Prologue
Catalyses
Petrov left his home in a bright mood. The sun was not yet up when he turned the key in the ignition and started the truck. It never was when he left for work in the mornings.
He was used to rising early, used to making the drive in the dark by now. He always did so in silence. It wasn't that he didn't enjoy the sound of the radio, in fact, he listened to it in the truck the rest of the day. But at this time of day, with most of the city still asleep, it seemed right to drive in silence. Reverent. As though he might awaken the neighborhood and break the tableau. He didn't even speak to himself on the way in. He only drove.
Petrov spoke to himself a lot. He was a thinker. He had always been introverted. Drawn to solitary pursuits. It wasn't that he disliked the company of others. It was only that he didn't need the company the way some did. And over the years, in its absence, he had developed a distinct inner voice with whom he kept quiet counsel, and at times, engaged in spirited debate.
But not in the mornings. Not during the drive. In that silent darkness, both Petrovs were content to simply be, neither feeling a need to fill the void with sound. Even their thoughts were quiet. Not empty. only still.
It was a familiar route which brought Petrov to the warehouse each morning. He had driven down these same dark roads many times since he'd taken this job. The routine was predictable. He knew the turns, how long each light stayed red. He even knew exactly when the truck would heat up enough to warm the cabin. It was a ritual he shared with no one but himself, each morning before dawn.
The light from the explosion filled the cab only a breath before the sound buffeted his ears and the force threw his truck from the road. He came to rest pointed upwards out of a ditch facing back the way he came. The intense light of only moments earlier had faded, leaving him temporarily blinded. As his vision slowly returned he could see a bright orange glow coming from the direction of the city from where he sat slumped back against the seat.
He felt something warm and sticky on his face and realized he must have struck the steering wheel when his truck was thrown. As unconsciousness crept over him, Petrov mourned the loss of the silence and the darkness, to which he could only nod in agreement.
Johnathon woke up and rolled over on the couch, which promptly and unceremoniously dumped the puppy that had fallen asleep on his chest onto the floor. Neither opened their eyes immediately, as the puppy went back to sleep, and Johnathon slowly woke up.
He'd had a long night, though not a particularly late one, and when he'd decided to surrender to sleep, he'd decided to do so where he lay on the couch in the living room. And so it was no real surprise that he was both stiff and sore upon waking. He lay there a minute more before opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling.
It had been a long night. It seemed like it had been a long time in general. A long time since he'd felt rested. A long time since he'd felt at peace. Way too long since he'd gotten laid. Johnathon was a doer, but the way things had been lately he'd been working too often, and making too little, to do much.
He rolled again, this time to face the coffee table next to the couch. An experienced couch sleeper, Johnathon knew to roll into the couch, not away from it. Otherwise you rolled the cushions off and ended up in the floor with the puppy. He reached over for the remote and turned the tv on.
News. He flipped the station. News. He flipped again. Same shot. Some city. Didn't care. He flipped again and found music videos. He turned up the volume and sat up on the couch. After rubbing his eyes for a moment, he pushed himself off and shuffled into the kitchen.
What he needed was food. What he grabbed was a beer. He wasn't working until later tonight anyway, and beer didn't have to be cooked. As he shambled back into the room he took a pull and grimaced. He actually liked beer, but it still made him scowl.
The music droned on amicably while he fired up his computer. A few hours, maybe he could get something accomplished. He wanted to try one of those “make money from home” things, but he feared it was beyond him. First he'd just check his mail.
But the computer wasn't working. For some reason he couldn't access the net. Frustrated, but not particularly so, he closed the computer and took another drink.
It was then that he noticed the ticker across the bottom of the tv screen. It was odd, music videos didn't usually carry a news feed, which is why he read it at all.
First he tried to call his brother, which is how he found out his phone wasn't working. Then he switched the channel back to the news.
It was the same aerial footage of a city from before, but now he realized the destruction. The man's voice described the scene.
“...for some time now. The fires have spread through much of the historic district, and many buildings which survived the initial blast have since succumbed to the flames. In many parts of the city, the destruction is absolute, with water, power, and communications completely disrupted. Authorities are telling us that it is far too early to tell, but the death toll could already be in the tens of thousands.”
