“But why would God split itself up into all these little pieces?” I asked, grabbing a piece of the ridiculously upholstered chair next to me. “It seems silly.”
Nameless looked at me the way he usually does when deciding how to answer one of my questions. Imagine trying to explain to someone what it's like to breathe. How could anyone not understand?
I was sitting in a plush, red upholstered chair, one of the many that lined the long, narrow compartment. Nameless was standing in the aisle in front of an easel. He was carrying a long stick. There was nothing, however, on the easel to point out. Rows of windows looked out on either side onto blackness occasionally punctured by swiftly moving lights. On either end of the compartment were two brass doors inlaid with glass. They were closed. No one else was present except Nameless and myself. From time to time, the compartment shook and heaved as the train unexpectedly changed course.
“I'll put it to you this way,” Nameless finally told me, holding the stick loosely in both hands. “God simply is. There is nothing else it can do, and there are no things it can do them to. As you can imagine, it gets rather boring simply being all the time. No?”
I laughed.
“What?” Nameless looked at me quizzically.
“Nothing, it's just funny.” I waved a hand. “How you said it.”
“It was?”
You must forgive Nameless. He has no physical or vital component. He is all thought and meaning now.
It was almost spring when Epstein sent Marcellus to inspect the nuclear power facility outside Wichita. Marcellus clicked his tongue and stomped his foot, but Epstein insisted. “The environment is important, Marcellus! Without it, we don't have a leg to stand on.” Jango was coming with him, and after a moment's thought he asked Maya, too.
“Why her?” Jango asked, hooking a thumb under one of the straps on his smelly, leather pants.
“She's useful in a lot of situations, Jango,” Marcellus replied. “Did you know she's got a black belt? And she can put her legs behind her neck.”
“What's that got to do with anything?”
In the ship on the way over, Jango leaned back with a glass of bourbon and ice and sighed contentedly. The seats were very comfortable and spacious. They were set around a compact table with slight, convenient depressions for their drinks. He looked out the window. Far below, erected in the frozen and forbidding landscape, he could make out a few shabby buildings. A deep trench encircled them. It looked like an army base, except there weren't many vehicles or choppers. A road or two led off into the lonely distance. The individual people could not be distinguished, but the open graves could. He chuckled to himself.
“What's so funny?” Marcellus asked.
“Where are we, anyway?” Jango asked, still looking out the window.
Marcellus craned his neck. “What are you looking at?”
“We should have ended up down there.” Jango threw his head back and took a sizeable gulp of his drink. “But we're here instead.” He smacked his belly and settled even more deeply in his plush, cushioned seat. “In this ship, flying over the camp, not in it. You're the fucking Secretary of Environment.” He reached over and slapped Marcellus on the shoulder. “And junior Senator from Wyoming to bat.” He smiled broadly and extended his glass. “Who would have thought?”
Without any enthusiasm, Marcellus clinked glasses with Jango. He was smartly dressed in tight, comfortable pants, shiny, low-heeled shoes that looked like they had a slim ribbon of black laced several times around, and a baggy, white shirt cut with a collar so low it revealed much of his upper chest. His full head of hair was trimmed and immaculately sculpted. For all her faults, Jennifer had proved to be an effective master of presentation. She knew that it wasn't only the clothes or the shoes or the hair that created an impression, but also the way he walked, the way he sat, the way he picked up a fork. For hours they had practised. He was getting better, she kept telling him, although he wasn't very sure.
“You seem to be getting along well with your new assistant,” Jango commented mischievously as he gulped down more bourbon. It was disappearing quickly.
“Who, Leslie?”
“How old is she?”
A matching smile briefly touched Marcellus' lips. “Twenty-two. You'd never know it the way she sucks cock. A real pro.”
“That a boy.” Jango turned to Maya. “What about you?”
“What about me?” she returned warily. A pair of sunglasses with dark, overly large, round lenses adorned her face. Her hair was drawn back in a tight tail. As usual, she wore no make-up.
“Well, it's just that I couldn't help but notice,” he continued provocatively, tapping one of the hard heels of his boots on the floor. “There's a different kid coming out of your room every morning.”
Maya stared at him coolly. “I didn't know my personal life was of such interest.”
Marcellus burst out laughing. “Don't be embarrassed, Maya. We're all friends here.”
“I'm not embarrassed.” She pursed her lips and eyed the floor for a moment. “And it's not always a different one.”
“You've got something in common with Jen.”
Maya appeared offended. “Don't compare me with that slut! I may appreciate a little variety, but I can still control myself. Jennifer's a deviant. I hear she takes three or four men at a time – or women, if that's what she's in the mood for. She's into whips and piss and shit and all that other crap, too.”
“How do you know?” Jango asked.
Maya shrugged. “All the men she's gone through still have mouths.”
“I wonder if she knows she's getting a reputation,” Marcellus murmured.
“Well what does she expect?” Maya pointed a finger in Marcellus' direction. “You better find out if it reflects badly on you.”
“On me?” Marcellus shook his head. “If you only knew what the others are like.” He shivered.
“Actually, I've heard she's gone the rounds a few times with that horrid Secretary of State.”
Marcellus perked up. “Harvey?” A disgusted look crept across his face. “I'm glad I got to her first.”
“She dumped Icarus pretty fucking quick,” Jango remarked.
“And it's a good thing, too,” Maya said ominously as she put her glass down and stood up. “We shouldn't be getting involved with one another. Not even for old times' sake.” She fixed Marcellus with a long and meaningful stare.
“You don't have to worry about that!” Marcellus scoffed, listlessly sloshing the liquid around in his glass.
