“Who chooses?” he asked.
“You choose,” I answered.
Marcellus' face bunched up in rage. He lifted the straps that held his spacehelmet in place and pulled it off. “Are you saying,” he rasped, taking a forceful step forward, “that I make my own life?”
A tenth century Viking ship floated by in the blackness.
“You create your own world, Marcellus. When will you learn?”
His upper lip trembled. Every muscle was tense. He wanted to strike me. “Bullshit!” he lashed out and threw the spacehelmet at the invisible ground, glaring at me hideously. “I'm not doing this to myself, you know! You're doing it to me! Everyone is doing it to me!”
Munib the Magnificent, the Shadow of God on Earth, sat perfectly still at one end of the long, polished, wooden table, hands folded neatly in his lap, head slightly raised as if gazing into Heaven. All around him the room was abuzz with chatter and the light, scuffling sounds of people taking their places. In the corners stood clusters of silent, ominous human beings in suits and sunglasses, still as statues, hands folded neatly in front. Marcellus, seated about half-way down, was being spoken to by the dry and very boring Secretary of State, his neighbor on the right-hand side. But he wasn't really listening. He was studying Munib. No one was talking to him at all.
“Don't be fooled,” Epstein whispered to Marcellus before the Cabinet meeting. “That man could go bear hunting with a switch.” He winked.
Munib was a small, creased man with a thin mustache and light, Syrian features. He wore a fine, Persian made suit and an impeccably white shirt, open at the collar. There was no tie. The wiry hair was absent entirely from the top of his head. What remained was cropped very short and dyed brown to mask his advanced age.
He had been born in Kaifun, in what used to be called Lebanon before that country was broken up into several administrative regions. His mother was a Phoenician and his father Syrian. Both had been doctors. His father had perished with surgical instruments in his hands during American and Burgundian aerial bombardments. They had come along with the millions of others – Arab, Farsi, Moor, even Serb and Albanian – during the general feeling of solidarity and goodwill that prevailed in that part of the world as Murroughs prepared to strike against the Mediterranean Union's stranglehold on the sea and all its vast resources. After fleeing back to Beirut where he and the rest of the population flirted with starvation, Munib was one of the first volunteers to join the citizen brigades that Murroughs set up after the occupation. Ambitious and cruel, he quickly made his way to the top and within a matter of months was advising Murroughs personally on military matters. Murroughs personally commanded the battle that heralded the second fall of Constantinople, but it was not lost on anyone that after a string of failures she only encountered success once Munib was at her side.
Standing in the smoking, slightly radioactive ruins of the Hagga Sofia, she offered him anything he wished.
“I wish,” he replied coolly and without a moment's hesitation, “that my native town of Kaifun be renamed and given its freedom.”
Murroughs was amused. To what? she asked with a smile, imagining such suggestions as Munville, or Bibistadt, or something along those lines.
“Trebizond,” he told her firmly.
Trebizond? she queried, trying out the word, eyebrows raised. And why would he wish such a thing?
“You did not tell me you required explanations,” he quipped lightly, although there was no hint of amusement in his voice.
“Why so serious, Munie? We're victorious! Of course you can have your Trebizond!” And, with a laugh and the flip of her scarf, so it was.
It was not only because of Munib's long career, formidable reputation, and military genius that Epstein had chosen him to be Secretary of Defense. They were the only hardened war veterans in the upper echelons of government. None of the other generals had ever picked up a gun and shot at the enemy. Both had fought on the front lines. They had slugged it out in Lebanon and central Anatolia, with real weapons and real destruction. They had watched comrades die. It's true, they fought in different campaigns and at different times, but it didn't matter. The instant they met, the bond was clear.
Harvey Cash, the Secretary of State, was droning on about how to maintain an airborne scooter. Marcellus tuned in politely for a moment. His son had one, he was saying, although like most kids he preferred the virtual models to the real ones. Harvey had a huge forehead and bifocals that sat crookedly at the end of his long, narrow nose. He wore a plain, checkered shirt, the buttons of which were not fastened properly, a colorless tie, and nondescript, grey trousers that reached up past his bellybutton. He spoke very calmly and very slowly. Few people ever heard him out.
“Where in tarnation is that woman?” Epstein's throaty voice rose above all the rest. Marcellus glanced over. The President of the United States sat at the other end of the table in his specially made, velvet cushioned chair. An array of attendants hovered about him, buzzing gently.
Standing behind, one hand perched lightly on her husband's shoulder, stood Jewel. She was tall with dark, chocolate skin and long, braided hair that extended to the small of her back. Her clothing was warm and comfortable-looking, a royal blue and black skirt that gathered at her ankles and a shawl. The top of her head was wrapped in purple and black cloth. Under it, bright, piercing eyes surveyed the people assembled at the table. No one had to tell Marcellus that she was a proud, powerful woman. She was also incredibly attractive.
