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1:25PM Monday, the main dining room at Allenby's Restaurant, Washington, D.C.
Senator Thomas N. Murphy enjoys eating his lunch alone, without distractions from his thoughts. It's not easy for a senior member on four committees, overseeing the dispersal of billions in taxpayers' dollars every year, to get an hour or two alone. That's why he likes Allenby's so much. The management and staff work hard to keep his lunch free from interruptions. In seventeen years, he's never had one uninvited guest at his table, which makes it something of a shock when the little man in the expensively tailored dark green suit ambles up to his table and clears his throat.
"Senator," the little man begins, in a quiet voice that demands the listener's full attention, "you've been avoiding my calls, again."
Caught off guard, as he was, Murphy hesitated before responding, nearly choking on his last bite of food as he drew breath for an angry retort. Murphy gave the distinct impression of a fawn that's just locked eyes with a wolf. The little man remained silent and leaned on his walking stick, a gnarled blackbriar stick, as if granting the senator an indulgence. In this moment, Thomas Murphy had an opportunity to take note of the little man's associates, a man and a woman in distinctive motorcycle leathers. Of the three, the woman appeared tallest, with jet-black hair and fair skin, she wore gold-framed mirrored sunglasses and at her earlobes, tiny golden apples caught the light. The young man was about the same height as the woman, but her heels gave her the advantage. He was stocky and well muscled, with dark brown hair and a working man's tan. The other diners began to notice something not quite right about the new arrivals.
"Mr. Branch!" almost a growl from the senator. He motions the man to a seat opposite. "I haven't been avoiding your calls, sir, not at all..." his mind raced for an excuse, anything to soften the penetrating glare from the little man's dark eyes. The woman pulled out the chair for Branch and helped him to his seat. At four feet, three inches, even a dining room chair can present difficulties.
"Senator, ... Tom, please don't lie to me, not to me. Lie to your wife. Lie to that boy you keep in the apartment in Alexandria. By all means lie to your colleagues and your constituents, but never lie to me. You HAVE been avoiding my calls, because you have failed to carry out your instructions and you're too much of a coward to tell me. Isn't that right?" Branch motioned to the man who'd entered with him and he went to the kitchen without a word spoken between them.
The senator began to sweat. Everyone in earshot was looking his way, straining to catch the conversation. Murphy leaned forward and pleaded, "Do we have to do this here?"
Branch's face betrayed only a minor perturbance, which was usually all he ever showed anyone, right up to the point where he had them eliminated. "Senator, I would have preferred to do this in your office, but as previously mentioned, you have been avoiding my calls." The young man returned to the table with a small tea service and poured a cup for Branch, ignoring the senator. "Thank you, Gil. Please wait in the car, we'll be out in a moment."
"But, but...I can't talk here..." Murphy pleaded.
"Eris," Branch motioned to the woman, "would you please give us the room." The woman, Eris, nodded and stepped away from the table.
An expression of mild concentration on her face was the only outward sign that she was exerting any effort, but behind her mirrored shades, there was a faint golden glow from her eyes. Diners and servers, everyone in the restaurant, in fact, suddenly and quietly seemed to find the desire, the need, to be elsewhere. At it's mildest manifestation, this was Eris Kalantos's gift. With a bit more effort, she could have had them all at each others' throats.
Five minutes after he'd spoken, the restaurant was cleared, only the three of them remained. There was a gabble from outside, as the crowd dispersed and screaming erupted as someone noticed an exodus of cockroaches, mice, rats and the other small creatures that populate any restaurant's cracks and crannies. No living thing was immune to Eris's power.
"Ah. Now we have our privacy, Senator," Branch said, leaning back in his chair. "So, tell me what I want to know and we can leave you to finish your lunch in peace."
"I...ah...dammit! I can't get the votes you need on the Mohave project. I just can't!" Thomas Murphy fairly shouted.
"Thomas, I didn't ask you..." Branch began.
"But, you did! You said..."
Branch slammed his gnarled walking stick on the table, causing the senator's plate to bounce and his wine glass to tip over.
"Never interrupt me, again, senator. As I was saying...I didn't ask you to get that project passed. I ordered you to get it passed. I don't care what political capital you have to expend to get the votes, who -or what- you have to get into bed with, just do it!" Branch's voice had dropped to almost a whisper as he spoke.
"But, it's not economically feasible! I've looked at it every way I can, had three consultants firms run the numbers and it will never --I mean never-- be an economically sound investment! I have a responsibility to the..."
