Huddled in his office over a spacious, oak desk crowded by a cluster of vidphones, anyone observing Bessus Parsa Achaemenes would have seen a fat, busy man. Waddling down the corridors of the Capitol mumbling excitedly to himself, he struck observers as a fat, distracted man. Squeezing into his Mercedes on the roof of the White House or prying himself loose late at night at his estate in the exclusive Maryland countryside, neighbors sitting idly on their porches sipping iced lemonade would have waved to a fat, worried man. Bessus was the Speaker of the House of Representatives of the United States of America, and he had an enormous appetite.
Bessus was the consummate bureaucrat. In times past he would have worn an ornate ring with a seal. Not long ago, he would have wielded a very large stamp. Nowadays, his digital signature was stored at a secure location on the link. Whenever it was required, the White House would access it and the day’s legislation and other electronic paperwork would be issued. Sometimes Bessus was amazed at what was published and promulgated in his name. But Bessus was not valuable to the White House because of his signature. Bessus was valuable because he knew the bureaucratic apparatus inside and out. He knew where to massage it, where to needle it, and where to kick it. He was the ceremonial oil that coated all the cogs of government and kept them spinning smoothly. All the little Representatives who headed their own, little bureaucratic domains and who occasionally gathered for carefully orchestrated votes took their cues and orders from him, Bessus Parsa Achaemenes, the Satrap of the House. Bessus was secretly fond of the name even though they had invented it to mock him.
Bessus was very short, very round, and very bald. In fact, he was completely hairless. He didn’t shave his head or his armpits, nor did he have eyebrows. Even his fingers and toes were bare. No one was sure why, and no one cared to ask for fear he might learn the truth. His skin was a deep, rich brown, the color of coffee with a good splash of milk. He had large, round earlobes through which hung large, loopy earrings of solid gold. Every day he appeared in public dressed the same way: a plain, beige tunic that hung down to his ankles with open sandals.
Bessus had been Speaker of the House since before Epstein was elected to the Presidency. In fact, Bessus and his twin brother Gessus, the Majority Leader in the Senate, had been instrumental in getting him there in the first place. The support of both houses of Congress had added a certain weight to his claims at a time when they were considered precarious at best. After the matter of the succession was finally settled, Epstein felt obliged to retain them in their positions. But the twins were also shrewd enough never to remind him of his debt. They knew what might happen if they did. One morning they would have noticed an unfamiliar, slightly pungent taste to their tea. It had happened before. After all, they had taught him how to be discreet about poisons themselves.
Even in a freemocracy there are elections. Unlike some of his predecessors, however, this President understood the value of avoiding the impression that he was interfering. As a result, Bessus held the all-time record for switching parties. He had already done so eight times. His brother, Gessus, was the runner up at six times. Bessus and Gessus were always elected. At this particular time, Bessus was a Democrat and Gessus was a Republican, but they still got along wonderfully.
Everyone knew about the restricted zones. They were originally designed to regulate the flow of people in those places where terrorist attacks were most likely to occur. They had first been set up in airports, train stations, and festivals – any place, in fact, that large concentrations of people were likely to form. When factories and corporate farms became targets as well, the restricted zone became a familiar aspect of everyone's daily life. The system seemed to work, for the number of terrorist attacks dwindled to a few per week, and so most people submitted to them willingly. The program had, in fact, proven so useful that the government had expanded it several times. No one can quite remember when, but very soon the police and the national guard were setting up checkpoints outside the restricted zones as well.
There were other restricted zones, places no one knew about except by rumor or hearsay. These were vast swaths of the country where no one was permitted at all unless he had the proper clearance. This is where sensitive government installations such as military bases, testing grounds, and freemocracy camps could be found. It was the regulations governing these special restricted zones that lately occupied the bulk of Bessus' time. Only an hour earlier as he waddled towards his office door, nervously rubbing his shiny head, passers-by could hear him muttering to himself with some conviction, “The problem is the bees, stupid. It’s the bees.” How the bees and the restricted zones had become so delicately intertwined was, perhaps, not immediately obvious.
Most species of bee had disappeared from the wild. The colonies in Vassily’s agricultural combines had all but collapsed. To make matters worse, the Secretary of the Environment – it was Vasilly – wasn't inclined to do anything about it. It’s true that the Secretary of the Interior had acted quickly enough to preserve specimens in government laboratories far underground and at the North Pole, but it did nothing to help the fact that a great deal of the food chain was dying off as a result. Bessus could rattle off a list of fruits, vegetables, and other plant life that was quickly becoming a quaint feature of the past: zucchini, melon, vanilla, blueberry, cocoa, pear, almond, cherry, mango, fennel, chestnut, clover. There were more. And the price of food was already exacting enough as it was.
The Secretary of the Interior had conducted a study to determine the reason. She had to conduct it secretly (and Epstein had approved) because if Vassily had known about it, he would have interfered. And wouldn’t you know it? The results showed clearly that a combination of genetically modified crops and pesticides was the culprit. Both were products which Vassily made lots of money producing and selling.
Genetically modified crops had turned up before in similar studies. Creating such crops had seemed like a good idea to some at the time, and Vassily had assured everyone that it would be possible to keep the genetically modified versions from cross-pollinating with the originals. Actually Vassily knew very well that this was not the case, and the result should have proven very lucrative to him since he owned the patents on the genetically modified DNA. When genetic profiling eventually showed that his property was being exploited – unbeknownst or otherwise – on farms and agricultural settlements throughout the planet, he could demand a hefty cut of the world’s entire food production and for doing nothing more than haughtily waving a piece of paper in front of a judge. The choice would be to either pay or starve. He thought he knew which one people would choose.