Maya strode up to the front of the cabin and opened the thin, narrow door. Deftly ducking her head, she strode through it and closed it neatly behind her.
When she was gone, Jango leaned forward and, speaking in low tones, said, “Okay, Marcellus. Tell me what's bothering you.”
Marcellus sighed. “Is it obvious?”
Jango jabbed his unshaven chin at the drink in Marcellus' hand. A few small clumps of ice swam sadly near the top. “You've hardly touched it.”
Marcellus glanced at his drink and pitied it.
“Is it the woman?”
Marcellus' face scrunched. “Woman? What woman?”
“Don't play games with me. The Caribbean princess.”
“Oh, I thought you'd forgotten about that.” Marcellus bit his lip thoughtfully. “Sometimes we manage a conversation. After cabinet meetings, at dinner, in the tea house. You know, when it's safe because of business. But otherwise we avoid each other.”
“Sounds like a great relationship.”
“It's not a relationship!”
“But it's what you want.”
“I'll tell you something else. I don't think it's one-sided, either.”
Jango nearly dropped his glass.
“She wants me. I see it in her eyes.”
Jango stared, mouth slightly agape, and didn't respond.
Marcellus grew irritated. “I'm not making it up, Jango! She wants me. But she's the President's wife after all, and we both know what that means.”
“Yeah, well, just make sure it stays like that.” Jango poured more of his drink down his throat. “Just remember,” he added, “you're in love, but she's probably in lust. If she's been faithful to that dwarf pig all those years, I'll bet she's desperate for a good fuck.”
“Jango!”
“Okay, so it's not the woman. What is it then?”
Marcellus paused. “I've been having dreams,” he admitted sheepishly. It seemed like a silly thing to say.
“Dreams?” Jango frowned. “What are you, some kind of fucking witch doctor?”
Marcellus shrugged. “You asked.”
“What are they about?”
At first, Marcellus wasn't sure how to respond. “It's – it's this guy talking to me.”
“Talking? What else?”
Marcellus shook his head. “Nothing else. He just talks.”
“What does he say?” Jango leaned carefully back in his seat. “Violent stuff? He explain to you the best way to kidnap your victims and torture them to death without getting caught?” He spoke as if he knew exactly what he was talking about.
“No, nothing like that. I think he's an angel.”
Jango was somewhat amused. “Really? You've been speaking with angels. In real life or just in your dream?”
“No, of course not in real life!”
His best friend, smirking, took a big sip and drained his glass. “I'm glad to hear it. Otherwise I'd have told the others you're cracking. Anyway, cheer up. We're finally out of Washington. Now you can use the ring.”
Marcellus looked slightly uncomfortable. “Judas says it's a bad idea.”
“Fuck Epstein!” Jango burped. “I'm sick of hearing about Epstein!” He smiled again.
“He says – ”
“How's he going to find out?”
“There are probably scanners in here, too. Why else do you think Eddie's along for the ride?”
Jango grimaced and looked around uncomfortably. Eddie was no where in sight.
Maya entered the cabin. “I've never seen toilets like that!” she exclaimed. “They spray your ass with warm water and then blow air on it till its dry.”
“Jango thinks I should use the ring,” Marcellus said to her.
Maya took a seat next to him. “Really?” she replied noncommittally.
“What I said,” Jango insisted, staring at his empty glass, “is that we're out of Washington and he can do whatever he likes.” He looked up at Marcellus. “Everyone knows you're Epstein's fucking lapdog.”
“I know what I'm doing,” Marcellus grated and turned to Maya. “What do you think?”
The door to the cabin opened and in stepped the waiter. He stopped and looked politely in their direction.
“Keep in mind,” she began, eagerly waving the waiter over, “if the other Secretaries and the generals don't respect you now, it'll be that much harder for you later.”
“Later?”
“When you're the one in charge.”
“Who says I'm going to keep any of those bastards around? I need my own people.”
Maya shrugged. “If you won't use it, it's not worth having, is it? I'll have a caipirinha.”
The waiter looked over at Marcellus. Rudely, Marcellus thrust his nearly-full glass in his face. “I'm not afraid of him.” He took a big sip and looked moodily out the window.
“He's your daddy,” Jango told him.
Marcellus rolled his eyes. “You wait,” he told Jango, jabbing a finger in his direction. “I'll put the fear of Marcellus into whoever I have to when the time comes. But right now I'm learning. I'm learning a lot.”
“You've got to stop doing whatever you're told.” The waiter came back and handed Maya a glass filled with a greenish looking liquid, some lime skins, and ice.
“He's a remarkable man.” He took another sip and drained the glass.
“Then why are we going to Kansas?” Jango queried.
“I thought you'd like Kansas! You liked Casper! You wanted to go to Casper. What's the fucking difference?”
“That's not the point,” Jango said. He leaned into the aisle and grabbed the waiter's attention. He held his own, empty glass out and pointed in Marcellus' direction. Settling back into his seat, he said, “The point is, you didn't want to go.”
“I didn't want to go to Casper either!” Marcellus shouted.
“You're not even wearing it,” Maya pointed out.
“The ring is dangerous.”
“The only way you can stop anyone from taking it from you,” Maya told him, “is by keeping it on one of your fingers.”
“As soon as I use it everyone will know I have it.”
Maya shrugged. “So. Everybody wants to be President, too. Why else do you think Epstein's barricaded himself in the White House compound? The place is swarming with his Praetorians.”
Marcellus had an answer ready, and just as he was about to spit it out, he realized he didn't know what it was.
“And don't forget,” she continued, “everyone has to do whatever the President says, ring or no ring.” Maya sipped her caipirinha, carefully observing Marcellus over the top of the glass.
