my own. Perhaps you have seen me in an intercast?”
“Are you famous or something?”
The Chief Acolyte shrugged. “I tend to Chief Justice Xiling. Usually I stand behind him during public appearances.”
“You mean one of those scrawny, little students standing behind the Justices when they interpret the law?” Marcellus’ face bunched up like an Oriental dog.
The Chief Acolyte scowled. “We have other duties as well. We gather information. The Court must have its eyes and ears.”
“Well, I’ve never seen any of you dressed like that,” remarked Marcellus, gesturing at the robe and hood. “And I’ve definitely never seen goons like these guys. At least not in the service of the Justices of the Supreme Court. Or their – ” Marcellus waved his hand at the Chief Acolyte “– servants.”
“I am not a servant,” the Chief Acolyte protested irritably. “I am a student.” Absently, he brushed off the front of his robe. “Naturally, you have never seen us as we truly are. We hide it from ordinaries like you, ignorant rabble who still believe that God is somehow separate from them and needs to be appeased by all manner of empty, archaic ritual.” His voice had degenerated into a mocking sneer.
“You are an apprentice of some sort?”
The Chief Acolyte crossed his legs and tapped his slippers lightly on the floor. “Yes.”
“And one day you hope to succeed your – master?” The word dropped chilly from his lips.
The Chief Acolyte’s eyes flickered. “Yes.”
“But the President appoints the Justices of the Supreme Court. And the Senate has to vote on it.”
“He should like to think so,” snorted the Chief Acolyte. He seemed miffed at the thought. “And the Senate does what it is told.”
“How come I've never heard about any of this before? You're saying the Supreme Court operates a secret network of spies. You're saying the Justices practice the dark arts. You're saying you can make rings of magic.” He glanced at the ring. It was real enough.
“There's a story behind it, you know,” the Chief Acolyte offered helpfully.
“Well stop playing games and tell it!”
The Chief Acolyte's eyes widened and both hands flew to his temples. He spent a few moments in stunned silence, blinking uncomfortably, but he recovered quickly enough. “As you wish,” he grated. His hands found their way back to his lap. “As you may or may not recall from your lessons, when Murroughs – the Elder one I mean – liberated Constantinople and drove out the armies of the Russians and the Med Union, gaining for us at last a foothold on the Mediterranean, she was rewarded with the Presidency.
“At that time, the nation was in a period of decay and unrest. There were far too many ambitious souls in the government. Factions formed and just as quickly melted away, each mindlessly pursuing his own interests and heedless of the chaos that resulted. Rickety bridges collapsed, nuclear plants sprung leaks, entire cities were laid waste by earthquakes and sea storms. They lay in ruin while the politicians and the captains of industry tried to figure out how to fill their pockets and gain advantage for themselves.
“That’s why the people welcomed Murroughs. She was a general, not a politician or the chief of a combine. And even though her remedy was to adorn the skies and public buildings with scanners, create a national registry of citizens, censor the link, take over the means of production, speed up the course of justice – even though she did all these things, the ordinaries overlooked them because the stock markets finally began to rise and they had jobs again. But there were still the factions. They didn’t like the executive orders that Murroughs was using to push her agenda. They were jealous of her popularity. In those days, their only recourse was bribery of the Congress. In exchange, the Congress would pass laws favorable to their interests. And the factions, sensing a common cause against the President, ganged up against her.
“She could have launched a terror. It's happened before, you know, in other countries in times past. Mass executions and the like. Kangaroo courts erected in high school parking lots, each equipped with their own mobile injection unit. Crowds of onlookers gathered around munching popcorn as neighbor denounced neighbor, the denunciation itself sufficient to convict. But Murroughs did not choose the easy path. Instead, she challenged these pseudo-laws in the courts, and usually they made it all the way up to the Supreme Court. In most cases, the Supreme Court struck them down.