What actually happened is that certain plants started producing seeds which would not sprout, thus ending in a single swoop the existence of certain varieties of staples such as corn and rice. Vassily didn’t like rice, as he gruffly informed the journalists when the information got out. But a few billion people couldn’t have disagreed with him more.
The countryside – or what was left of it – was growing increasingly more fragile, and in order to preserve it, Epstein together with his underling, Bessus, decided the year before that people should not be allowed to trample all over it unless they had a good reason. A whole slew of new, secret restricted zones were drawn up, the previous population incarcerated, and the rest of the country was shut up in the cities and the suburbs and all the other places that had already been spoiled by excessive urban development and human greed. This was, in and of itself, a difficult task, since the general population was to have no idea that such restricted zones existed and a significant part of the nation was being put off limits. The ordinaries were docile, it is true, but Epstein knew very well it was only because they clung to the illusion that they were the masters of their own lives. Part of his job was to maintain the illusion, and that was exactly what he intended to do.
The random flashpoints and security screens proved a useful tool in keeping unwanted people away from these restricted zones. Vehicles authorized to enter were marked with a special, infrared glyph, and they were allowed to pass through unhindered. Anyone else was stopped, and as happens to be the case in a freemocracy, there was always some regulation that could be used to send the unfortunate civilian back the way he had come, or – if he grew too irate at the inconvenience – off to a prison colony or a freemocracy camp.
Of course, as was to be expected, Vassily found out anyway. This is why, when Bessus arrived at his office, he was not alone.
Vassily, emir of an industrial empire that stretched from ball bearings to space ships, paints to pharmaceuticals, plastics to precious metals, meat products to fizzy drinks, oil to water, from A to Z, actually, and everything else besides, was a thin, gaunt, pale looking human with short-cropped, greasy, dark hair that tapered to a sharp, widow’s peak not far above the line between his eyes. He wore a long, black cape which he could wrap around himself, which he often did because he was almost always cold. He was doing this now as he paced back and forth in front of Bessus’ desk. Although one of the many chairs in the room had been offered him, he preferred to stand.
“What does the government need scientists for?” he hissed, arms folded under the heavy folds of the black cloak. “They operate more efficiently in my hands. I’m sure we could have performed the same work in half the time.”
Yes, thought Bessus to himself. And no one would ever have learned the results.
“Don’t you think I should enjoy my share of the reward?” Vassily demanded.
Bessus nodded his head. “Uh huh.” He was having to use the keyboard. He hated the keyboard. It slowed everything down and it made his fingers hurt. But he didn’t want Vassily to hear his business.
“What’s Epstein going to do with all those flowers?” Vassily wondered aloud. “The price of tulips and violets and roses has shot through the roof. I don’t have a sufficient stock. Epstein isn’t going to try and harvest them himself, is he?” Vassily’s voice darkened.
Vassily was very much convinced that the sky was only properly oriented upward and gravity only reliably pulled things downward as long as he and the other stockholders were making a profit on the all world’s commerce, and a hefty one at that. If the government stepped in and interrupted his quest for ever greater wealth, he construed this as an event paramount to the apocalypse, which he undoubtedly would have preferred. He claimed that as long as he was making the decisions about what should be produced where and how much of it, a thing called the “market” would ensure no one was taking unfair advantage of the people who thought they wanted to buy it. The vehicle for this magical force was called competition. Of course, Vassily had no competitors and hadn’t for a long time.
“I don’t think so,” Bessus answered truthfully.
Vassily’s eyes narrowed. “Why won’t Epstein see me?”
“Ask his secretary,” Bessus responded blithely.
“I did,” Vassily responded, spinning around. The end of his cape traipsed after him in a majestic whirl. “Said he was busy.” Vassily stared icily in Bessus’ direction. “That’s why I came here.”
“O Heavens, how delightful.”
Vassily skulked closer. “I figure, if he won’t see me, maybe you can convince him. After all, every day he won’t I’ll be in here, Bessus, with you. And you won’t send me away, will you?” Vassily flashed a wicked grin. His teeth were all sharp and white.
Bessus stopped his typing and gulped. It’s true, he couldn’t send him away. Epstein had made it clear from the beginning: as repugnant as Vassily was, he wasn’t to be offended. For some reason or other, the ordinaries held him in the highest esteem. They seemed to believe that he offered them some sort of meritocracy. Well, there was no explaining it to them.
Bessus was spared a rather uncomfortable moment by a rude pounding on the door. The security light above it illuminated an alarming shade of red. Normally, he would have been enraged at the unexpected disturbance, but to the contrary he was suddenly very pleased.
“Oh, Vassily, I’m sorry,” Bessus exclaimed, bringing his hands together in front of his chest with a loud clap. “This will take a minute.”
“Someone’s knocking?” Vassily retorted, glaring at the door.
“A newbie,” Bessus replied by way of explanation.
“Humph.” But Vassily remained standing where he was.
“Ah,” started Bessus, “Vassily, I was wondering if perhaps you could –”
“I could what?”
Bessus flicked his fingers in the direction of the door. “You know, just for a few minutes.”
“Why?”
Bessus opened his mouth as if to reply but found himself scrambling for a good reason.
Just then the door opened of its own accord and the light extinguished. An alarm sounded somewhere. Into the room strode Jango, thumbs tucked into his belt and looking appreciatively around. He was wearing black, leather pants, a brown vest over a smooth, white, collarless shirt open a good way down, and a huge, leather cowboy hat over his thinning, stringy hair. His feet were clad in alligator skin cowboy boots. A thick, gold chain hung around his neck, embedded in the thick, curly hairs on his chest. At its end was a gleaming, golden cross.