When the silence grew too long, Jango whipped a white envelope out of his breast pocket. “You want some?” he asked, waving the packet in Marcellus' face.
“Sure,” he replied testily. “Are we there yet?”
The New Frontiers Nuclear Facility was located deep in the restricted zone outside Wichita, Kansas. When they landed, Eddie, their political commissar, put in an appearance.
“Hi guys!” he chirped. “Enjoy the flight?” Before anyone could answer, he was handing out what looked to be space suits. “Put these on,” he told them cheerfully. “It's dangerous out there.”
The radiation suits were orange, including the thick-set boots. There was a thick, translucent panel set in the headpiece so they could see. A heavy box near the belly controlled temperature and filtered out dangerous particles in the air. The suits were large and baggy and accommodated almost all of their clothing – except, of course, Jango's cowboy hat.
“Going to have to leave it behind,” Eddie told him and winked.
Jango almost slugged him.
Marcellus consulted with his friend while Maya looked impatiently out the window. “Jango,” he whispered loudly, “you know who he is. Leave the fucking hat!”
“I'm not impressed!” Jango growled menacingly, thrusting his barrel-sized chest in Eddie's direction.
“You could put the hat on over the helmet,” Eddie suggested merrily.
In the end, Jango left it in the plane.
Their security detail – they had travelled in the other cabin – met them on the tarmac, four beefy men and two beefy women in dark suits and sunglasses. They weren't wearing any protection. Eddie, too, clad in a similar radiation suit, had two unprotected bodyguards of his own.
The director of the facility met them on the tarmac. She gave her name only as Ms. Jefferson. Through the translucent panel of her radiation suit, Marcellus could make out her dark skin – not as dark as Jewel's – and squarish-looking glasses.
Ms. Jefferson herded them into a mini-bus which drove off the tarmac and then ascended into the air, travelling the short ten kilometers or so to the facility proper. All the while she was talking, giving them detailed descriptions of the goings-on at the power plant, peppered with very dry and very boring facts of which she seemed to be very proud. Most of the information was beyond Marcellus' grasp, but Maya seemed to be paying attention. He'd ask her about it later.
Marcellus spent the time during the five minute ride looking out the window at the barren landscape. Kansas was not an inviting place, he decided. The sky overhead was very blue, but the land was a brown-greyish color that displeased him. A dull, greenish haze hung in the air as far as the eye could see. There were no trees in view, no bodies of water. Nothing. Well, there was the huge nuclear complex. Walled off by a security barrier, buzzing with military vehicles on the ground and swarming around the cooling towers in the air, it was an impressive set of buildings. But there could be no doubt as to where the reactors were located: there were two cooling towers jutting up from the ground and only a little further away, four monster towers dwarfing their companions.
“Like most nuclear fusion reactors,” Ms. Jefferson was saying, “we use a small, thorium burning nuclear fission facility to provide the heat necessary to drive the fusion reaction.” She pointed towards the two smaller cooling towers. “That's the fusion reactor over there. That's where the plasma is burnt.” Now she indicated the big towers.
Maya was engaging the director. Casual, leaning on one leg, a hand cupping the elbow of the other arm, she seemed to be listening earnestly. She was focused.
Jango, standing next to her, was humming some unknown tune to himself and staring out the window. He slapped at his thighs without any sense of rhythm (Jennifer had convinced him to exchange the smelly leather pants for some relatively new-looking, black jeans) and his head made strange, jerky movements.
They were descending. “We've got a busy day planned for you, Mr. Secretary,” Mr. Jefferson told him officiously.
“Hmm?” he muttered, stirring. “Oh yes, of course. A busy day.”
“The previous Secretary of the Environment had far less time for us, much less rules concerning leaks and waste disposal.” Ms. Jefferson shrugged. “I suppose it could only be expected. He owns the plant.”
Marcellus nodded in agreement.
“Ah,” Ms. Jefferson said, pointing out the window as they approached the ground, “there you can see one of our new environmental clean-up details at work. We organized them as soon as we got your instructions.”
“My instructions?” Marcellus leaned over and stared at the ground. He saw a clump of dirty, underfed men and women clothed in rags attacking the frozen ground with shovels. A drone stood motionlessly nearby, laser tube held at the ready. “What's the level of exposure out there?” he asked shortly.
“To radiation? Oh, I'd say each day it's equivalent to five X-rays at the dentist,” she explained.
“Why aren't those people wearing protection?”
Ms. Jefferson laughed shrilly. “What a sense of humor you have, Mr. Secretary!”
Marcellus scowled. “I'm serious.”
Ms. Jefferson's laughing choked off. She coughed uncomfortably. “Well, sir,” she began, “those are condemned prisoners.”
“The camps,” Maya mouthed to him.
“The camps?” Marcellus repeated out loud.
Ms. Jefferson cleared her throat nervously and looked away.
A few moments later, they landed.
By the end of the day, Marcellus had a pretty good idea how the plant was run. He was disturbed by what he had learned. The part of the planet where the New Frontiers Nuclear Facility was located was sick. A part of him was genuinely outraged. Now they were making an effort to clean it up. He supposed he ought to feel good about that, but he didn't.
He had always known there were freemocracy camps. Everybody did. But he had liked to believe the people inside were prisoners in the usual sense. The Chinese, the Russians, it was well known that they tortured and mistreated those who fell into the grasp of their security forces. But this was the United States of America. He had never met anyone who had been released from a freemocracy camp, and he had never met anyone who had, either. But that uncomfortable fact could easily be explained away as a mere coincidence. Of course, there had been the rumors. He had heard stories about electric shock therapy and forced organ donations, that kind of thing. But those were stories spun by subversive elements, working for the bad guys, with the aim of hurting morale. It was unpatriotic to believe them. That was the line spun by the news services on the link anyway.