"Senator," Branch interrupted, "how can you have been in Washington this long, and yet remained so willfully naive? The Mojave Solar Energy Array is not and never has been intended to be 'economically feasible', it would be useless to me if it was! Anyone with an I.Q. over 50 knows that earth-based solar power is nothing more than an expensive toy. Even space-based solar arrays would require so much maintenance it would take centuries to make them break even. You will make this happen, not because it's a good idea, or because it makes good economic sense. You will do it because I want it. You will push through the federal authorization and the six point two billion dollar annual subsidy, and you will have it done by the end of this session, or certain documents I hold will be released to the press and you will find your life suddenly and irrevocably under such scrutiny that I would be surprised if a special prosecutor was not appointed for your case, and that's nothing to what your friends in the New Jersey waste disposal industry will do" he paused to take in Murphy's expression. To say he had the look of a whipped puppy, would not be too uncharitable.
He continued, "Look senator, it's far too late in your career to make any major course corrections. If you were an honest man, you'd be doing an honest job somewhere. If you were an honorable man, you would probably have never been elected, or you would have taken your own life after that little incident in Miami, nine years ago. How old was he, thirteen?" He waved down Murphy's protest, "No, senator, you are what you are, a whore for sale to anyone with the money or power to give you what you want. I don't fault you for allowing yourself to be bought, but once bought, I insist, no -I demand- that you STAY bought. Leave your conscience where it belongs, buried deep under layers of pragmatism. If you need to justify this project in some way, remember how many jobs it will create in construction and operation, not to mention how popular solar energy is with the Greens, your party is always currying favor with those Luddites. Do whatever you need to sell it to your colleagues, but get it passed. Do I make myself clear?"
The senator sat stunned, gulping nervously in the face of Branch's naked threat. "I...," his mouth worked soundlessly for a few seconds, remembering the things Branch was rumored to have done when he didn't get his way. "I will, Mr. Branch, I'll get it done."
A hint of a smile flickered across Branch's features, "I knew you'd see it that way, Senator. Enjoy the rest of your lunch." Eris assisted Branch to his feet without a word from him. "Call my office when the vote is scheduled, Senator."
"Yes, sir. As soon as I have the date. I'm sorry about dodging your calls, it won't happen again," Murphy stood shakily, extending his hand automatically, until he noticed Branch's smirk. Shaking his head in disgust, Branch turned and left the senior senator from his unfortunate state standing alone in the restaurant, damp with perspiration and one hand extended in a pose reminiscent of the concrete lawn jockey Murphy's grandfather had once proudly displayed at his home, when he was senator.
Elementalist's earthen wall had broken the charge of the near-rabid protesters. In the bedlam that followed, Andrew Weinstein had ordered his uniformed security men to move in and herd them off the property and into the waiting arms of the police. Destruction of property was enough to get most of them hauled away to the local crossbar hotel, but there were still questions to be answered, like how had they assembled so quickly, and in such numbers as to make this much trouble?
It would never do to have the League use it's powers against normals, as this crowd appeared to be. Public relations nightmare! That's what the security staff was for, and why they were armed only with the latest, state-of-the-art non-lethal weapons. The bean-bag blasters were among Andrew's favorites, though he was always looking for new and better solutions to these sorts of problems. The failure of the sonic bowel disruptor had disappointed him greatly, and he always hoped for the breakthrough that would allow him to combine crowd control with scatological humor. The things that make us laugh as children will always make us laugh, and there are too few things to laugh about, these days.
As he surveyed the damage, something still didn't fit together in his mind. Why this sort of display? Too loud. Too sudden. There ought to have been some preamble. A pre-game show, an opening act, something. What were they protesting, after all? No, something was missing and Andrew's mind was working on the problem, but still refused to spit out the answer. They'd managed to destroy a guard shack, and several thousand dollars worth of windows, a few cars had been damaged, but nothing that the security team couldn't handle. He pulled his cel phone from his pocket and speed-dialed the chief of security. No signal.
He went into the hall and pulled the emergency phone box open and got through on the first try. Hardwired systems may be old-fashioned, but they perform when the other systems are down. "Rafe, this is Andrew Weinstein. Something's bothering me about this whole thing, is there any way we can get a couple of these nut-jobs into our own holding facilities? Put them through the V.M., will you? I hate working in an information vacuum."