Bessus gaped openly at him as he came to stand between Vassily and Bessus’ desk, legs spread wide apart.
“Which one of you is Bessus?” Jango demanded.
Vassily burst out laughing. It was a high-pitched, disconcerting sound. He swooped the cape in a wide arc as he made for the open doorway. “I’ll be back to see what’s left of him,” he announced.
Bessus, however, had assumed an imperious posture. He reached under his desk, switched off the alarm, and sat looking at everything else in the room except Jango. “If you want to maintain good relations with myself,” he slowly began, blithely rearranging some of the items on his desk, “then you will learn to observe the proper procedures. Of course, you probably aren’t familiar with the proper procedures. Your Congressman – what’s his name again?”
“Marcellus Gyges.”
“Don’t take that tone with me!” Bessus barked. His eyes flared. “Mr. Gyges did not attend the orientation week. As a result, he will have to learn the hard way. I, for one, will not explain it to him.” He shook his head. “This is a bad start for a Congressman to make. Really, I've never heard of such a thing, and I've been here a very long time.”
Jango remained standing like an obelisk in front of him, a cocky smile on his broad, unshaven face, and said nothing.
“Get out of here,” Bessus finally grated, looking away in disgust, “and report to my secretary.”
“Is that the proper procedure?” Jango inquired lightly.
“Yes!”
“Where’s that?”
“Ask someone!”
“But you know.”
“Out!” Bessus' face turned beet red.
“Fuck this,” Jango said, lifting his eyebrows, and left.
Bessus spent the next few minutes fuming. When he finally mastered himself, he reached into a drawer and pulled out a tiny, ornately carved, wooden box. From it he took a tiny red pill and popped it in his mouth. He chewed gratefully, swallowed, and leaned back in his chair, eyes closed, waiting. A wave of relaxation overtook him. He took a deep breath.
Jango headed immediately for the exit. Near the stairs he was met by a company of soldiers pointing laser tubes at him. None of them spoke, but one of them waved her rifle. This was how he found Bessus’ secretary.
A buzzer sounded. “Yes?” Bessus asked dreamily.
A male voice flooded the room. “There’s a certain John O'Doodle here to see you. He is an aide to Senator Gyges.”
“I see,” Bessus purred. Then, clearing his throat: “Show him in.”
A few moments passed. A green light lit up above the door. “Enter,” intoned Bessus. He folded his hands serenely on the desk in front of him.
The door opened. The green light extinguished. In stepped Jango, looking slightly amused. Someone standing out of sight behind him mumbled darkly and closed the door.
Jango walked towards one of the comfortable chairs in front of Bessus’ oversized desk, taking the floor in huge strides.
Inwardly, Bessus cringed. “You’re late,” is what he said.
“You told me –” Jango began as he took his seat.
“I advise you to read up on the proper procedures. Now to business. You run Mr. Gyges’ security detail, do you not?”
“Sure.”
“Yes or no, please.”
“Yes,” Jango grated.
“Excellent. Then you will extend to him a very important invitation. The President wishes to see him. This very afternoon, actually.”
“Great.”
“It’s a matter of some importance.”
Jango seemed puzzled. “Why don’t you ask Icarus to do it?”
“You mean his chief of staff?” A smile crept onto Bessus’ face. “I think not. We're afraid Mr. Gyges wouldn’t take the invitation seriously.”
Jango’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean?”
“Well, it’s obvious, isn’t it? Mr. Dixon does not command the same respect as you.”
Jango thought for a moment. “I see what you mean.”
“Someone will be dropping by Mr. Gyges’ office at two ‘o clock this afternoon. Make sure he is there. You may go now.”
Jango lingered.
Bessus cleared his throat.
“Hold your horses,” Jango muttered and stood up. Bessus smiled mechanically as he headed for the door.
Just as the green light flashed and the door gave way before him, Jango stopped. “Mark doesn't work for you.” He spun on his heels. “He told me his boss is some bald, fat punk named Gessus.” He paused a moment, eyeing Bessus. “Your name isn't Gessus.”
“Excuse me?” Bessus squeaked, trying to maintain his authoritative composure.
“Mark is a Senator. You're the Speaker of the House.”
Bessus flexed his eyebrows. “You will find, Mr. O' Doodle, or whatever your name really is, that my brother's concerns are my own, and vice versa.”
President Epstein stood behind the podium in the White House Briefing Room waving a stubby, cracked finger threateningly at his recalcitrant audience. “You are never to refer to him as Munib the Magnificient again!” he roared. “And this ain’t the first time!” Epstein’s bushy, red eyebrows bristled. “I’ve been rather lenient with you folks. I haven't interfered much in your scribbling. But I swear on the Almighty in Heaven and Jesus, too, if you don’t start printing and saying what I want, this honeymoon’s over!” He slammed the podium with the palm of his hand and thrust out his red beard defiantly.
Below and in front of him, in the decaying décor of the White House Briefing Room, were the reporters. The lucky ones had the seats even though they were rotted through and smelled funny. The rest were crammed into whatever space was left over, right up to the huge, open garbage bins overflowing with take-away trays and half eaten, processed food hastily retrieved from automats and the take-out counter. An army of big-bodied flies, unnerved by Epstein’s outburst, was attacking them. None of the reporters was allowed cameras or recording devices of any kind, just old-fashioned paper and pencils.