Across from him sat Tina Maria Vasquez Martinez, the Secretary of the Interior and Justice. She was a tiny, dainty, almost cute-looking woman who could easily have been mistaken for someone's grandmother. Each day she wore a copy of the same, prim, bright-red dress and matching shiny shoes. Sometimes she carried a tiny, black pocketbook which she would clutch close to her chest or hold loosely by her hip. Tina Martinez was smiling. No one was talking to her, but she was smiling anyway. She was the kind of woman who made a point of saying, “Good morning,” in the beginning of the day and “Thank you,” if you gave her something, and she always remembered to ask about the kids. As Secretary of the Interior, Tina Martinez oversaw the nation's freemocracy camps. She was also in charge of Population Control and the police. Tina Martinez caught his wandering eye. “What's the matter, honey?” she asked, oozing sympathy for him. “Get out of the wrong side of bed this morning?” Marcellus thought she was going to reach into her pocketbook and offer him a cookie.
Off to his left, lodged between himself and Epstein, were Bessus and Gessus, the Secretaries of Commerce and the Treasury respectively. They both wore identical beige tunics and desert sandals. They both had shiny, bald heads and gold, loopy earings. In fact, they resembled each other almost to a tee, except that Gessus was a little bit taller and a little bit fatter.
Across from the twins sat Vassily with his thick, oiled back hair and widow's peak. His cape had been exchanged for a smart-looking suit and tie. The Secretary of Trade, Agriculture, Labor, Education, Transportation, and Energy was busy conferring with two very beautiful young ladies in short skirts with long legs.
A hoard of dependents was seated in chairs lining the walls. Every once in a while Marcellus turned in his chair as if to reassure himself that his friends were still there. He felt wildly uncomfortable sitting at the table with all the big shots. There was Icarus, his chief of staff, not paying attention and staring somewhere up at the ceiling. Jango, his chief of security, gave him a thumbs-up the first time he looked but sometime afterwards had drawn his cowboy hat low over his eyes. Jennifer, who fancied herself his political adviser, eagerly and enthusiastically met his eyes every time he looked, making exaggerated and unnecessary gestures of encouragement. Maya sat quietly, patiently studying the people in the room.
The official photographer had slipped in from the east entrance unnoticed and was circling the table like a vulture. He waved an oblong stick at the various subjects as if he were a magician armed with a magic wand. Now he passed by on the opposite end of the table behind Tina Martinez and pointed his stick in Marcellus' direction. He nodded encouragingly. Marcellus stared grimly back.
Everyone was present. Everyone, that is, except –
“Sonya!” All chatter in the room ceased. Except for Munib and Jango, who never stirred, all eyes turned to Epstein. The President was staring furiously at the empty chair across from Harvey Cash. Vassily hurriedly dismissed his two, gorgeous attendants.
Jewel leaned down and whispered something in his ear.
“Where's the Dutchman?” Epstein demanded gruffly.
“Here I am,” came a stuffy, throaty voice. A thin, bony figure detached itself from the throng by the wall and approached.
“Find out where that blackleg Sonya is!” Epstein spat without even looking in the Dutchman's direction. He licked his lips. “She knew I called a Cabinet meeting for today, didn't she?”
No one answered. The Dutchman turned and waved to someone standing nearby. Together, they held a hasty conference.
Munib, at the other end of the table, flickered. A distant booming emanated from his direction. At that, he stirred. He appeared to glance at someone standing nearby who wasn't there.
“Munib!” Epstein barked. “What's going on?”
Munib seemed to listen for a moment. “Nothing that need concern you, Mr. President,” he replied, looking across the table. His eyes were tiny and dark like coals. His voice was rich and had a pleasant, but somehow harsh sounding accent. “Another suicide bomber just blew himself up.”
“Where are you?”
“At my headquarters, Mr. President.”
“Which ones?”
Munib blinked slowly. “In Trebizond, sir.”
“What are you doing there? I thought you were pushing on to Teheran.”
“We are pushing on to Teheran.”
Epstein growled. Jewel rubbed his forehead. Epstein closed his eyes. After a moment, he said, “You better have a good reason.” Unlike past Presidents, Epstein expected his Secretary of Defense to be out, personally leading his armies near the front lines. From personal experience, he was convinced it raised the morale of the troops. And, knowing the danger the troops were expected to face, he believed the man who sent them into it ought have his share, too. Not that Munib could ever have been accused of cowardice. But lately Epstein had been looking to pick a fight with him.
“All will become clear, by the grace of Allah,” Munib intoned.
Epstein gritted his teeth. He hated it when Munib mentioned Allah. He was about to snap some retort, but Jewel briefly covered his mouth with her hand.
The Dutchman approached. He leaned down and whispered something in Epstein's ear. The President's eyes widened. “What the hell is she doing there?” he suddenly roared, pounding a hairy fist on the table. “All alone, you say?”
The Dutchman nodded.
“Well go send a chopper and pick her up! I don't give a rotten fig what she's up to. You bring her here! You understand?”
Again, the Dutchman turned and waved to someone.
“How long is this going to take?” Harvey asked, pushing the glasses up his nose.
“Harvey!” Epstein barked, rubbing his eyes.
“Yes, sir?”
“Shut up.”
“Yes, sir.”
They sat in an uncomfortable silence for a minute or two before Betty popped in from the east entrance bearing a tray with sandwiches and a pot of coffee. “I brought some chow, Red,” she announced as she approached, her sharp heels click-clacking on the hardwood floor.