Rafael Munoz had been with Weinstein for nearly 20 years, beginning with his days as a liaison for the Pentagon's secret brain trust/post-human eugenics program under Project: Magellan. He'd been there when Andrew had begun reverse engineering alien technology and retired from his government work to take the position as chief of security for one of Weinstein's most important facilities. He didn't get this job by bucking the boss and in no way did his scruples prohibit detaining a few trouble-makers and subjecting them to the Verity Machine, one of Mr. Weinstein's latest projects. "Sure, Mr. Weinstein. There are 3 or 4 in the underground parking structure, we could stun them and 'forget' to pass them along to the boys in blue. I'll have the lab cleared and the V.M. Ops team assembled."
"Excellent. Oh, I'm having trouble getting a signal on my wireless, anyone else reporting problems?"
"All our radios are down, Mr. W. I called Dr. Hashi and he said it's probably due to solar activity. We're using the old IR backup system, right now, but it's line-of-sight and that limits us greatly. Is there anything else you need, sir?" Rafe asked.
"Nothing at the moment. Stay by your phone, I'm going back to my office."
Weinstein hung up and closed the emergency phone box. As he walked to the elevator, and all the way up, his mind was churning away on too little data and too much speculation. Still, there are times when the information you need is not forthcoming, or simply not available and deductive reasoning is a time-honored method of problem solving. He preferred to have all the pieces, ready to be fitted neatly together. He began to make a list of known points.
- The protest had sprung up out of nowhere, without the usual threatening letter campaign or any triggering event he could see, such as an economic summit in the region.
- The timing was suspicious. A large, well-organized protest on the same day as a disruption in communications.
- The protesters themselves seemed to be easily dissuaded, once they met resistance. Suggested dilettantes, rather than dedicated protester.
There was simply too little information. Andrew entered his office and took a moment to wash up in his private bathroom, sponging dust from his coat and washing his hands and face. When he stepped out of the restroom, he realized instantly that we was not alone in the room.
A thick black fluid was pooled near the door and a large robed and hooded man stood next to the door. Another man, similarly garbed, was seated in Andrew's own chair, rifling through the papers on his desk. The man behind the desk spoke, and motioned to the guest chair opposite, "Come in, Mr. Weinstein, have a seat."
And like that, it all added up. 1 + 2 +3 = DIVERSION
Andrew sighed and moved toward the offered seat.
The car was not the biggest on the road, or the newest, but it was without doubt the car of a very wealthy and powerful man. The Mercedes-Benz limousine rode low and smooth, weighted down with bullet and bomb proof armor. Jimmy, the chauffeur, a young-looking black man of imposing size remained behind the wheel while Cyrus Ambrose Branch's assistant Gil held the door for him. Branch and the girl, Eris, took seats in the rear. Gil rode up front with Jimmy.
As the car pulled away from the curb, Eris removed her mirrored shades, revealing her golden, glowing eyes.
"I really thought you'd do more to him, after all the trouble he's caused you, Mr. Branch," she said. Branch chuckled, his expression softening with the increasing distance from the senator.
"My dear, you must always remember that everyone makes mistakes. You can't escape them and you shouldn't blame people for their occasional mistakes, as long as they learn from them and own up to them." He paused to pour a glass of whiskey for himself, and offered the bottle to Eris, who declined. "The senator made several mistakes. He mistook me for a man who can be trifled with or fobbed off on underlings. He mistook my commands for a request. He mistook the importance of the Mojave project to me. To compound the error, he evaded my calls and never actually took responsibility for his actions. It remains to be seen if he will learn from these mistakes, though the lesson I left with him should suffice. The bout of intestinal discomfort he will shortly be suffering should make this day and this lunch meeting stand out in his mind for many months to come. It's amazing what one can do with a few suggestions to someone's intestinal micro flora," he finished with a mock toast and a sip of his family label private reserve.
"Oh, dear," she exclaimed in mock horror. "And I was just going to suggest that you let Gil give him a little spinal adjustment, or let me do my stuff."
"Well, in the first place, he'd have to HAVE a spine for Gil to adjust, and as we all know, congressmen and invertebrates. As for you, my dear, I may have you visit the senator's boy-toy and sow a seed or three of discord, there. But, that's for the future. I'll pay out a bit more rope before I begin fashioning a noose for the good senator," Branch sipped again, and motioned to Eris's bag. "Show me what you've got on this League of Explorers thing and that loony church, Histhology? What does that even MEAN? It sounds like a science-fiction writer made it up for some pseudo-science in some old pulp story." He snapped his fingers, "Oh! speaking of pseudo-science, have all our media people been updated to the new terminology, 'global warming' goes down the memory hole, it's 'global climate change' now. It's a total catch-all, no matter which way the mercury goes, we can blame it on human activity. Being born human is the 'original sin' of the Green religion!"