Epstein glared a moment longer and wiped his forehead with his arm. Behind him, the famous blue drapery with the Oval Office logo had been removed. He felt it clashed with his red complexion. “Now listen here,” he said, leaning in earnest upon the podium. “I know a freemocracy needs an independent press corp. But, folks, my life's hard enough as it is. Not so many pictures of coffins and dead bodies! Makes the war seem like it’s all shit and no sugar. I'm all for freedom of the press, but misrepresenting the facts during a time of war – that's treason.” He started ticking off on his fingers. “We’re taking in grain. We’re taking in water. We're stripping the Muslim Territories of pipes, wires, and railroad lines almost as quickly as we acquire them. Heck, a few years ago who could afford a healthy kidney or a liver or a cornea? Do you ever write about that? No! It's all blood and guts and weeping kids in wheelchairs.
“Another thing! If one of Munib’s lieutenants sets up a reeducation center in order to separate out the unreconstructables and one of you knuckleheads finds out about it, by all the bells of Jezebel, don’t go telling the public how they go about doing it! Just imagine, I saw an intercast the other day. I learned that if someone under questioning glances downward he’s lying and if he glances upward he’s embellishing. Are you in the business of writing the bad guys a training manual? And if Munib sets up a program where they bait the bad guys with ammunition and parts for explosive devices, don’t go announcing to the world what they’re doing or no one is going to pick them up!”
Someone in the audience raised her hand. Epstein glared at her for a long moment before snapping his fingers impatiently in her direction. “What?”
She stood up. It was a white woman, American fat, with thick, red glasses. Her face looked squishy like dough and drooped as if it were about to slide off her skull under its own weight. “Mr. President,” she said in plain, drab tones, “is it true General Munib has been in the homeland as recently as last week?”
Epstein’s eyes flashed. “The man is in Persia! He’s prosecuting a bloody war! Check a map, lady. You’ll see where it is.”
The reporter coughed slightly and, looking around as if for support, continued. “Mr. President, I’ve heard rumors that he’s had separate dealings with among others Chief Justice Xiling and –”
“I can’t believe what I’m hearing,” Epstein muttered even as his face reddened dangerously. “I don't see what the Chief Justice has to do with your coverage of the war!” An arm shot out and one of the dirty fingers at its end indicated the exit.
The reporter’s mouth dropped open.
“You are not welcome here any more!”
Snorting, she picked up a bag of crisps and started to squeeze out of the row she was in. “Wait till you see the cast I'm putting together for tonight,” she muttered darkly to herself. “You'll have a heart attack.”
“What was that?” Epstein hissed from his podium.
The fat reporter was taken aback. She hadn't realized her voice would carry. “Nothing, Mr. President. I – I just – ”
Epstein, his face thunderous, gestured quickly towards a member of his Praetorian guard. A beefy looking man in a black suit wearing sunglasses broke from the cordon around the podium and approached. Epstein whispered something quickly in his ear, after which the man proceeded off stage and began following the woman on her way out. In the dreadful silence that followed, everyone in the room was staring at her.
When she realized this, she stopped dead in her tracks. Sobs started leaking from her mouth. Abandoning the bag of crisps, she crumpled to her knees. “Please, sir!” she cried and gulped thickly. “I didn't mean what I said! Forgive me! If only you could find it in your heart!” Holding her head pitifully in her hands, she wailed, “Please don’t send me to a freemocracy camp!”
“I’m not going to send you to a freemocracy camp!” Epstein yelled back and slammed the podium with an open palm. “Folks, that statement is exactly the kind of misinformation I’ve been talking about. No wonder no one understands what a freemocracy is! Read the constitution, people! I ain’t gonna send you to a freemocracy camp. A court is going to do that!”
“O please!” she begged, the tears unraveling her mascara.
The man in the black suit who had started out after her stood looking uselessly in his direction. Epstein waved at the fat woman. “Get her out of here,” he snapped.
After the woman had been dragged out of the room, Epstein wrapped up the press conference. “I know there’s a war on,” he told them. “I know you think the people are best informed about it. But I’m telling you, what the people really need is a bit more distraction! Light, meaningless entertainment! Reality unnerves them. So, on that note, I'm fixing to change the way business is done around here. First off, none of you except has been approved by the Secretariat of Public Diplomacy will be allowed a hundred miles from any war zone! Second off, the Secretary herself will provide you with ready-made casts about the war which you will duly transmit as your own. You are to put nothing else on the link with regard to the actual theater of war on pain of treason. With that heavy burden off your chests, you'll have more time to scribble the kind of stuff that really matters in people's lives. Human interest stories that make you go warm all over. More stories about the climate refugees we’re letting in, for example.”
He shook his head sadly. “Folks, you know, I really do feel you've been taking advantage. Putting your own careers ahead of the interests of this great nation. Well, I guess I only have myself to blame. I've been too kind, and you were just acting as people often do when faced with a choice between personal gain or the greater good. That's why no heads are rolling.” Suddenly, he threw his head back and roared, “But my patience is at an end! Now get out!”
Epstein glared darkly from his podium as his audience, stunned, filed quickly and silently out of the room. “You know, the war’s almost over!” he shouted after them as the suits chased out the last remaining reporters. “What are you going to show then?”
Epstein heaved a hefty sigh and wiped his forehead.
“You okay, sir?” said a member of his guard in a chirpy, English accent.
“Just plum played out, Danny,” Epstein replied. He leaned for a moment on the podium. “That's all.”
“Your next appointment is here.”
“Which one?”
“Gyges,” the suit told him.
“Good,” he said, perking up. “Bring him in. And get the Dutchman.”
“Yes, sir.”
Epstein straightened up and smiled. “See that lump of lard drop her crisps all over the floor?”
The suit nodded.
“Scared as a sinner in a cyclone.” He chuckled to himself.
“You going to let her off?”
“Well, Danny, I’d like to. You know I hate sending people up. Horrible places, those camps. But I can’t let people get away with talking to me like that, not in public.”