Jewel didn't so much as glance out of the corner of her eye, but as soon as she became aware of Betty's presence she stiffened.
“Thanks, Betty,” Epstein said, glancing upwards at his wife. “Why don't you pass them around.”
“Did you find out where Sonya is?” Tina Martinez perked up suddenly.
“A forest!” Epstein snorted derisively. “There's a Cabinet meeting called for today and my Secretary of Public Diplomacy is off by herself sitting in a cabin in the woods enjoying the company of the birds!”
“Yes, well, it's been at least a year since the last one,” Vassily commented in a dry, nasal voice, picking at one of his fingernails. “If you want us to show up on time, maybe you should hold them with some degree of regularity? Hmm?”
Epstein shook his head and held out a finger in Vassily's direction. “None of that from you,” he warned. “Not here, not now. I'm not in the mood! Just because you're sore – I mean, how many Secretariats can a man run efficiently?”
“The environment is an important part of doing business, Judas. It's more efficient if the same person who is producing things also decides that the methods are legal.” He looked up. “Prices could go up, you know.”
Epstein's eyes flashed at the threat and he was about to shout out something regrettable when he was cut off by his wife.
“We all appreciate how important you are to the welfare of the nation,” Jewel told him. She had a lovely, Caribbean accent. Marcellus wished he remembered where she was from. “But there are other considerations than simple cost efficiency. Governing an empire as large as the United States requires balancing a host of opposing forces of which you are only a part.”
Epstein looked sourly up at his wife. “Don't take it personally, Vassily, if that's what's gnawing at you,” he snapped.
Vassily scrunched his lips together and continued to play with his fingernail.
“Sonya's never mentioned any forest to me before,” Tina Martinez interjected. “I didn't think there were any left.”
“Don't be ridiculous! How else do you think there's oxygen to breathe?” He thumped a thumb loudly on the tabletop. “If I've told you once I've told you a thousand times, don't bother watching the nightly intercasts!”
Vassily looked up from his fingernail. “Why not? They're such wonderful things. I make a lot of money on the advertisements. The ordinaries just love advertisements.”
“The news, that's Sonya's business!” Epstein snapped. He waved his hand vaguely. “Look, I've told you before. If you really want to know what's going on in the world, just ask me.”
“I didn't know there were any forests left either, Judas,” Vassily continued. “Forests don't amount to much when they're just standing there, or so my advisors tell me. But when they're cut down, they can be put to all sorts of profitable use.”
“That's right, Vassily! You know, if it weren't for the boys in the camps planting new ones, we'd all be eating dried powder mixed with water right now. So whatever you were thinking, forget about it!”
Gessus' face crumpled up in disgust. “How dreadful.”
“Just like an ordinary supermarket,” Bessus added.
“Those boys make excellent fertilizer,” Tina Martinez said.
“What is she doing in a forest?” Harvey asked.
“Fertilizer for what?” Epstein barked.
“The trees,” Tina Martinez told him. “What else do you think we do with the bodies?”
Epstein sighed. “I don't want to know, Tina, what you do with the bodies. That's why you're Secretary of the Interior.”
“Of course, Samuel,” Tina Martinez replied understandingly.
“What's she doing in a forest?” Harvey repeated.
“Lord knows. Meditating. Getting buggered up the ass. Could be anything.”
“Red, please!”
Epstein lowered his head. “Forgot you were still here, Betty.”
“Should it matter?”
Epstein tried not to smile.
“Sandwich?” Betty asked, waving the gleaming, silver tray in front of Tina Martinez's face.
“Why does Ms. Vasquez get to call you Samuel?” Gessus began suddenly.
“The rest of us are forbidden,” finished Bessus.
“My mother calls me Samuel!” Epstein told them firmly.
“And Ms. Vasquez,” Gessus pointed out.
Epstein studied Tina Martinez for a moment. “My wife, too.”
The photographer passed behind Munib's hologram and aimed his stick in Epstein's direction.
“Well – ” Gessus pressed.
“– why can't we?” Bessus wanted to know.
“You could, Gessus,” Epstein told him. “Bessus.” He nodded his head in their direction. “But I'd have your tongues cut out!”
Gessus rolled his eyes. Bessus sighed dramatically. They leaned their heads together and exchanged a knowing glance.
Jewel leaned down to whisper something in Epstein's ear but he waved her away. “Get that photographer out of here!” he called out suddenly.
The photographer blanched. “I can leave on my own, sir.”
“Show me,” Epstein growled.
Betty was standing not far from Epstein. “Red,” she asked softly, “why don't you take some coffee?”
“Samuel doesn't like coffee,” Jewel told her imperiously.
“Don't tell me what I do and do not like,” he snapped irritably. Looking over at Betty, he asked, “Is it still hot?”
“Piping,” Betty replied, and, pouring some into a cup, set it on the table.
“You're an angel, Betty,” Epstein breathed, holding a hand over the steaming cup.
Betty smiled to herself and withdrew.
When she was gone, Epstein looked up at his wife. “Why can't you be nice to her?”
“I am nice to her,” Jewel replied, not looking at him.
Epstein emitted a low growl. Then, suddenly, he barked, “I don't feel like waiting!” He pushed the cup of coffee away from him and folded his hands on the table. “Munib!”