That afternoon he had been confronted with a different reality. Like many people who found themselves in a similar situation, he decided not to think about it. He didn't mention it to Ms. Jefferson, even though she looked away in embarrassment whenever they came across some bony, neglected figure dressed in rags, face lowered under a drone's watchful gaze, lugging its equipment on its back and trying as hard as it could not to collapse in a heap to the ground, where it would doubtlessly be whipped until it managed to rise again, if ever at all. He didn't mention it to Jango or Maya and they didn't mention it to him, either.
Eddie, their political commissar, stuck with them the whole day, listening intently to what was being said and constantly pulling Ms. Jefferson aside for brief but secret conferences. That night, he took them back to New Baquba, a settlement inside the restricted zone where those authorized to work could find shelter, rest, and whatever relaxation they fancied.
New Baquba had been named by the veterans and refugees of some long forgotten war. No one, it seemed, could remember where the war had been fought or in what country the original Baquba had been, but New Baquba was there nonetheless. And thank the gods, thought Marcellus. It was the only place for kilometers in any direction they could buy a beer or a decent steak or a relatively clean prostitute.
“We have an expense account,” Jango told him in the lobby of their hotel with a broad grin on his face. He slapped his buddy on the back. “Let's use it.”
“Okay,” Marcellus agreed. “Let me stop upstairs and put on the disguise.”
“Yeah,” Jango grunted, heaving himself onto a flimsy chair, “you're a fucking rock star. Hurry up.”
Up in the room, Marcellus dug the disguise out of his suitcase. Gessus had given it to him. It looked like a featureless, peach plastic ball the size of a person's head. There was a slight depression in one side. Drawing a deep breath, Marcellus lifted it and fit his face into the depression. The thing activated at once. He felt it cling to his skin as his face sank deeper inside. The process was slow and painful. He could feel it at work, reshaping the muscles of his face and injecting chemicals to hold them in place. It was like a thousand needles stabbing him all over at once. All he could do was grit his teeth and wait it out. Finally, the thing passed over to the back side of his head, and his new face broke out into the world. Most of the material in the disguise had been used up in the process. What was left was flimsy, virtually weightless, and hung around his neck in tatters.
Marcellus threw the remnants of the disguise into the disposal and looked at himself in the mirror. Impressive, he thought to himself.
Before he left, he did something else. He plucked the ring from one of his pockets and put it on.
On the way down to the lobby he decided to have some fun. He spotted Jango just where he had left him in. An empty look on his face, one of his arms dangled over the side. His bearish gut heaved languidly. Marcellus marched up to him, pulled his wallet from his back pocket, flashed one of his ID cards at him, and announced flatly, “Come with me, sir. You're under arrest.”
Jango, though, was not to be fooled. The life bled back into his eyes. “Not bad,” he breathed. “Took long enough.” He glanced around as if obtaining his bearings.
Marcellus held up his hand. “Look what I got.”
Jango whistled softly. With a surprising burst of energy, he leaped to his feet. “C'mon, let's hit the town.”
Like many cities and towns they knew of, New Baquba was divided into two parts. There was the clean, proper-looking section where the majority of the people lived and proudly showed off their compliance with traditional, middle-class values. There was also the seedy, smaller but far more lively section where the same people anonymously indulged themselves in all the sins they publicly wouldn't own up to. Their hotel was located in the former. They made straight for the latter.
The first thing they did was find a hooker. Jango stepped eagerly through the glass door while Marcellus waited in a smoky, foul-smelling bar just around the corner. He sat by a window, staring idly through it, not noticing much of anything. The bar was on the corner of a little square. On the other side, almost hidden by the statues set up in the center, was the gloomy facade of a police station. The steps leading up were brightly lit. At the top were several large, double doors lined up in a row. Engraved in the stone above them in big, block letters were the words: WE DO NOT TORTURE.
A larger-than-life statue of President Murroughs in the center dominated the square and its surroundings. Elevated above the hustle and bustle by a large pedestal, she was depicted mounted on a rearing horse, nostrils flaring, hooves slapping at the air. Murroughs held a sword, and arm extended she was pointing it purposefully ahead, facing down whatever it was she was riding off to with calm determination and the assurance of victory.
A more recent addition to the display stood next to it. The current President of the United States sat on a rearing horse of his own, looking serenely off at whatever Murroughs was pointing at. The statue was beardless and the features far more handsome than Marcellus knew them to be in real life. But most ridiculous of all, Epstein's dwarfish condition had miraculously been undone by the sculptor. The man depicted by the statue was a muscular, two-meter giant. A sudden burst of laughter tore past Marcellus' lips. Looking carefully around to see if anyone had noticed, he buried the smile in his hands and tried to avoid looking at it.
Inside the bar an array of large vidscreens had been expertly arranged so one was always in view. Marcellus was amazed to see himself staring angrily back from one of them. His mouth dropped open. He watched, captivated, as he saw himself speaking angrily to an assembled crowd of functionaries and workers, people he had never seen before. They were gathered in front of a run-down factory that until recently had produced industrial chemicals. The camera panned to view the scorched topsoil, the meager patches of withered, dying grass, the lake nearby coated in an ominous, yellow foam, broken by the occasional rotting corpse of a fish and some plastic bags. Marcellus swallowed thickly as he heard himself demand the owner of the factory be summarily shipped off to a freemocracy camp.