“So she'll be injected.”
“Ain’t decided yet.” Epstein shook his head. “You understand, don’t you, Danny, what kind of a bind they put me in?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Okay, then,” Epstein replied, smacking his lips and looking mischievous. “Skedaddle.”
“Gyges is right over there,” the suit told him.
“Well go fetch him!” Epstein urged good-naturedly, jabbing him in the side. “Don’t forget the Dutchman.”
The suit pulled away. A crowd of dependents descended upon the President like a cloud of mosquitos. From the other side of the cordon formed by his Praetorian guard, Marcellus could see Epstein listening earnestly in the middle of the stage as people pushed their PA's in his direction. Occasionally, Epstein would nod and press his thumb against one. It struck Marcellus that during his speech to the reporters, Epstein had seemed surly and dour. But now, in the presence of his entourage, he appeared comfortable, even jovial.
The light falling over Marcellus suddenly darkened. “Come with me,” someone said in a heavy, Germanic accent. Marcellus looked up. A tall man in a crisp, black suit and sunglasses was looking down at him. The cordon opened.
Epstein seemed to have an eye out for him. “Marcellus!” he crowed as he approached, friends following closely behind. With a few curt gestures, he dispersed his entourage. “How nice it is to finally meet you. Mind if I call you Marcellus?”
“Now!” Maya hissed.
Marcellus spoke up in a loud, clear voice even as he pushed outward with his mind. He had learned that he could include or exclude whomever he wanted merely by intending to. “Don’t kill me!”
Jango jabbed Marcellus in the back.
“Don’t kill any of us!” He aimed his words particularly at Epstein, the suit in front of him, and the people who made up the tight cordon around the side of the stage. “And,” he continued, focusing solely on the President now, “never lie to me.”
An uncomfortable look passed over Epstein’s face. Jango noticed it with relish and licked his lips.
Epstein glanced at the suit. “Why don’t you leave us alone, Arnold.”
The suit remained standing where he was, a confused look on his face.
“I’ll explain later.”
“Yes, sir,” the suit said reluctantly and backed off.
Epstein took a deep breath. “I’m going to shoot straight, Marcellus. Right now a team of sharpshooters is trained on the lot of you. If any of them feels I’m threatened, I’ll be spending the next ten minutes scrubbing the insides of your skulls off my pants.”
A sweat broke out on Marcellus’ face. “Tell them to back down!”
Epstein closed his eyes. Other than that, there was no visible reaction. When he opened them again, he said patiently, “I can’t. They have their orders. They can’t be superseded, not even by me.”
“Bullshit! Tell them!”
Grating his teeth, he spoke into his shirt. “Squad B is to stand down.”
“Can’t do it, sir,” came the response.
“See what I mean,” Epstein said, shrugging.
“It’s bullshit,” Maya barked. “He’s the President.”
“Who are you going to trust, Marcellus?” Epstein asked searchingly. “You ain’t gonna survive long around here without friends on the inside, even with that ring of yours.”
“Tell the sharpshooters yourself, Markie,” Jennifer suggested eagerly, her head popping out of one of Jango's shoulders.
“You could try,” Epstein replied. “But they’re stationed in a sound-proof room. There’s no way to communicate with them.” He laughed. “We had time to plan.”
“He knows about the ring,” Icarus murmured.
“There’s got to be a way to get those sharpshooters to stand down,” Marcellus wondered aloud.
Epstein smiled. “Have it your way, son. Even so, it’s going to take you time to get that cattle corralled. In the meantime, all I have to do is fall into you, or just look plain yeller, and your number’s up. I’m a Texas man, you see, but I ain’t scared to seem chicken when it suits me.”
“Mark,” Icarus repeated, his voice raised alarmingly, “he mentioned the ring. He knows about the ring.”
“Don’t fall into me,” Marcellus commanded.
“How do you know about the ring?” Jango demanded.
Epstein flashed a broad grin. “You know, my mama used to tell me, never miss a good chance to shut up.” Dropping his voice, he leaned in closer to Marcellus. “Now’s their chance to prove their manners.”
“Hey, stop whispering!” Jennifer complained. “We can’t hear back here!”
“The ring, Mark,” Maya repeated.
“This bloke is slippery,” Jango growled, stretching his fingers. “I don't trust him.”
“Tell me how you know about the ring,” Marcellus ordered the President.
Epstein stomped hard on the ground with one foot. “We’ve been listening,” he blurted out. Then: “Goddamn it, Marcellus! Will you stop doing that!”
“Why?”
“You shouldn’t use it so much.”
“Why?”
“Don’t listen to him, Markie,” Jennifer called out from the back. “He’s playing tricks.”
“Remember the acolyte,” Jango said.
Marcellus had had enough. “Will you just – ?” He turned and glared at his companions. “Let me talk with the man!”
Maya stared at him wide-eyed. Jango bit his lip. Icarus gagged.
“Bravo!” Epstein exclaimed and slapped Marcellus jovially on the shoulder.
“Sorry guys, I didn't mean to – you know – ” He took a deep breath. “Jesus, Jango, keep them in line, will you?”
“Every so often you have to show them who's boss dog,” Epstein told him encouragingly.
“Why shouldn’t I use the ring?”
“Because,” Epstein replied, eyes twinkling, “if too many people find out, you’re a dead man.”
Jango's eyes narrowed. There was a moment of silence.
“Are you threatening me?” Marcellus asked.
Epstein chuckled and continued. “You can tell anyone what to do. Fine as frog hair. But they got to hear you, Marcellus! And you got to know they’re coming! If word gets out, a million people will all want to get their grubby, little dick beaters on it. You’ll never see them coming, Marcellus. Think about it.”