“Isn’t it ironic?” the Chief Acolyte wondered, his eyes unfocused and staring off somewhere beyond the ceiling, into times past and days long gone. “In those days, the executive was our ally against the legislative.”
Coughing, Marcellus interrupted. “You can hardly be old enough to remember them yourself.”
The Chief Acolyte sucked in through his nose and gathered his attention to the present place. “Yes, well, I know them intimately. At any rate, the special interests, these factions – the monotheists, the environmentalists, the capitalist unions, the labour unions, the socialists, the animal rights activists, the handicapped, the homosexuals, the transexuals, the heterosexuals, the priests, the hunters, even the junkies – in a word, everyone! – refused to be bested. You know what they did?” the Chief Acolyte demanded with surprising intensity.
Marcellus, vaguely uncomfortable, shook his head and wished the Chief Acolyte would stop pausing.
“They resorted to technicality. The Supreme Court struck down a law and the very same day the Congress would pass a new one with slightly different wording. The same law, in effect, but because it wasn’t exactly the same – maybe they had changed a few details – it had to wind its way through the system all over again, only to be struck down on the same grounds. The whole process could take months.
“You can imagine the frustration of the nation's supreme Justices! They had the power – the obligation! – to strike down these laws, to refine them, and yet they could not command respect for their judgments.” The Chief Acolyte’s voice dropped low with resentment. “They were made into a laughing stock.”
The Chief Acolyte seemed to be waiting. Marcellus had the feeling the Chief Acolyte had been reciting to him. But if so, it was an element of a world completely disconnected from his own. He sat waiting impatiently.
At last, the Chief Acolyte continued. “Finally, Murroughs issued an executive order giving the Supreme Court the power to arrest and imprison members of the government or citizenry who did not abide by its rulings. And to make this possible, a very small – very small, mind you! – security force was decreed, funded by fees extracted from the losing side of any case brought before it.
“It was a stroke of genius! Within months the Congress was forced to abandon its tactics. Of course, Congress, too, has the power of imprisonment, but their security forces are either non-existent or provided by the executive. They tried to strip us of ours, O yes, they tried, but after just the tiniest bit of bloodshed, they quit trying. The weaklings!”
The Chief Acolyte sat grinning fiendishly. The sight sickened Marcellus. “Come on. Get on with it!”
“As I said, our security forces were created by Presidential decree, and for a time this worked in the interests of the President. But the act eventually took on a life and direction of its own, and Murrough’s successor, her son – well, he was a fool as we all know. That’s why we had him executed.”
Marcellus sat very still. This was an assertion he had never heard before.
The silent grin on the Chief Acolyte’s face seemed much too wide for it, the eyes much too hollow, the cheek bones far too high. “We were able to reach an understanding with his successor, Sindhra. She hated us, but there was nothing she could do. She was wise enough to realize it. Jimenez inherited the truce. But Epstein, he is not so wise. He is not content with the power that a freemocracy affords him. He feuds with us openly.”
“I never knew anything about it.”
“No, of course not. We are careful to hide disagreements such as ours from public view.”
“I’ll bet,” Marcellus muttered darkly, chewing his bottom lip. He was uncomfortable with the conversation. His thoughts began to turn once again to what to do with this Chief Acolyte and his goons, because eventually he knew this interview must end. But his concentration was broken up by a new, burning curiosity that – even as he gave into it – didn't feel like it came from inside his own mind. “The law!” he blurted out.
“Yes?” the Chief Acolyte pressed.
“How can you claim to represent the law when you break into my house and try and kidnap us?”
“Oh,” he scoffed, as if Marcellus had asked him why the sky was blue. “The law you speak of doesn’t apply to me.”
“The law is the law. It applies to everyone.”
“Are you going to tell me the nature of the law?” the Chief Acolyte retorted icily.
“That’s how they explained it in school and that's what they say in the casts every night.”
“Yes, well, that’s because you are an ordinary. The laws you hear about are for people like you.”
“You mean there are other laws?”