A chill swept up his spine. Is this what the world thought of him?
When Jango returned, he was in a good mood. “Slapped her around a bit,” he confided as he signalled to the bartender.
“She let you hit her?” Marcellus was incredulous.
“No, she didn't fucking let me! What would be the fun in that?” He gulped his beer down. “You finished with that? Let's get out of here.”
“Hey, you two!” the bartender called out as they were about to leave. “Aren't you forgetting something?” He tossed the rag he was holding onto the bar and made to come around the side.
Marcellus twisted the ring on his finger. “Get back behind the bar. We don't owe you anything.”
The bartender hastily agreed.
“That a boy,” Jango said approvingly, putting an arm around Marcellus' shoulders as they exited into the crisp, night air.
They were walking past the police station when a police cruiser suddenly screeched to a stop a few meters in front of them, blocking their way. Reflexively, Jango tensed, but Marcellus pulled him along. Three burly officers in uniforms emerged from the cruiser as they passed. One of them opened the back and reached in. A young man, hands tightly cuffed behind his back, collapsed on the street and lay face down, moaning. When he looked and saw the big block letters above the doors, he started kicking and struggling. “My genes are pure!” he screamed. “I swear it!” One of the officers grimly produced a club and pounded him soundly on the back of the head. The cried suddenly ceased.
“Cool,” whispered a child, no more than ten or eleven years old, watching with some friends on the other side of the street. His PA was held out in front of him, recording. When the officers and young man had disappeared inside the station, they all eagerly gathered around to review the playback. “I'm going to put it on my Facepage,” one of them announced.
Marcellus and Jango visited a few more bars. Jango kept insisting Marcellus go to a hooker. “You could have anything you want!” Jango told him. “You wouldn't even have to pay.”
“No need to go to a hooker,” Marcellus replied, taking a moment to burp loudly, “I could fuck any woman I fancied.”
Jango looked at him crookedly. “Holy shit. You're right!”
Marcellus shrugged.
“If I was you, I'd be fucking every hot pussy had the back luck to cross my path.”
“Well, I am Secretary of the Environment. Can't cause a ruckus, you know.”
Jango heaved a tired sigh. “Nobody out here can tell the Secretary of the Environment from a minesweeper. Not with that disguise.”
“You want to get a joint?” Marcellus suggested.
Jango's face scrunched up. “How about some powder?” He patted his pocket.
“How about both?”
Some time after that, Jango stood pissing in one of the green, metallic stalls the city of New Baquba had provided to discourage people like them from soiling the streets any more than they already were. The stalls were made of solid metal except for the top portion, in which a grille of sorts had been placed. This meant that Jango and Marcellus could chat while Jango relieved himself.
“You give him a hard time,” Marcellus, leaning against a mailbox, was saying.
“He acts like he knows everything.”
Marcellus
shrugged. “Sure, sure, but – ”
“He's too smart for his
own damn good.” The river of piss stopped. Jango zipped up his
pants.
“Yeah, I was about to say.” Marcellus took a swig of beer from the bottle he was holding. “But he's good to have around. He's realistic for one thing. Got both feet on the ground.”
Jango emerged from the metal piss-pot still playing with his groin. Next to him, at the very top of the piss-pot, were engraved the following words: RONALD REAGAN PUBLIC POOP CHUTE. “One thing's for sure, you don't have to worry about Icarus stabbing you in the back. He's too chickenshit.”
They both caught sight of a tall, beautiful, blond-haired woman coming their way. She was wearing a short skirt, had slender legs, and carried a shopping bag in one hand, a purse slung carelessly over the other arm. Jango and Marcellus both took a long moment to observe her as she approached. As she passed, she blithely flicked her long, blond hair in their direction and made a point of looking the other way.
“Stupid fucking donkey slut,” Jango called out unimaginatively after her. Suddenly, a mischievous smile spread across his face, and he trotted quietly after her. When he got close enough, he reached out and joyfully grabbed a stubborn fistful of ass.
The woman dropped her bag and let out a high-pitched, piercing scream. Jango stood before her, immensely pleased with himself, and flashed her some teeth.
“Christ, Jango, let's get out of here before the cops show up!” Marcellus growled and, rushing past, pulled his big friend after him.
A few hours later, they found themselves outside a casino. Across the street was a credit dispenser. A large, shiny statue of the dollar sign had been mounted on a golden pedestal next to it. A middle-aged man kissed the tips of his fingers and touched it respectfully as he passed by. People were lined up in front of the dispenser, holding prayer beads tightly in their hands, lips moving desperately. None of them dared to actually use it, however.
“Let's go in,” Jango suggested, absorbed by the shiny, glittering lights.
They were playing roulette. Marcellus was puffing on a cigarette and Jango had a cigar. Next to them at the same table was a teenager. He kept betting on the same three numbers and they hadn't come up yet.
“The one you have to watch out for is Jennifer,” Jango told him casually, eyes on the spinning wheel.
“Jennifer?” Marcellus almost laughed. “She's harmless.”
The ball dropped into a slot no one was waiting on.
“Tough luck!” droned the robot behind the table. It's head swivelled sympathetically even as the machine started to reset itself.
“Every friggin' time!” the teenager exclaimed and shook his head. He had greasy, reddish hair and glasses.
“You can't trust her,” Jango told him, biting his cigar and eyeing him carefully.
“That's what she says about you.”
Jango grinned. “Yeah, well, too bad for her we go back.”
Even though he was standing perfectly still, Marcellus stumbled and nearly fell.
“How's your beer doing?”
The wheel was spinning. The robot behind the table was exhorting them to place their bets.