Marcellus swallowed.
Epstein continued. “There’s another reason.” He suddenly looked uncomfortable. “I was hoping we could, well, you know, be friends.”
“Friends?” Marcellus couldn't believe what he was hearing.
“Yeah, you know. Chums.” He smiled warmly at Marcellus’ confusion. “I've been President of these here United States for nigh on fourteen years, and even after all this time, a buckaroo still needs friends. Would you believe it? A human face that’ll talk straight, say what he’s really thinking. Now look,” he continued earnestly, “I can’t lie to you, remember? So why don’t you ask me to do things like a normal person. Instead of treating me like some buzzard who has to wear a diaper. How about it?” Epstein stuck his hand out, a wolfish grin perched slyly between red beard and thick eyebrows.
Not really sure what else to do, Marcellus took the hand.
Epstein pumped it heartily. “Alright then,” he boomed. “Friends.”
Maya leaned over and whispered dryly in Marcellus' ear. “You won't use your ring on me if I remind you to ask him how he knows about it, will you?”
Epstein watched intently, chewing his lower lip, waiting to see what would happen.
A brief look of shame flashed across his face, but otherwise Marcellus didn't react. “You heard her,” he mumbled.
Epstein beamed at him. “Thank you. You don't know how much I appreciate it. And call me Judas! Well, I can’t lie to you, Marcellus. We’ve been listening in to your conversations.”
Marcellus smiled wryly. “Take a number,” he remarked. “So I guess you were the one who nabbed Maya?”
Epstein glanced in Maya’s direction. “Yeah,” he admitted. “Had to. But they got to her first.”
“See!” Icarus crowed in triumph from somewhere in the back.
“Shut up, Icarus,” Jango snapped.
“I was right.”
Jango turned on him, eyes burning, but Icarus ducked away.
“The Chief Justice, you mean,” Marcellus told the President.
“Yeah. We downloaded her memories.”
Maya gasped. “You did what?”
“Keep your people in line,” Epstein advised Marcellus. “I understand. You're new around here. But other people won’t.”
Marcellus shrugged. “Never had an entourage before.”
“Well, damn it, you’re a special now!” Epstein lauded him, slapping him so hard on the back Marcellus lurched forward.
“I am?”
“Yessiree. You got elected to the House of Representatives. Or was it the Senate? Don't matter. Welcome to the club!”
Marcellus smiled sheepishly. Then, perking up: “They’re also my friends, Judas. I can’t treat them like my –”
“Servants?”
Marcellus nodded.
“Have it your way, Marcellus. But remember not to let them talk out of turn when you’re jawing special-to-special.”
“Huh?”
“You’re a special, Marcellus. They’re not!”
At that moment, Danny gesticulated wildly in their direction. The Dutchman was standing next to him. He looked extremely put out. “Ah, the Dutchman,” purred the President.
“Who?”
“See that man over there?” Epstein inquired, pointing.
Marcellus followed his finger. He saw a tall, bone-thin Aryan in plaid pants with a mane of greasy, curly hair and wire-rimmed glasses. He looked like he had been sucking on a lemon. “Yeah.”
“Recognize him?”
Marcellus looked harder. “Should I?”
“You’ve howdied, but you ain’t shook yet. He’s very important to me, Marcellus.”
“We did?”
“Yes. In Venezuela.”
“Venezuela?” Marcellus peered curiously at the tall, blond man. “How’d you know I was in Venezuela?”
“There’s no time to talk about that now, Marcellus. I need you to do me a favor.”
Marcellus looked up into Epstein’s bushy face. “What?”
They were sitting in Epstein’s study. It was a warm, comfortable place with an autumn feel to it. The walls were paneled with the smoothed, curved edges of the thick bark of some kind of tree, stained a deep brown, almost the color of soil. Pictures, old-fashioned rifles, and hunting trophies of various sorts adorned them, including a very large deer head with antlers. Just below the deer head was what appeared to be a large, darkened vidscreen. To one side was a huge, stone fireplace and hearth. In it, a fire roared happily. Before it were several comfortable, leather chairs of varying hues of yellow and brown, the kind you could just sink into and found hard to get up out of again. There were also two long, red, leather couches. These were arranged around the hide of a polar bear, arms and legs spread out and head with massive, pointy teeth gaping sideways. Beyond them was a little, mostly empty desk save for a lonely Roman bust, and behind that the wall was made entirely of glass, broken only by two thick, sliding doors. Outside was a covered terrace and swimming pool. Beyond that was hard to see, as it was snowing. He called it his study, but nowhere was there a book to be found.
Epstein was sitting contentedly in one of the big, leather chairs, smoking a pipe and holding his feet as near to the fire as he could get them. The room was dim. The fire was the only source of light. Somewhere in the background hovered one of the suits. It was his job to keep the fire going steadily. Across from Epstein at the end of one of the red couches was Marcellus, wearing jeans and a long, red and grey block shirt with the sleeves rolled up, looking anxious. Next to him sat Jango, leather cowboy hat pulled low over his eyes. He seemed to be dozing.
“You better to learn to relax, Marcellus,” Epstein said suddenly, letting out a huge puff of smoke. “Want some?” He waved the pipe at him.
“No thanks,” Marcellus murmured. “Got any smokes?”
“You mean cigarettes?” A look of disgust passed over Epstein’s face. “Can’t stand the smell.”