Johnathon sat numbly staring at the destruction on his television, long after his beer warmed in his hand. The puppy snored softly from where it lay on the living room floor.
Issacson had been working in the lab for some time before he'd transferred to Temporal Logistics. He'd first gotten the job out of college as part of his education contract. But even after fulfilling his five year repayment term, he'd stayed with the company.
He liked working for Publicola. They paid well, they took good care of their people, and they had been on the cutting edge of technological innovation for decades. Certainly they had their competitors, and some of those competitors had made overtures towards Issacson in attempts to entice him to work for them instead, but after fifteen years with the company, Issacson had a strong connection to PVP.
Following his repayment term he'd decided to stay on with Publicola and taken a transfer to their highly touted Theoretical Deployments division. That was where he really made his mark. His ten years in TD had seen the commercialization of Philosophical Empiricism, and the development of a new form of Technological Conflict Resolution which had enabled increased interfacing between informational platforms. So when his employers looked within their company to head the new Temporal Logistics division, he was on the short list for promotion.
There had of course been previous attempts in the field of Chrononautics. Even PVP had a division in the early twenties which had temporarily investigated the concept. But the technology just hadn't been viable at the time. When the Board was able to recognize advancements in a number of their divisions which seemed to indicate a growing synergy towards innovation, they decided to re-open Temporal Logistics and tapped Issacson to lead the new department.
He appreciated that they recognized his talent. He appreciated that his loyalty was rewarded. But mostly Issacson stayed with PVP because he appreciated the company's philosophy. They understood that there wasn't anyone looking out for the people. They stood up for his rights and his needs. They sought to serve all of mankind through their technologies. “Improving History for the Good of Mankind” wasn't just a motto. It was a mission statement.
Which is why, after three years in Temporal Logistics when Issacson made the biggest breakthrough of his career, and perhaps of human history, he went straight to the Board to report his results.
President Alexander sat alone in his office. It was late, but still there was a frenetic quality to the air. People had been in and out all day, scrambling to serve their offices in whatever way they could towards the greater good. It had only been eighteen hours since the attack, and so far he had already made two public statements, one urging calm and one promising justice. Tomorrow he would make a public address on the issue.
“Have you had a chance to look over the speech Mr. President?” His Chief of Staff Paul Regny had entered the room. He had a large stack of folders and documents in his arms. Regny took his job very seriously. He served the President completely. James Alexander leaned back in his chair, away from the document he'd been reading and rereading.
“Is this the appropriate stance to take Paul? This early. We haven't even determined who the attackers were.” President Alexander took off his glasses and held them by the stem, but his eyes looked directly at his Chief of Staff.
“It was your decision Mr. President. I believe an argument could be made, and will be in the days to come, as to whether it is best. Would you like the speech rewritten?” Undoubtedly, Regny had already had the speech rewritten, in fact he may have several different versions in that stack of papers held in his arms awaiting word from his boss that he wanted to adjust the tone or content. Paul Regny was nothing if not meticulous in his attention to duty.
“No Paul. We have been assaulted. We will have justice. We will have satisfaction. But in order to do so, we must be strong. Finding who did this isn't important right now. The lives of the people can't be our focus. We can't allow ourselves to be distracted by the human tragedy here, or else we will invite further abuses upon our sovereignty. We must be strong now, so that we can be secure later.”
“Eloquently spoken sir. Perhaps you should add that to the speech. Do you need anything else?” Regny was never a kiss ass, even now. He only offered praise when deserved, and had made a mental note of the President’s words. No doubt they would make it into tomorrow's Press Briefing, if they didn't make it into tomorrow's speech.
“No Paul. I'm alright. Send in Secretaries Howell and Grant if you would. It's going to be a long night.”
Regny set down three folders on the President's desk and turned to leave the office. These would be the three most pressing matters in the entire stack of documents he had carried in with him, things which demanded immediate attention from the President himself. Today they could only relate to the attack, nothing else would have been considered important enough to be given consideration. Certainly gay rights and firearms legislation could wait for another time, even his opponents wouldn't attack him for failing to address those issues right now. The President reached for the folders, but before his hand touched the one on top, he returned to the speech lying in front of him.