Jango slapped two fiches on seventeen. The red-headed teenager made to place a fiche on seventeen as well, but as Jango accidentally knocked it aside and the teenager's fiche landed on twenty instead.
“No more bets,” the robot told them.
The red-headed teenager fidgeted excitedly. “But – !”
The ball dropped into a slot. “Seventeen!” the robot called out gleefully. “We have a winner!”
“Hey, that was my number!”
“Tough luck, twerp,” Jango grumbled in the teenager's direction as he leaned forward to collect his winnings.
The teenager turned to the robot. “Check the video. You'll see this imbicile moved my chip!” He stood pointing rigidly.
“I'm sorry,” the robot told him apologetically after the slightest pause, “I'm not able to comply. If there is a problem, please speak to my manager.”
Jango plugged his wallet into a compartment near the robot's base. When the credits had been loaded up, he pulled it out and put it back in his pocket.
The teenager turned to Jango. “Look, I'm not asking for your money. Just back me up on this, okay?”
“Shut up!” Jango growled back. “Live longer.”
“But –”
“You lost.”
The teenager bristled at the suggestion. “I did not loose,” he stated emphatically. “We both won.”
Marcellus rolled his eyes impatiently.
Jango gurgled. “Well, here I am with two thousand more credits to my name. I'd say that makes me a winner. And you, I don't know how much you already dropped on this table, but whatever it is, you're definitely a big fucking loser.”
Marcellus set his empty bottle down. “C'mon, Jango, let's fly.”
But Jango didn't want to go. He was staring the pouting youth down, arms crossed, face impassive.
“I did not loose!” the teenager insisted. “I got all my gold cards in school.”
Jango snorted. “Everybody gets gold cards in school, kid,” he told him. “This is real life. Why don't you get out of here before it bites you in the ass.”
“I'm not going anywhere until I get my money!”
Jango never took his eyes from his prey. “Marcellus,” he breathed, “get this pile of jelly to meet us outside.”
“Are you sure?” Marcellus sounded reluctant.
“I'm in the mood.”
Five minutes later, the teenager stepped out a side door. It was a dark, slimy place and it smelled like urine. No one was around, but up ahead the alley opened into a busy street.
“Hi,” Marcellus greeted him.
The kid looked confused. “I – I don't know why I came,” he told them uncertainly even as Jango advanced.
“I do,” Jango told him and punched him solidly in the face.
The sound was not what Marcellus had expected. It was soft and sluggish. The kid staggered backwards and fell into a slimy wall, hands covering his face. Blood seeped out between the fingers. “Oh my God!” he exclaimed, his voice muffled. “You broke my nose!”
Jango advanced upon him grimly, rolling up his sleeves. “I'm sorry,” he purred. “Was that your face?” He slugged him again, this time in the stomach. And again, this time in his kidneys. And again. And again.
Marcellus, looking quickly about, saw a long board lying in the gutter. He made a decision. He picked it up and glanced at Jango pummelling his victim. Gripping the board tightly in his hands, he advanced.
Jango and Marcellus stood still, looking down at the mangled corpse at their feet. It had collapsed against the wall and was lying in a pool of thickening blood. What had been the face was unrecognizable. Jango's fists were bloody and Marcellus was still holding the board. At one end it, too, was covered with blood. And not just blood. There were bits and pieces of other, more substantial matter that Marcellus preferred not to think about. He tossed the board away and brushed off his pants. That's when he noticed there was blood on them, too.
He stopped when he saw that Jango was trembling. “What's the matter?”
“We killed him,” Jango muttered as if he were afraid of the words.
Marcellus clicked his tongue. “It's what you wanted, isn't it?”
“They'll – they'll find out!” Jango sounded flighty. “They'll collect our DNA. They'll know what we did!”
There's probably scanners here, Marcellus thought to himself. He looked back down at the body. “C'mon, Jango,” he said gently, pulling on his arm.
Jango, spooked, looked at him wildly. “Your disguise!” he gasped. “It's – it's starting to wear off!”
“Just keep going,” Marcellus told him gently, sparing his friend the power of the ring. He pulled Jango along after him.
Epstein smiled broadly. “So you were the ones!” He slapped a thigh triumphantly with one of his thick hands, looked up at his wife, and winked. “I told you so.”
“You always have to be right,” Jewel replied crisply, smoothing out the front of her rich blue and green dress.
“I always am right!”
“You had another way of knowing.”
Epstein licked his lips and clapped his hands together. “Fork over your ID cards,” he demanded of Marcellus.
“What?”
Epstein's fingers beckoned. “Just give them to me.”
Marcellus exchanged glances with Jango before digging into his pocket.
“The others, too,” Epstein said as he accepted the stack of cards.
Epstein was sitting behind the stout, oak desk in his wood-panelled study. Behind and slightly next to him stood Jewel, tall and proud and beautiful as always. Next to her, separated by only a few feet, was Marcellus, and on the other side of the desk facing them were the others: Icarus, Jennifer, Maya, and Jango. Near the fireplace, sitting across from each other on one red couch each, were Vassily and the Dutchman. Vassily had his black cape draped around him. The Dutchman was tapping his foot impatiently and holding a notebook poised. A suited Praetorian lurked silently in the corner.
When he finally had them all, Epstein scanned the cards. Jewel leaned down and peered over his shoulder.
One of Epstein's eyebrows shot up. “Gregory McGreggor?” he asked, addressing Marcellus.
Marcellus snorted. “Oh yeah.” He shrugged.
Epstein continued to flip through the stack. “John O'Doodle?” he said, looking up at Jango.