The Shadow of God on Earth lowered his eyes to look in Epstein's direction. “Mr. President?”
“Why are you in Trebizond?”
Munib calmly folded one leg over the other and tilted his head. “The Turks, of course. They need to be – purged of a romantic but stubbornly persistent attachment to national pride. They've just been biding their time.”
Epstein shook his head. He knew how much Munib hated the Turks. “I'll put someone else on it. I need you in Teheran.”
“Last week you told me to draw it out.”
Epstein
nodded. “That didn't mean withdrawing.”
“I did not
withdraw.”
“Stop playing word games!”
“I want the command on luna.”
Epstein bit his lip and did not respond. His wife, though, did. “General Munib,” she said, placing both hands on her husband's shoulders, “my husband and I value your work. You are truly a genius.”
Munib nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. President.”
“But when my husband gives you an order, it ought to be followed.”
“My excuses, lady,” Munib said, lowering his head for a moment. “I did not intend to give offense. It is not my intention to ignore your husband's wishes. But the situation in Constantinople is grave. I thought I ought to give it my full attention.”
“What's going on there anyway?” Epstein asked.
“Riots.”
Epstein grunted. “Fine. Let those hairy kebab-eaters kill each other. What do we care?”
“Mr. President, I cannot have a hostile force threatening my rear, especially with Mancini so near at hand.”
Epstein thought about that for a moment. “I'll send someone. Get to Teheran.”
Munib shifted his weight uncomfortably in his chair. His eyes shifted from Epstein to his wife and back again. “Should I delay the destruction of the city?”
“By no means,” Epstein told him, waving a hand. “Let's get this over with. After Teheran, we can end this.”
“And then?”
“We'll talk about the moon when you get back.” Epstein reached up and put a hand over his wife's.
“As you wish,” Munib said darkly. His eyes started to gravitate towards the sky.
“Did you say destruction?” Jewel asked suddenly.
Munib's eyes leaped in her direction. “Yes, lady” he said. “It is my intention to destroy Teheran. Burn it to the ground. As was the fate of Persepolis.”
Jewel glanced down at her husband.
Epstein took her cue. “Why would you want to do that, Munib? It'll make us look bad.”
For a brief moment, Munib's mask of calmness cracked. A look of utter hatred and contempt broke out on his face. His nose crumpled. His eyes lit up. They were still black, black as night, but they radiated. “Mr. President,” he said tightly, “I don't tell you how to do your job. Please allow me to do mine.”
Epstein scratched his head uncertainly. “You know I don't like to interfere, Munib. It's just – damn it! There are consequences to things! What about all the people?”
“I'll crucify them and line the road from Teheran to Constantinople. Both sides. In double rows, if necessary.”
“Jesus Christ,” Epstein said, lowering his head into his hands. “Do you think that's a good idea?”
“Yes, sir. I think it's an excellent idea.”
Jewel squeezed his shoulder briefly. “Okay, okay,” he mumbled. “Just keep me informed.”
“Of course, Mr. President. Will that be all?”
“Yes, yes, but why don't you stick around. Listen, everyone!” he called out suddenly. He banged an open palm on the tabletop. “I know it's been a long time, but I called this meeting so everyone could get a good look at my new Secretary of the Environment. The fellow sitting squirming in the middle of the table is Marcellus Gyges.” Without any real enthusiasm, the people in the room started clapping. “Marcellus,” Epstein suggested enthusiastically as the noise quickly died, “why don't you stand up and tell us a little something about yourself?”
Marcellus' eyebrows shot up. “Tell about myself?” he stammered uncertainly, his body suddenly rigid. What would he say?
“Yeah, you know. Where you were born, who you hobnob with, your hobbies. That sort of thing. It's sort of a tradition around here.” Epstein smiled at him in the sudden silence. “Don't look at me like that. Go on. Stand up.”
Jennifer stretched out on the soft, yielding comforter and purred contentedly. “Oh, Ikkie,” she exclaimed, “these mattresses are just lovely!”
Icarus, scrunched uncomfortably in a tight ball in a leather armchair near the bed, scowled in her direction. Since their arrival (had it only been a week ago?) the others had been engaged in a whirlwind tour of the compound and all the grand workings of government. Jennifer was Marcellus' political advisor, but apparently no one took much stock in the title, least of all herself. As for Icarus, it had quickly become apparent that he was nothing more than Marcellus' secretary. Not that he had much need for one. After all, Icarus had no idea where he was and only seemed to run into him by accident. He didn't feel resentful or jealous that he had been left behind, just bored. The days were long and empty – so empty, in fact, that he'd rather spend them with Jennifer. “This place gives me the creeps,” he mumbled.
“Really?” Jennifer rolled over, propped herself up on her elbows, and put her head in her hands. She stared at him curiously. “I love it! It's like living in a big, six-star hotel! Did you notice these pillows?” Indeed, the pillows were huge and luxurious.
“I'm not keyed up to leave the compound. Are you?”
Jennifer feigned confusion. “Leave?” she gasped. “Why would I want to do that?”
“Well, even if you wanted to, you can't. We probably have to ask Mark's permission.”
Jennifer chuckled darkly. “And he has to ask the President.”