"Yes, sir, they've all been briefed. We had to dock payments to two of them because they slipped up, but they're all on board, now. This is the data I collected from the Pack's databases on the League. Some of this is from our 'wolf in the fold'..."
Ezequiel Ramos staggered under the weight of the copper casket on his back. The little box, made of thick copper plates, brazed together, was heavily engraved with symbols the village bruja said were even older than the Mayans. He carried it, wrapped in cloth, inside a beat-up canvas duffel, his sandaled feet slapping little puffs of dust as he walked the trail around the mountain. The bruja had told him to get the casket to the town of San Rafael, at the mouth of this valley. There he would find a man who would know the meaning of the symbols and know what to do with the contents.
For three weeks Ezequiel had trudged with the thing on his back. Travel was difficult at most times, here in the deep mountains, but carrying the thing in his pack made it impossible to carry much food. He had to stop and work for his meals, sometimes two or three days of work for enough to carry him another 50 kilometers. Once, he happened upon a rebel food cache, but was careful only to take what he needed and leave no trace, lest they follow his trail and kill him as a thief, or a spy.
Now, as he crested the ridge, could see San Rafael in the distance. Down the slope to the valley floor, along the river bank, maybe 10 km and he would be there. The river meant water and fish, and he imagined he might spare a few hours to rest by the river, catch a fish or two and fill his aching belly. Perhaps it was the distraction of his daydream, or the weeks of hunger and fatigue, but Ezequiel lost his footing in a steep ravine. The twisting path of the ravine sent him to tumbling, smashing into rocks and hard-packed dirt walls.
The end came suddenly, when he slid face down in the dirt, rocks and loose dirt cascading down on him, half burying him. Something warm seeped through his clothing and amid his aches and pains, he imagined a serious wound, blood pouring out into the soil. But, there was something odd about it. If he was losing enough blood to account for what he was feeling, he should be passing out, dying, not feeling stronger. More than strength, he felt more alive than he'd ever felt. A sense of wellness, as all his aches and pains, even his toothache, faded away. His hunger was gone, as was his fatigue. When he moved to pull himself from the half-grave, he found it was easy, despite the meter of earth covering him from the waist down.
It was then that he realized what had happened. His pack was smashed, the copper casket had broken open, spilling its contents. An amber fluid seeped from the split joints, the same fluid that had soaked his clothes and his skin. The same fluid that was now being absorbed by his skin, the feeling was invigorating, like a drug, but with none of the sense-clouding effects. If anything, his senses were sharper than they'd ever been.
All his senses seemed preternaturally sharp, but there was an awareness, beyond the senses, of the world around him, that was even more alarming. He could sense the life around him, but more, he could sense the un-life around him, the unnatural things that moved beneath and above the Earth. As well, he could feel the life-giving energy of the sun, pouring into him, empowering him. He was changing, somehow, becoming more than human. His eyes fell on the copper casket, one of the symbols there -clear as day with his new senses- depicted the feathered serpent, Kukalkan or Quetzalcoatl. The metal intrigued him and somehow his will seemed to give it life, it moved and twisted and began to transform, becoming a helmet in the shape of a striking serpent.
As the last of the amber fluid was absorbed into his skin, knowledge bloomed in his mind, no more was he a simple peasant living in the cloud-shrouded mountains. He was more, now. More than Ezequiel Ramos, though he still felt and thought as Ezequiel, he was more than human, now.
A bird caught his eye, moving through the trees. A thing of beauty once revered by his ancestors, the quetzal. It's bright plumage sparked something in his mind and his body, and he felt the most curious sensation as great plumed wings sprouted from his shoulders, iridescent green and gorgeous. He laughed with the rightness of the feeling, as he stretched and furled his wings. He looked down at his drab peasant clothes, now stretched tight over his muscled body and exerted the smallest fraction of his new power to clothe him in a manner befitting his station and the age into which he was reborn. Beings of power, he knew from his memories of Ezequiel's youth, dress a certain way in this age. He had been a hero-king and a god in a previous age, in the modern age, Quetzalcoatl would become a super-hero.
Next: Fire in the Sky
Characters created by Jesse N. Wiley and various authors
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