Jewel bit her bottom lip. “Those are the names they came to us with.”
“We got those cards from – ” The voice was Icarus', but he cut himself short when Jennifer stamped on his foot.
“Yeah, Xiling. I know.”
Jewel's face lit up. “You said his name! Oh, honey, I'm so proud of you.”
“Don't kiss me!” Epstein barked. He sat still, face slowly darkening. “So that's what happened.”
“How'd he know?” Jennifer whispered loudly to Icarus.
“I didn't know until now!” Epstein snapped irritably. “Jan Pieter!”
The Dutchman leaped to his feet. “Ja, sir?”
“Xiling's got somebody in the Department of the Interior authorized to tap into the citizens' database. Start digging till someone fesses up.”
“Don't you think you should run this through Tina?” Vassily spoke up. “She is the Secretary of the Interior last time I looked.”
“It's her job to stay on top of these things. She'll understand. Did you hear me, Dutchie?”
The Dutchman nodded his head even as he scribbled hurriedly in his notebook. “Shall I use the enhanced techniques?”
“Do what you have to. Just make sure you find out who it is. It's a matter of national security.”
The Dutchman sat back down. Epstein remained quiet, catching his breath.
“I never understood what those cards were worth, anyway,” Marcellus muttered. “I mean, our numbers are on them. It was only the names they changed.”
Epstein slammed a palm on the desktop. “Names was enough, son! That's all we had.” He jutted his chin in Maya's direction. “It was only luck we spotted her. You don't know, do you? We were able to grab your faces from the scanners when you made your get-a-way after the heist. I don't know where you disappeared to, but by the time we fed them into the grid, y'all had skeddadled. Maya was the first one back.” Epstein paused and growled softly in the Dutchman's direction. “For a while I was like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.”
Marcellus scrunched his eyebrows together and looked at Jewel.
“Nervous,” she mouthed to him.
“Oh,” Marcellus said.
“What?” Epstein mumbled, stirring amid his thoughts. “Anyhoo, we can get you your old names back if you want.”
Vassily laughed shrilly. Crossing his legs and adjusting the heavy folds of his cape, he said, “Oh, Judas, you're so funny. Why the sad face? We've got the kids now.”
Jango turned to face the Secretary. “No one's got us. We're here because we want to be.”
Vassily's eyes glittered. “Of course. That's what I meant.”
Jewel patted her husband gently on the shoulder. “Samuel doesn't like it when he thinks someone's got the best of him.”
“Hornswaggled.”
“What?” Marcellus asked.
“Humbugged.”
Icarus leaned over and whispered loudly in Marcellus' direction. “Ask him what he wanted the chip for.”
“Ain't it obvious?” Epstein barked, shoving a hand inside his beard. “Xiling has a whole operation going. He's got a budget. Don't know where he gets it from, though. Ain't that so, Dutchie?”
The Dutchman pretended he hadn't heard.
Epstein's voice took an accusing turn. “I've got the world's best intelligence services. They're armed with state of the art equipment. That's what they tell me, anyway.” He shrugged. “I figured I'd try something else. Almost worked, too.”
“It would have worked, Mr. President,” Maya told him with a wry look on her face, “if only you had showed up to buy the friggin' chip like you agreed to.”
“Couldn't do that,” Epstein told the ceiling, thrusting his arms upwards and stretching backwards. “Xiling didn't know any better than me where you'd skipped off to, but I knew we were being watched.”
“Your boys behave like amateurs, Mr. President.”
Epstein smirked. “She's got a sharp tongue, that one,” he remarked, jerking a thumb in Maya's direction. “Tell her life don't always work out as planned.” He tossed the cards in a hapless heap on his desk and looked up at Marcellus. He was grinning. “You and your friend here are wanted criminals, or so I hear. Murder. In Kansas they inject you for that.”
“Can't you, you know, do something about it?”
Jennifer giggled and whispered something into Icarus' ear.
“You know,” Epstein continued proudly, “they came to the Dutchman this morning with the evidence.”
Jewel frowned. “You told me about it last night, dear.”
Epstein nodded triumphantly. “'S right.” He folded his arms. “Oh, stop looking like a gnat in a hail storm! Look at your friend here. What's his name?”
Jango gruffly supplied the name.
“Look at his face. Cool as stone.” He paused for a moment. “But he got all choked up after he killed that kid last night, didn't he?” He peered at Jango closely. “It's in moments of stress that a person shows his true colors.”
Jango snorted and turned to Icarus. “What does choked up mean?”
Icarus shrugged. “I don't know. Sounds like you were going to cry.”
“You know, Icarus, they say murder's much easier the second time.”
Jennifer giggled.
Marcellus cocked his head. “Sounds like you were there, Judas.” He turned to Jango. “Must have been scanners.”
“In the alley?” Jango lay a hand on his gut and stretched. “Not likely.”
Epstein slammed his hand on the desk. “Of course it's likely! Your friend in the national guard could tell you. We got ninety percent coverage and each day we're ratcheting it up! We even got 'em peeking into people's homes. Can see through walls and everything.”
“Is that how you know so much?”
The President averted his eyes. “I know a lot of things about you, Marcellus. I make it my business to know.” He sighed heavily. “Heck, it's going to come out sooner or later.”
“You think it's a good idea to tell them?” the Dutchman warned.
Epstein laid both hands on the top of the desk and looked directly into Maya's eyes. “She's bugged.”
Vassily breathed out a low whistle.
Maya coolly returned his gaze. “I'm what?”