“It's probably for our own safety.” Icarus rolled his eyes. “What kind of office space did they assign to Mark anyway?”
Jennifer rolled over onto her back again. “Oh, I don't know. I'll go take a look tomorrow. Right now I'm enjoying my apartment.”
“Mark'll be mad if he comes back and it's not taken care of.”
“Fuck Markie-Mark!” Jennifer retorted bitterly. After a brief moment, she grabbed one of the pillows and hugged it to herself. “My pussy's not good enough for him.”
“Too much info,” Icarus told her dismissively, although his body language suggested otherwise.
“I'll bet he wants Maya.”
Icarus couldn't help but laugh. “Maya? She's not his type.”
Jennifer arched her head back so she could see him. “How do you know?”
Icarus stammered for a moment. “He never talks about her like that!”
Jennifer licked her lips. “Does he talk about me?”
Icarus started to say something but stopped himself. He looked away. “I'm not getting involved, Jen. If you want to know, you ask Mark yourself.”
Jennifer turned her head back towards the ceiling and rocked herself slowly back and forth. “Maya's out there somewhere getting seen at his side instead of me.”
“You retard. Just because he takes her to – ”
“Oh, what would you know about it?” Jennifer interrupted him rudely. “You only take your dick out in the sim.” Jennifer smiled again. It was an eerie, empty smile. “Now I can do whatever I want. I'll have a harem. One man could never satisfy me.” She glanced at the head of the bed. “I'll put chains on the corners with leather straps at the ends. And I'll get some of those latex outfits on the black market. Blindfolds and restraints, too.” She paused. “Markie is so stiff and boring. Did you know these walls are soundproof?” She arched her back again to get a good look at him.
“Yes.”
“He wouldn't fuck me in the ass, Ikkie. That's not normal, is it?”
Icarus was about to say something but found that he agreed, so he changed his mind. “Not everybody's the same. Mark is sensitive.” He shrugged. “Maybe he just doesn't like having shit on his dick.”
Jennifer threw the pillows aside and turned around on the bed so she was on all fours. The long strands of her hair fell in a mad heap down both sides of her head. She looked at Icarus hungrily. “You'd fuck me in the ass.”
Icarus looked away uncomfortably. “You're sick,” he mumbled. Suddenly he wasn't sure what he should be doing with his hands.
But Jennifer only stared at him more intently. She moved an arm in his direction. “We're all sick, Ikkie. Remember?” Then, almost disarmingly, she said, “I'll bet we've met before. In the sim.” One of her legs slid in his direction.
Icarus leaped up, eyes wide, body stiff, and stared wildly back. “Oh my God,” he stammered. “I thought you were a hologram!”
Jennifer smiled evilly. She was amused by the sudden transformation. Her back arched. Even though it was pointing away from him, Icarus couldn't help but notice how invitingly her ass angled upwards in the air. She moved the other arm forward. “What are you so afraid of that I'd know about?”
Icarus remained standing, panting, unable to say anything, his mind racing. She knows. She doesn't know. She knows. She doesn't know...
“How I wish I could open up your head and look inside.” Jennifer closed her eyes. “No one should keep secrets from me.”
Icarus pulled himself into motion. With jerky, inflexible movements, he made it to the door. He pulled a card out of his pocket and waved it at a section of the wall. The door slid open. He fled.
Later on in the night, though, when he thought no one was looking, with thoughts of leather straps and chains lurking in his mind, Icarus darted through the halls of the compound, keeping as much to the shadows as possible, and slipped back uninvited into Jennifer's apartment. He didn't emerge until early the next morning, looking exhausted, rumpled, and somehow very satisfied.
He didn't know in real life it could be so good. That's a fact.
Marcellus had never seen Sonya Ericsson before. He didn't even know there was a Secretary of Public Relations. But there she was, mouth hanging listlessly open, swollen tongue protruding slightly, supervising one of her subordinates at the control panel. Marcellus was standing trapped inside a small, glass booth at the center of a dark, cavernous room. Lights flashed at him and over him. Some were broad and slow, creeping across his chest or trained stubbornly on his face. Others quick and narrow fleeted across a portion of an ear, the tip of his nose, several of his fingers.
“Keep still!” Sonya's complaint was projected into the booth in such a way that it sounded as if she were standing just behind him. “Do you want to do it all over again? Are you enjoying yourself? Because I'm not.”
Sonya had light, blotched skin, a bad attitude, and – same as Icarus – she preferred to dress in black. Her lipstick was black and she painted her eyes so thickly that to Marcellus is seemed she just lost a fistfight. The plastic pants she wore were too tight for her waist. Hard folds of fat hung over the sides. Her posture was poor and she had an insistent smoker's cough. But as unpleasant as she was, Sonya Ericsson was an integral part of any freemocracy.
In an oligarchy, the opinions of well-learned and esteemed people are held in high regard and serve to guide the helm of government. The same is true for a republic, except the elite must also reckon with the interests of the general population, which are otherwise neglected. In a democracy, however, public opinion reigns supreme, and the opinion of the moment trumps established jurisprudence and scientific findings alike. The genius who knows how to manipulate public opinion is master of the state. If, for example, the people can be convinced that waterboarding and sleep deprivation are not torture – despite decades of legal precedence which has determined very clearly that they are – then it can be practiced with abandon, for the proper slavedriver of the people understands that it isn't torture the ordinaries are opposed to, just the word itself.