“It has been frequently remarked that it seems to have been reserved to the people of this country, by their conduct and example, to decide the important question. Whether societies of men are really capable or not of establishing good government from reflection and choice, or whether they are forever destined to depend for their political constitutions on accident and force. If there be any truth in the remark, the crisis at which we are arrived may with propriety be regarded as the era in which that decision is to be made; and a wrong election of the part we shall act may, in this view, deserve to be considered as the general misfortune of mankind. We are at a crossroads. Today’s attacks have forced upon us a cup, one which we might have asked passed, but one which however hurtfully, falls now to us. We must now make a decision, the right of which will secure the future of all mankind, and the wrong of which its loss.
This idea will add the inducements of philanthropy to those of patriotism, to heighten the solicitude which all considerate and good men must feel for the event. Happy will it be if our choice should be directed by a judicious estimate of our true interests, unperplexed and unbiased by considerations not connected with the public good. But this is a thing more ardently to be wished than seriously to be expected.
It must not be forgotten that the vigor of government is essential to the security of liberty; that, in the contemplation of a sound and well-informed judgment, their interest can never be separated; and that a dangerous ambition more often lurks behind the specious mask of zeal for the rights of the people than under the forbidden appearance of zeal for the firmness and efficiency of government. History will teach us that the former has been found a much more certain road to the introduction of despotism than the latter, and that of those men who have overturned the liberties of republics, the greatest number have begun their career by paying an obsequious court to the people; commencing demagogues, and ending tyrants. And so it is to that vigor which me must now turn, that government we must now implore. For only in our collected vigor can we find the security of liberty. Not in the actions or ambitions of any one man, but in our collective strength.
My fellow citizens, we will be strong. We must be. Not only to find justice for those lost in today's cowardly attacks. Not only to protect ourselves from future violence. But, and perhaps most importantly, to protect the very future itself. More than our lives and our children's lives are at stake in this war, and make no mistake, we are now at war. We have been since 6:17 in the morning yesterday. The very future of mankind is at stake. And in the cause of that future, we must individually be willing to risk everything, make any sacrifice asked of us, in order that our government, and our very way of life be sure to triumph.
For their can be no individual freedom if our future is lost to us. Who will be left to tell of our history, if we do not stand now, in this moment, and fight for our tomorrows. I ask that all people of this land stand with me now, and rouse ourselves to battle.
We must fight for our tomorrows. We must do whatever is necessary to secure for us a victory uncontested. For no one individual is worth the cost of all mankind's potential. And it is that, and no less, which is now at stake.
We must be strong. We will be. And if every man, woman, and child must be sacrificed to the millstone of history in order to make it so, we will have a tomorrow. And tomorrow, we will praise their sacrifice.”
Chapter One
Reeling in Shock
“We are sir, as of now we've directly contacted all the major field agents that we can without exposing them. Additionally we have received confirmation from most of the others through indirect channels that they have no information about who is responsible. Our embassies and diplomatic attaches are all reporting no new intel, and even several of the major terrorist and rogue states have contacted us directly to deny any connection to the attacks.” The analyst had more, but he knew the pattern of his bosses briefings. There was an ebb and flow. His boss would have questions, he'd get around to giving him the answers.
“Who is even capable of an attack of this magnitude?”
“Well sir, according to the evidence we've collected so far, no one sir.”
“What the hell do you mean no one? What evidence?” Director Kensinton leaned forward to look at several documents the analyst began to lay down on his desk.
“So far, we've been unable to recover any part of the instrument used to initiate the explosion, but we are able to determine several factors from the forensic evidence at the scene. First, this was a non-nuclear explosion.”
His boss interrupted him, “Non-nuclear? You mean that was some kind of conventional chemical explosive?”
The analyst continued, “Not exactly sir. At this time, we believe it was a fuel-air explosive of some kind. Similar to sugar factory or grain silo explosions. We have not yet determined the exact mechanism of the blast, but we know of no other form of non-nuclear explosive which is capable of anything even approaching this magnitude of destruction.” The analyst opened one folder for the Director which contained detailed descriptions and photographs of the destruction. “The attack was centered in an industrial park, which initially led us to suspect some kind of chemical explosive, but it appears to have originated in the parking lot of a fabrics factory. Ultra Light Uniforms. They make a variety of uniforms for corporate and government employees. They have a license to use some chemicals of a limited explosive utility in their factories, but nothing approaching what we've witnessed. We believe the instrument was constructed at a separate location, delivered to the site, most likely by truck, and detonated by remote. So far we have found no evidence of the truck used to deliver the instrument, or in fact of the instrument itself, though as you can see the destruction at the epicenter of the blast was extreme, and debris was thrown outwards from there up to ten miles. It may take some time to find any evidence of value.”