For the last hour, Epstein had been pointing out the pictures that were important to him, describing where they had been taken and with whom. Some had even been interesting. Marcellus didn’t know Epstein had fought under President Sindhra in the push for Kurdistan. “I was commander of an anti-aircraft squad. Later on they offered me a cushy spot behind a desk, but I refused.” He had been active at the siege of Ankara. Four of his company died a slow, horrible death. “Always wear your protection,” he said in earnest to Marcellus as he identified his dead comrades. “Damn brownskins kept on bombarding us with hot thorium. Never took mine off. Even slept in it. That’s why I’m still here.” Eventually, after five years of active service, they let him return to the homeland because his wife was pregnant and his brother and sister had been killed elsewhere. “My sister, Esther, died in an accident with a tank during an ambush. My older brother, Adam, got taken out in the nuclear bombardment of Eareckson airforce base. That’s where he was stationed at the time. And the child – Davey's not my first, you know – died of some horrible superflu.” He spoke without a whiff of emotion and then fixed himself a stiff drink of bourbon.
Fortunately, the pictures he turned to next reminded him of happier times.
“Is that your wife?” Marcellus asked, peering closely at a picture of a much younger and obviously drunker Epstein with his eager face stuffed between the breasts of a ravishing blond.
Epstein’s booming laugh reverberated throughout the study. “Laws no,” he said. “Ain’t got no pictures of her in here.”
“Oh,” murmured Marcellus.
Epstein glanced quickly in his direction. “Don’t judge me, Marcellus. I love my wife. But this is a place where I come to get away from it all.”
After that, Epstein set his glass down and they retired to the seats.
What had started out as a gnawing itch in the back of his brain began to grow into full-fledged worrying.
“You got a lot on your mind.” Epstein was peering at him curiously. “Go ahead. Unload.”
Marcellus glanced sideways at Jango, but he didn’t appear to be listening. “Well,” he started, avoiding looking at Epstein directly, “here I am, sitting with the Father of the Country.” He shrugged. “I’m not stupid. I know why I’m here.”
“Why are you here, Marcellus?” Epstein looked at him keenly.
“Because of the ring! Otherwise we would have been shipped off to some camp. That’s why it’s hard to believe it when you say you want to be friends. You just – ”
“Go right ahead and say it.”
Marcellus swallowed. “You just don’t want me to use it on you.”
Epstein puffed on his pipe. “True,” he said. “You know, you're lucky you came here to Washington. Chose to run for Congress.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well – let's just say, misunderstandings are easy to come by. I didn't know till today you were an upright, honest citizen without a treasonous thought in his brain. Had you decided to run off, or – ” A broad smile crept onto his face. “But that don’t mean we can’t be friends.”
“It sure isn’t a good start!”
“Why not? Look, Marcellus, there are people on this fine earth who are forced to marry and some of them actually fall in love with each other. The reason two people come together ain’t always important.”
“You’re just trying to buy time.”
“I don’t deny it! But you need me, Marcellus.”
Marcellus’ eyes narrowed. “What for?”
Epstein gestured with his pipe. “That ring there gives you the power to make anybody do whatever you damn please. But that don’t mean you know what to jabber or who to! Sure, you could be sitting pretty in this chair instead of me. That's why you're here, ain't it? But you’d be as welcome as a skunk at a lawn party. You’d be a walking corpse.”
Marcellus made a face. “Oh, c’mon –” he began, clicking his tongue sarcastically.
But Epstein, undaunted, pressed on. “Firstly, you don’t know how to control this here machine of government. It’s a walloping monster! And like any wild beast, if you don’t show it who’s boss, it’ll throw you. Eventually, people would find out how you got here.”
Marcellus thought for a moment. “You saying I should pretend I don’t have it?” He held up his hand.
Epstein shook his head. “What I’m saying is, it’s a whole lot easier to let the cat out of the bag than put her back in! Sure, word will eventually get out, but it's in your advantage to control when and how that happens.” He stared hard at Marcellus for a moment. “Be careful. Take my advice. Only use it when you have to.”
“And you’ll show me when I have to.” The words out of Marcellus’ mouth were dripping with sarcasm.
“What I can do, Marcellus, without offending your pride, is show you exactly what I do around here.”
“And after that?”
Epstein chuckled darkly. “I'm getting old, Marcellus. You're a spring chicken! Maybe you'll let me sit out the rest of my term out of the goodness of your own heart. There's no reason to rush things. You got a heart in that ribcage of yours, don't you?”
They sat for a moment in silence, Epstein sucking on his pipe, eyeing Marcellus casually but attentively. Just as Marcellus was about to speak, he cut in. “There are three kinds of people in this world, Marcellus. Them’s learn by training, them’s learn by watching, and everybody else who got to touch the fire to see if it’s hot.”
“Okay, okay,” Marcellus muttered.
“Did I overdo it?”
“Yes!” And Marcellus couldn’t help but smile even as he wondered how Epstein had so thoroughly disarmed him. Perhaps it was for that reason he admitted a vulnerable truth. “I don't like using it.”
Epstein raised an eyebrow. “How's that?” he asked noncommittally.
Marcellus shrugged. “I don't know. Invading somebody else's mind. It's wrong! I wouldn't like it if it happened to me.”
Epstein snorted. “You don't know what it's like.”
Marcellus sighed. “That's what I mean.”
Epstein drew on his pipe, eyes never leaving his prey. “Now you listen here, Marcellus,” he said as he expelled the sweet smelling smoke. “Whatever the reason, the ring has come down to you. For good or for ill. If you want to stay alive, you've got to be smart. And the first lesson is: don't use it! You'll live longer. Trust me.”
“Maybe you're right.”
“Got something else on your mind?”
“Yeah.” He paused uncomfortably. “You could have killed me back there in the Briefing Room and taken the ring for yourself. You had your chance. Why didn't you take it?”