In a freemocracy, the ordinaries had to be disinformed, and only a master of dissimulation such as Sonya could ever have hoped to succeed in an era of digital and virtual interconnectivity.
On the way to the screening, Maya told him what she had learned. Sonya was the conductor of the media, and the musical notes were subliminal messages that played on the fears of the ordinaries, real or imagined. The more the ordinaries worried about which kinds of insurances they didn't have or what could be ailing their bodies or what kinds of new and exciting gadget they couldn't yet afford, the less time they would have to tend to the political landscape, which was always portrayed in the most boring and yet serene colors.
It was Sonya who planted the occasional article in a well read health magazine – penned by a respected physician, of course – reporting that honey caused cancer. After four months of Vassily's dry complaints about the plummeting sales of honey, she would plant another one in a competing journal enumerating its benefits. The ordinaries were very concerned about their health. Sonya provided them a virtually infinite number of guidelines, diets, and physical programs, all of which would prolong their lives indefinitely. Bread is bad for you, don't eat too much of it; the yeast in bread is beneficial to your health, it should be a daily staple. Get your nightly dose of milk; avoid the lactates in milk, they increase the risk of heart problems. Don't lick stamps. Swimming is an excellent exercise; the chlorine in the public pools poisons unborn fetuses and destroys tissues. Eating too much fruit can make you fat. Fifth-hand smoke can kill you. Wash your hands every five minutes. Stay at home. Pray you'll survive.
Sonya, of course, had another responsibility, one which she had assigned to herself: the guardian of public morality. All of her wholesome, American sitcoms reflected this opinion. Sonya didn’t like it when she saw a man on the street looking appreciatively at a passing woman, especially since it was rarely her. She didn’t like it when she saw a boy stare wide-eyed at a woman's behind, waving at him alluringly. She especially didn’t like it when she saw a man glance at a youth, or two women in passing making contact, or two boys eyeing each other seductively. The word she used to describe this behavior was “dirty”. In fact, it would be safe to say that she didn’t believe human beings should act as human beings at all, but as – well, something else entirely, which she called “divine”. Which strikes me as absurd, because we are all divine, and what she is referring to when she uses the word is something else entirely, a flagellant vision, the product of a mind that denies what is the nature of being human. There is some love of punishment in that vision, some sadistic desire to control, to reserve all the pleasures of the world for oneself behind closed doors where no one else can see and outside of which everything can be denied with dignity. Not that she actually engaged in such pleasures. But she wanted to know that no one else could avail themselves of them, either. She wanted to be looking in all the windows. It was a passion.
Sonya's subordinate, seated at one end of the room behind a set of controls only the back of which was visible to Marcellus, whispered something to her boss.
Sonya's voice flooded the booth. “Walk from one end of the cage to the other.”
Marcellus did so.
“No, no, no!” Sonya whined and violently shook her head.
“What?” Marcellus demanded, hands spread out innocently in front of him.
“Don't stare at the ground! Back straight. Look like you know what you're doing.”
What am I doing? Marcellus asked himself as he did what he was told.
“I hear you're off to Nicaragua,” Sonya muttered as she stared over her subordinate's shoulder. “You're going to like bring water to the poor, dehydrated wretches whose houses got washed away in the hurricane last week.” She laughed sardonically.
Marcellus started. “But I just got here!”
Sonya looked over at the glass booth and snorted. “You're not really going!” She gestured at the controls. “But you'd never know it if you watched tonight's intercasts.”
“You fabricate the news?” Marcellus asked, shocked.
“Stick your hand out,” Sonya told him.
Reluctantly, he jabbed his hand into the nothingness.
“Now pretend your shaking hands.”
Marcellus jerked his hand up and down.
“Do it like a man!” Sonya boomed.
Marcellus pumped his hand harder.
“No, Mark,” she told him. “I don't fabricate the news. That would like be illegal. What I do is like touch it up a little around the edges. You know?”
The afternoon wore on. Sonya continued to direct Marcellus like a trained monkey. He sat down. He stood up. Now he was looking wisely off into the distance. Later, he was having an imaginary conversation with his non-existent PA. He addressed vast, ghostly audiences, complete with forceful rhetoric and the occasional pounding of his fist.
At one point, Tina Martinez strolled into the room, clutching her black pocketbook. “Oh, good morning, dear!”
Sonya seemed delighted to see her. They kissed each other twice on the cheek and hugged.
“How's it going?” Tina asked, peering curiously in the direction of the glass booth.
“He's an embarrassment to himself and the rest of us as well,” Sonya jeered.
They both stared.
“I don't get it,” Tina said suddenly. “He doesn't control a faction. He's got no military skills, and he's not particularly sharp.” She tapped a brightly clad foot on the hard floor and turned to her friend. “There's nothing spectacular about him at all, is there?”
Sonya grunted in agreement. “You know, Judas wants him shown at the front with Munib, visiting the wounded. I'm putting it out next week.”