“Yes. They operate differently and govern other people. The laws that govern you are strict fiats and there are millions of them. They reach into every aspect of your life.”
“I know,” Marcellus agreed. “It’s a freemocracy but – ” He didn’t know how to finish his sentence.
“But you don’t feel so free,” the Chief Acolyte finished it for him and smiled warmly. “Yes, thank you. We are all quite proud, you know. The law is the perfect tyrant. It has no face. It cannot be overthrown or assassinated and it has no mind of its own. Yet it can be shaped. It can serve interests. It doesn't matter who the President is.”
“Whose interests?”
“We specials, of course.”
“Specials?” Marcellus repeated the word, trying it out on his lips.
“Yes, yes, and those – ” he jerked his hooded head behind him “ – are mods.”
“Mods?”
“They have been genetically modified.”
Marcellus had a sudden moment of inspiration. “Like those things, those drones, back at The Company.”
The Chief Acolyte smiled but said nothing.
“And I suppose they have their own laws, too?”
“No, of course not!” snapped the Chief Acolyte. “It would be impossible to draft a set of laws for them. Every special who grows a human being modifies the genetic code according to his own needs. They are so many different strains. No, no, the law does not recognize mods.”
“You mean you can do whatever you want with them?”
“Yes.”
“Kill them?”
“The word we prefer to use is ‘terminate’,” the Chief Acolyte told him, nodding his head. “Their situation with respect to the law makes them uniquely qualified to fulfill certain functions in our society. For example, they make excellent subjects for medical experiments.”
“And what if one of them steals something, or –”
“Goes beserk?” prodded the Chief Acolyte with a sadistic twinkle in his eye.
It’s not at all what Marcellus had been thinking, but he nodded his head anyway.
“The special who created the mod, who owns it, is legally responsible for it.”
Jennifer could no longer restrain herself. Bristling with anger, she stepped out from behind Jango's back and, waving a hand full of nails, demanded shrilly, “I've had enough of all this bullshit talk! Where’s Maya, you fucking freak?”
The Chief Acolyte was clearly offended. “This is just barbaric! Have you no manners?”
Marcellus’ mind was reeling. A whole new world was opening up before him, one in which society had been split up into layers based on privileges and where some of them had entourages. Specials, he repeated the word to himself. He was sure they never had to deal with Population Control or submit to a security screen.
“I know you know where she is,” Jennifer insisted. Her long, dangling earrings chirped brightly.
“Actually, it's a good question,” Marcellus agreed. “And I don't care who's doing the asking.”
The Chief Acolyte remained silent.
“You fucking freaks took her!” Jennifer jabbed a accusing, orange fingernail in his direction. “Now give her back!”
“Jen!” Marcellus snapped. “Let me handle this!”
“Shut your trap,” Icarus hissed.
Jennifer muttered something but Jango lay a heavy hand on her shoulder and she quieted down.
Marcellus returned his attention to the Chief Acolyte. “I could make you tell me,” he added, laying a finger on the ring and twisting it gently.
“You’ll find out soon enough.”
“So you do know something! I’d rather find out now.”
The Chief Acolyte smiled. “I’m not so sure. Your power over the ring is limited. I, on the other hand, am intimately familiar with it.”
“Are you challenging me?” Marcellus asked icily. “Because the next thing I say – ”
“The government has her, of course.”
“Which side? Are you telling me the truth?”
“Epstein’s men. We don’t know where they are holding her. But we believe she will be released soon.”
“They have the chip?”
“No. But you can rest assured, neither does she.”
“Fuckin’ A,” Jango breathed.
“Who has it?”
The Chief Acolyte smiled. “It can hardly matter to you now, can it?”
“We’re fucked,” Jango growled. “In a few days we won't even be able to leave this house. How are we supposed to pick up supplies?”
“Perhaps,” the Chief Acolyte said, snapping his fingers, “these will help.” One of the goons – the woman – stepped forward and pressed a stack of laminated cards into his hands. He held them up for Marcellus to see.