At that, a curious expression crept over Epstein’s face. “Because I don’t want it!”
Marcellus snorted in contempt. “You wanted the chip but not the ring.”
“The chip is more useful to me than the ring! I’m already Lord of the Americas and all those other titles besides. And I’m doing a good job at it.” He puffed away at his pipe to Marcellus’ bewilderment. “Actually,” he said, staring up at the ceiling, “you done saved me a good deal of trouble coming along when you did. I wasn’t sure who should come after me.”
“But your son – ”
Epstein laughed. “He’s a fine boy. But he’s not leadership material, if you know what I mean. I’d be doing the country harm if I pushed him forward. Not to mention himself.” Epstein shook his head. “Still haven’t told him. But I think he knows.” Epstein blew some smoke up at the ceiling. In the silence that followed, they could hear Jango snoring slightly. The suit in the corner threw some more logs on the fire.
Marcellus started laughing bitterly to himself.
“What?” Epstein pressed, slightly leaning forward. “Don't keep secrets from me!”
“I'm a fraud,” Marcellus admitted. “I don't know how to participate in government.”
Now it was Epstein's turn to chuckle. “Is that all?” He leaned back and drew on his pipe. “We'll send you on over to Sonya's office for an outfitting. Put you all over the link. The ordinaries will eat you up. Don't worry.”
“It's that easy?”
“Sure.”
“What about your advisors?” Marcellus jerked his head towards the door.
“Don't you fret about them. You won't be a mere Senator, if that's what you're worried about. We'll make something up. You'll have first class standing around here, I promise you that.”
“Oh,” Marcellus muttered, sounding very unconvinced. Suddenly, he stood up.
“Where are you going?” Epstein asked suspiciously, leaning over and tapping the bowl of his pipe into the fireplace.
“To fix myself a drink.” Marcellus looked around and wondered where Epstein had got the bourbon.
“Sit down. Klaus here will take care of it. Klaus!” The suit stepped forward into the light. “Get us two bourbons on ice. Make ‘em doubles.”
The suit melted into the shadows and Marcellus sat back down. A few minutes later, drinks in hand, he nodded appreciatively in the suit’s direction. “Nice to have around.”
“Who?”
“Those guys in suits.”
“My Praetorian guard. They're the only ones I trust, Marcellus. They keep me safe. In the beginning a lot of people tried to hookshaw me into using drones, but I knew better.”
“How's that?”
“The drones are monsters! Who knows what's going on inside their heads? But the Praetorians are different. Not a soul among them born in this country. One way or another, they and everyone they love owe their citizenship and status to me and myself alone. If something were to happen to me – well, their future would be cloudy as meat gravy. And that's a mighty fine incentive, Marcellus. Don't forget it. I pay them a heck of a lot, too,” he added. “I treat them well. If one of them happens to like boys, I look the other way. Hell, I might even throw him one of the captives now and again.”
Marcellus looked disgusted. “Politics sounds cheap.”
Epstein was filling his pipe with more tobacco. “Cheap? What do you mean?”
“This is a freemocracy. What kind of system is it where the President needs to arrange for his own protection? Who do you need protecting from, Judas?”
“Everyone,” Epstein said. “A mob of ordinaries! The CIA! Members of my own Cabinet! Ain’t no one in the city of Washington don’t wanna be sitting in my place.”
“It sounds like a messy and cynical business.”
Epstein lit a match and stuck it in the bowl of his pipe. It lit up his red, pudgy face. Somehow, his nose seemed more round and bulbous than it was, his forehead more wrinkled, his eyebrows more bushy, and his beard more pronounced. “Politics is easy, son,” he told him as he released some of the smoke, “once you get the hang of it. First thing is, you don't have friends. It’s all relationships of convenience. It’s not the same thing. Second, you got to keep your underlings fighting each other. If harmony among them ever should reign, you’re a dead man. And that’s pretty much it.” He puffed away on his pipe satisfactorily. “Oh yeah,” he added as an afterthought, “be liberal with your rewards just as you are harsh with your punishments.”
“No friends?” repeated Marcellus. He glanced over at Jango. “Sounds lonely.”
“Friends is a liability,” Epstein told him, but the strength was ebbing from his voice. It was getting late.
“What about ethics?”
Epstein snorted and coughed. “What about it?” He looked over at Marcellus intently. “Politics is a practical business, Marcellus. If a terrorist has what you want, you do business with him.”
“And how do you decide what you want?”
Epstein peered at him curiously. “Well, I’ll admit, you can have lofty goals in mind, if that’s what you mean. But if you’re ever going to get into a position to achieve them, you got to be willing to do what it takes along the way. Some people reach the top and can still recognize a human being when they look in the mirror. Like Themistocles. Not many, though. Most of ‘em end up like Albert Speer or Nikita Sergeyevich. Or Richard Nixon. Know who they were?”
“What about you?” Marcellus asked softly.
Epstein shrugged. “It’s not for me to say. But I can look myself in the mirror every morning just fine.”
“So you don’t really want to be my friend at all, Judas.”
“What?” Epstein started, slightly confused. His mind raced. “Oh, that.” He chuckled dimly and sat back in his chair. “Got caught up in my own sophistry is what I did. You’re different, Marcellus.”
“Why’s that?”
“Because I have no choice. The gods plopped you right down in front of me and didn’t ask what I thought about it first.”
“Friends of convenience,” Marcellus retorted bitterly.
“There’s something else, Marcellus. I was hoping to bring it up later.”
“What?”
“I need your help.”
“Aren't you asking a bit much already?”
Epstein smiled grimly. “No, something else.”
“What?”
“I need you to help me destroy Xiling. You’re the only one who can do it.”
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.