Tina's feigned shock. “Munib? Of all people!” She peered again at the glass booth. “Can we get closer?” she asked hesitantly.
Sonya shook her head. “No, body heat interferes with the sensors.”
Marcellus felt like a caged animal at the zoo. “Are you talking about me?”
“No,” Sonya grunted and flipped off whatever device was transmitting into the glass booth.
Now Marcellus couldn't hear anything. He couldn't see very much, either. The lights remained trained on him, but they were no longer moving.
Tina and Sonya spoke for some time. Occasionally, Tina would chuckle gracefully, or Sonya would snort like a hog and quiver. Marcellus' impatience grew. He wished Sonya would get on with her work so he could get out of that ridiculous booth. It was a cage, really. And he didn't like being gawked at. Much to his astonishment, he saw Harvey Cash lumber into the room and join them. Now it was three of them who faced the booth, studying him, conjecturing, pointing, laughing. When Vassily stopped by, Marcellus' patience was at an end.
I could make them let me out of here, he thought to himself. The ring wasn't on his finger, but it was in his pocket. Epstein says I shouldn't but this is getting too much! I could –
Actually he couldn't. The dreadful realization dawned on him and was following by an intense pang of anxiety. They couldn't hear him. The ring was worthless. He was at their mercy.
Control yourself. He flooded his mind with the thought even as he closed his eyes and tried to focus on his breathing. Unable to resist, he opened them again. Vassily, wrapped comfortably in his dark cape, was observing him, mouth moving slowly. The eyes of the others, too, were trained on him. Suddenly, they burst out laughing. Harvey Cash's glasses slid off his nose and fell to the floor. Tina bashfully reproached Vassily with a tap on the shoulder from her pocketbook, shaking her head and wiping a tear from her eye. Vassily, for his part, continued with his joke, and the laughter was redoubled. Sonya had to lean up against the control panel and wipe the tears from her eyes.
What saved Marcellus from a sudden and damaging outburst was Maya's arrival. He had never been so glad before to see anyone in his life.
On the way back, he was fuming. Maya had to trot to keep up with him. “What's the matter?” she pressed, but not too loudly. People were staring at them as they passed.
“You know your way around here?” he grated in response, head lowered to the floor.
“Pretty much.”
He slowed down. “I want to see Judas.”
Maya raised her eyebrows. There was a doorway up ahead to what she knew was a little used room. As they passed, she grabbed Marcellus' arm and brushed her hip up against the side of the door. It popped open a crack. Looking quickly around to see if anyone was watching, she deftly pulled him in and closed the door behind them.
They stood facing each other, Maya with a patient but inquisitive look on her face, Marcellus breathing heavily and all worked up.
“What did you find out?” he panted.
“What happened?” she responded.
He sighed. “Judas was right. I got in a vulnerable situation.”
“You mean that glass booth? You looked scared.”
“Did I? Great. They'll be laughing about it for weeks.” She shook his head. “Fucking bastards,” he muttered under his breath. “They hate me.”
“You shouldn't be wandering around by yourself.”
Marcellus reluctantly nodded his head. “I know,” he muttered and took a deep breath. “I know.” Slowly, he relaxed. “So what did you find out?”
“Not much. This building is the old White House. But the compound is a lot bigger. It's really huge, Mark. There are other buildings – I don't know how many or what they're for – and there's even a forest and gardens of some sort. You can see quite a bit through the windows. Oh yeah, we're not keyed up to get outside. Inside we're restricted to our residential suites, the office wing, and some of the common areas. Cafeterias, bowling alley, sim. You know, that kind of stuff.”
“Surveillance?”
Maya smirked at him. “They have scanners everywhere. Even here, I guess.”
“Where are we, anyway?”
The room was smallish and furnished in the Victorian style. A beige overstuffed sofa and matching chair sat before two great windows with thick, red, drawn curtains. Flimsy, white fabric hung down over the panes, obscured the light filtering in from outside. A crystal chandelier with six arms hung from the ceiling, but they were lacking either candles or bulbs. There were other, mostly decorative furnishings in the room, including some wooden tables. The smell of dust was in the air.
Marcellus grimaced. “Let's go.” Together, they moved towards the door, but before they got to it Marcellus stopped. “Do you know where Judas is? I need to see him. I can't let that happen again.”
Maya chuckled. “I'm flattered you think I'm capable of getting my hands on a copy of his itinerary.”
Marcellus looked disappointed. “I guess I'll have to wait till he wants to talk to me. In the meantime – Jesus, Maya, what have we been doing? Everything's happened so fast. We're like kids in a candy shop. Who knows what Jen and Icarus are up to. And Jango – ” Marcellus shook his head. “I'd have thought he'd take the initiative. Follow me around. You know.”
“You can pretty must trust him to do what he's told, Mark. But not much else.” She popped open the door and was about to step through when she realized the passage was blocked by an imposing figure.
Standing in the hallway observing them sternly, hands on her hips, was a familiar figure.
Jewel stepped aside. “We need to talk, Mr. Gyges,” she told him as Marcellus and Maya stepped into the corridor. “Before you manage to get yourself killed.”
“Yeah,” Marcellus chuckled and blushed.
“Send the woman away.”
“Who, Maya? But she's – ”
“Do it.”