“ID cards?” he said uncertainly.
“The very best kind.”
“They won’t match our tattoos,” Jango pointed out.
“Yes, they will. We've replaced your records. You all have new names. Same numbers, of course. Different lives.” He held them out to Marcellus invitingly.
“Why should we trust you?”
“I already told you,” the Chief Acolyte said patiently. “It is in our interests that you remain out of Epstein’s hands.”
Marcellus wanted to argue but he saw no reason. Reluctantly, he accepted the cards.
“And now, Gyges, this pleasant little meeting of ours must come to an end.”
“I don’t know about that,” Marcellus muttered. He was staring at the pile of plastic in his hands as if to assure himself they were the genuine item.
“My dear Gyges,” the Chief Acolyte said, shaking his head pitifully. “Don't you realize it by now? You are quite simply out of your league.” There followed a sudden, loud bang and a puff of acrid smelling smoke. Jango shouted and rushed forward. But it didn’t take long before the smoke cleared and they all could see plainly that the Chief Acolyte and his goons were gone.
The loud noises continued. After a few moments Marcellus realized the vidscreen attached to the wall above them had switched on. The volume was turned all the way up. He glanced at it. A row of pristinely dressed women was waiting to suck off penises protruding from holes in a black wall. On it were drawn threatening figures with thick faces and large jaws, Germanic manly men. Oh yes, he had seen this one before. They had to guess which one was their husbands’.
“Why did you let him go?” Jango asked.
“He used his magic on me,” Marcellus replied coolly.
“What magic?” Jennifer wanted to know. “It all seemed perfectly normal to me until he disappeared.”
“It was magic, Jen!” Marcellus insisted. “He distracted me with trivia until the right moment came for his escape.”
“That doesn't sound like magic to me,” Jennifer told him, blowing a bubble.
Marcellus groped for a cigarette. “I heard his voice inside my head, asking questions. And I had to have the answers – ” He stopped suddenly as if he wasn't quite sure what he was describing.
Jennifer frowned and put her hands on her hips. “You're saying he made you ask all those questions?”
“No. Yes!” Marcellus shook his head in frustration. “I just don't like using it,” he finally admitted.
“You don't like using it?” Jennifer retorted. “It's the most powerful weapon in the world! You can make anyone do whatever you want. Why wouldn't you want to use it?”
Marcellus shrugged. “It's wrong.”
Jango started laughing.
Marcellus threw a dark glance over his shoulder. “It's not funny, Jango. You should know.”
Just as quickly, Jango quieted down. A dark, angry shadow descended over him. “You can't not use the ring, Mark,” he said in a slow, dangerous voice. “They know you have it. Next time they show up we might not be so lucky.”
“Just don't use it on any of us!” Jennifer insisted and blew another bubble. “Other than that, I don't care what you do with it!”
“You got to put the fear of Marcellus into them!” Jango hollered and chuckled darkly again.
Marcellus sighed in frustration. “Of course I'll have to use the ring. I know that. Especially with what I've got in mind. But that doesn't change the fact. It's wrong. It's a crime against nature. You're making jokes now, Jango, but I saw how angry you were back at the Saloon.”
Icarus’ eyes were bright. “But you can learn to use it wisely, Mark,” he told him, pressing up close. His thick glasses, the pockmarked face, a vast tub of curly hair all swam before Marcellus' eyes. The breath was slightly sour. “You heard the freak! There’s so much more than telling people what to do. Fuck the chip! Who needs the chip when we have this ring?” He looked intently around at the others.
The look in Jennifer’s eyes was unmistakable. We can become powerful, too! is what it said.
“What do you think, Jango?” Marcellus asked grumpily.
Jango stood a meter away examining the batch of new ID cards. Flipping through them one by one, he said flatly, “One thing’s for sure.” Without looking he jabbed a finger in Marcellus’ direction. “That thing's going to come in handy. So you better get used to the idea. Capiche?”
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.