“Bugged,” Epstein repeated, looking away. He grabbed reassuringly onto one of his wife's hands. “When we had you on the moon, we – You explain, Dutchie.” He buried his mouth in his wife's smooth, dark wrist, showering it with kisses.
Maya turned and looked at the Dutchman. “What's wrong with me?”
“They implanted a transmitter in your brain. They can hear and see everything you can.”
There was a long moment of silence. Jewel shook her head and pulled her husband gently on the ear.
Marcellus turned and looked darkly at Jewel. “You knew about this?”
“Of course she knew!” Epstein shouted petulantly. “Don't question my wife about matters of state.”
When the realization had sunk in, Maya began to scream and slap at her face. “Get it out!” she cried. “Get it out!” Jennifer tried to grab her hands, but it was futile gesture. Jewel, though, swung purposefully around the side of the desk and caught hold of her wrists. Maya's head arched backwards, muscles taught as stone. The others backed away, as if whatever she was carrying in her head were contagious.
“She must have followed you,” Icarus said obliquely to Marcellus.
Marcellus looked on as Maya thrashed and heaved. A look of disgust was spreading across his face.
Epstein gestured to the Praetorian in the corner. “About that kid you killed. I'll make it go away.” He reached under his desk and pressed a button.
The Praetorian approached and put Maya in a headlock.
“You can see and hear everything she can?” Jennifer breathed, holding back tears.
“Not everything,” the Dutchman responded shortly, coming up behind her followed closely by Vassily. “Sometimes there is interference.”
“They never print this shit in Ammo,” Jango muttered, putting a hand to his ear.
Two black-suited men and a woman rushed into the room. Assessing the situation, they heaved Maya's wriggling body into the air.
“The problem with this country,” Epstein began, “starts with your average Joe. He's fierce enough behind a ballot box. Park him behind a desk, link him up – hell, give him five minutes in the sim – and he talks like he's tough as a boot. But drop him in a battlefield and he turns yeller. It's a problem. We have to field an army. We need people fit for the heat of battle. And fit for what comes after.
“You know, we even shield the people who inject condemned prisoners. One person mixes the cocktail. Another one sticks the feeder into the vein. And somebody else puts the poison in the feeder. Not only that, all they ever see is an arm bound to a plank because a curtain separates them from the person on the other side. Otherwise they won't do it.” Epstein rolled his eyes scornfully.
Jennifer cupped her ear and leaned over the desk. She couldn't hear over Maya's screeching. “What?”
One of the Praetorians was about to stuff a wooden gag into Maya's mouth. “Easy, easy!” Epstein called, banging on the table. The Praetorian looked up at him. “Have her debugged,” he told her officiously, shaking his head at the gag.
Together, the four Praetorians dragged Maya out of the room. Jewel stood by the doorway, watching them go.
“You saying we're off scott free?” Jango wanted to know.
“What I'm saying is we need real men in this country! I've been thinking about it. We ought to start breaking up families. We need fathers who beat their wives and shoot their colleagues. Because those kids grow up tough, the ones who don't commit suicide or get involved with drugs. Right now I'm depending on the Mexicans. Tough people. Why? They got tough lives.”
“What about the guards at the camps?” Marcellus asked.
Epstein snorted. “They're only good for abusing people who can't fight back.” Suddenly, he craned his neck towards the open doorway. “No waterboarding!” he roared after his guards. “She's not a prisoner, you hear?” He glanced at his wife. “Jewel, be a dear, would you – you know.”
She slipped out of the room.
Epstein looked around at the others apologetically. “They love that waterboarding, you know. Common forms of torture causes pain. But a long time ago we fought a war against some bad eggs and after that the rule was, it's okay to get information from prisoners if there's no traces how you done it. Waterboarding's perfect. It's causes panic, not pain. And panic is more effective, because people can be trained to withstand pain. And it doesn't leave any marks. Right, Dutchie?”
The Dutchman nodded his head sullenly.
“You ever almost drown?” Epstein asked Marcellus. “Course, we loose a prisoner now and then before we get to ask any questions.”
Maya's cries suddenly ceased.
Epstein breathed out a huge sigh of relief. “That's better.” He looked around at the others and smiled. They glared back at him. “What are you looking at me like that for? By tonight that girl'll be fit as a fiddle. Trust me.”
Vassily giggled and flipped his cape over one of his shoulders.
Epstein scowled. “Tomorrow then.” He stood up. “Marcellus,” he announced as he walked around from behind the desk, “I want you to know there'll be no hard feelings.”
“Hard feelings?”
Epstein put an arm around his shoulder and began to lead him away from the others. “Yes. All that information I picked up through Maya. It's not fair, really, is it?” He looked Marcellus squarely in the eyes.
Marcellus gulped. He knew what Epstein was getting at. “I – I – ” he began.
Epstein lowered his voice and leaned his head in close to Marcellus' chest. “Yeah, I know. You're sorry. Look, Marcellus, the way I see it, a person can't control his feelings. They just happen to him. She's a remarkable woman. That's why I married her. And it's admirable that you didn't act on your urges. Shows real character.” He glanced at the doorway. “I guess now we're even.”
“Even?”
“Yeah,” Epstein grunted. “My wife for the girl.”
It took Marcellus a long moment to realize what Epstein was offering. “Alright,” he agreed. The maelstrom calmed somewhat in his head. “Even.”
Epstein peered intently into his eyes. “She's very important to me, Marcellus.” The slightest vulnerability electrified his voice. “I don't know what I'd do if I lost her.”
Marcellus put a tentative hand on the President's shoulder. “You can trust me.”
“I know I can.”
This site and all its contents are the result of the tumultuous workings of the mind of one Adam Wasserman.