After a brief hesitation, he looked at Maya and cringed. “Do you mind – ?” he began reluctantly.
“No problem,” she said icily. “Good day, my lady.” She bowed her head slightly and turned her back on them.
“Could you get the others together?” Marcellus called out as she walked off. “In your apartment? I don't know how long I'll be!”
Maya, unresponsive, disappeared around a corner.
“You shouldn't be seen in public shouting after your dependents,” Jewel reprimanded him coldly. With her eyes she pointed out the myriad of people – officials, bureaucrats, messengers – who had stopped in the hallway to stare. “Come, let's take a walk.”
“Where are we going?” he chirped brightly as they went. The carpet underneath was thick and springy.
“Mr. Gyges,” Jewel began, “I'll come directly to the point. You're not making much of an impression.”
“Tell me about it,” breathed Marcellus wistfully.
“Perhaps you ought to make an effort!”
Marcellus felt ashamed. “How do you mean?”
They stepped from the hallway onto a great, marble platform. The ceiling opened up and yawned above them. Suspended at its very top was an elegant, crystal chandelier. It must have been huge, and yet in that copious amount of space it seemed rather ordinary. An unbroken railing could be seen directly ahead. The platform – along with its twin on the other side of a little chasm – converged onto a grand staircase. All was formed of the same yellow, patterned marble. People of all sorts and types were descending or ascending, among them the occasional drone. Jewel, however, did not take precautions to avoid bumping into anyone. She walked as if she were the only one present. The sea of people parted languidly for her, and as she passed they respectfully stopped what they were doing.
“Get your household in order,” Jewel advised him as she lifted the top of her skirt and began to descend. She choose the very middle of the broad, sweeping staircase.
Marcellus was in awe of the marble and the space and the chandelier hanging above him like a diamond sword suspended from a thread. His head was thrown back, eyes darting from side to side, as he gawked.
“It's all about the impression you make. You have to be organized. How can you expect to earn anyone's respect if your galloping from one side of the palace to the other, bungling your duties, and presenting yourself as a general nuisance to everyone. Are you listening to me, Mr. Gyges?”
“What? Yes.” He came back to his senses and replayed in his mind the words she had just spoken. A sullen pride rose up in him. “Do you know what happened to me just now?” he began in soft, angry tones.
Jewel sighed dramatically. “They were curious, Mr. Gyges. Naturally they are curious! What do you expect?”
Marcellus shook his head stubbornly. He reached into his pocket and drew out the ring. “Do you know what this is?”
Jewel stared at it openly and nodded her head.
“Well, then,” Marcellus responded bitterly. “It seems your husband's been playing me all along. All that talk about keeping it secret, not revealing it to anyone – ”
“My husband and I have no secrets.”
Marcellus thought about that. Suddenly, he slipped it on one of his fingers.
“What are you going to do?”
“Protect myself,” he responded fiercely.
“Even from me?”
They were half way down the marble staircase. The rail was so high he could not get a glimpse of what lay below. “I don't need protection from you,” he admitted softly. Then his voice hardened. “But I will not be taken for a fool. Not by your husband. Not by anyone!”
When next he looked at Jewel, he was surprised to see a naked hunger in her eyes. Imperceptibly, she slowed down. For the first time, he knew that he had her complete, undivided attention.
“Why?” she whispered. “What are you going to do?”
Marcellus thought he recognized that hunger. “I'm going to take it all, Jewel,” he told her. “This will be mine.” He waved at the curving staircase, at the high ceiling, at the landing which was coming into view below. “The whole country. The world. I won't settle for anything less.” He didn't care if his words were picked up by the scanners.
“Why?” Jewel pressed, slowing down even more. She looked ravenous.
“What do you mean, why?” Marcellus snapped. A sudden, foul mood swept over him. What a stupid question, he thought to himself.
“I see,” breathed Jewel, and the hunger faded. She picked up her pace. For a few moments they continued in silence. Jewel betrayed not a sign of what she was feeling or thinking. To the casual observer, she appeared as elegant and composed as ever.
Marcellus' mind, though, was racing. His mood ricocheted from peevishness to thrilled delight. He had seen it in her own eyes! They could be lovers. “I need to see Judas.” They were nearing the bottom of the stairs. “As soon as possible.”
Jewel glanced at him out of the corner of her eyes. “He's a busy man, Mr. Gyges.”
“Call me Marcellus. I hate it when you refer to me as my father.”
A slight smile flitted briefly across her face. “Very well. He's a busy man, Marcellus. He can't just be summoned on a whim.”
“Not even for me?” He stroked the ring.
She licked her lips. “I'll see what I can do.”
They stepped off the stairs into a broad, marble causeway of sorts off of which several large, white doors opened. They had gleaming, brass handles. Directly ahead was long, narrow foyer that tunneled further into the White House. Marcellus couldn't imagine the place was so big. He had seen pictures of it on the link. Perhaps they were outdated?
“I have business to attend to,” Jewel told him gravely. She stopped and gave him a long, penetrating look.
“Listen,” Marcellus said uncertainly, eyes skipping from large white door to long narrow foyer to large white door. “Do you think you can point me in the direction of my apartment?” He put on his best, most charming smile.
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.