“Who is capable of this kind of explosive device. Think outside the box. Anybody. Anywhere. Besides us, who has this kind of military capability.” The Director leaned back and looked hard at his analyst. The analyst knew this question was coming, and had designed the rest of his briefing to prepare his boss for an answer he knew he wouldn't like hearing.
“That's the problem sir. According to our experts, no one is. And that includes us. We don't possess any non-nuclear device capable of anything even approaching the order of magnitude of the instrument used in yesterday's attack. Neither do any of our enemies, or our allies. As far as we know sir, this weapon does not exist. All evidence to the contrary.”
“Are you telling me someone we can't identify has used a weapon we can't conceive of to launch an attack we can't explain?” Now the Director got quiet. He may be outspoken, but he understood good intel, and he didn't question his analyst for no reason. It wasn't rhetorical, he was making sure he understood the situation completely. “What do we know?”
“We know that just prior to the explosion there was a small but discernible interference in radio signals in the immediate area surrounding the blast sight. We believe this is evidence of remote detonation. We know that current casualty figures are relatively low, most of the factory workers were still on their way to work and the industrial park was relatively empty. Current figures are 473 dead, another 1319 injured in both the initial blast and the ensuing fires. So far, that's all we have.”
“And we don't know who did it, or whether or when they'll hit us again. Alright Jacobs. You get the easy job. Find out who's responsible for this. In the meantime, I'll go tell the President we don't have any evidence, any suspects, or any plan of action. I'm sure that'll go over well.” At that, the Director stood from his desk, signaling an end to the briefing. Michael Jacobs turned on his heel and walked out of the Director's office, agreeing that his ghost hunt would be easier than being the bearer of no tidings to the Leader of the Free World.
“Personally, I think it was them zipperheads. God damn slants don't respect life like we do. Kill a couple thousand people, don't mean shit to them.” Theories had been flying thick at Maude's Pancakes since the morning of the attack. Usually accustomed to vibrant discussion of politics and religion, the customers at Maude's had a theory about everything, and were willing to share it.
The air smelled of waffles and bacon mixed with the sweetly cloying scent of tobacco smoke. Maude's was one of the few places left in town where a person could enjoy their eggs and toast with a side of reds. It wasn't legal of course, smoking being deadly poisonous and smoking in restaurants considered by the state to be morally just this side of actually shooting your waitress. But the customers at Maude's had been smoking at breakfast long before it wasn't ok anymore, so they did what most good people always do. They ignored the laws that they didn't fear and kept on minding their own business, expecting everyone else to do the same. And as long as no one complained, no one complained.
And they were good people. Ignorant. Overweight. Uninteresting. But good people. They had wives, and children, and jobs. Some went to church, some didn't. They voted in elections and sent their kids to school and if they didn't concern themselves with the law too much, they didn't intrude on others much either. Usually it was a quite kind of place, except when someone fired up the old jukebox in the corner for a song or two. But since the morning of the 19th, things were different at Maude's.
For one thing, there was a lot of speculation. No one actually knew what had happened, and the lack of explanation from the federal government had only fueled the creativity of the arm chair philosophers and generals who made up the clientele at Maude's. At some point, someone had dragged an old TV out of the store room and tried to hook it up, but since the government had forced the digital conversion and turned the airwaves into emergency frequencies, all they could pick up was snow. The TV was too old for digital, even if they'd had service in the diner. So instead someone had set a radio set on top of the TV and tuned in a local station. News and weather every fifteen minutes. But since there wasn't any news, at least none they hadn't yet heard, people had started offering their own theories.
“What makes you so sure it was the zips Harry?” Old Greg interrupted Harold Kershner just as he was warming up for his rant against the slants again. “Coulda been the camel jockies, the Ivans, hell, maybe even one of them jungle nations coulda gotten themselves a bomb. We don't know shit.” At that Old Greg stubbed out his cigarette, as though to punctuate his point.
People had been arguing all day. For days now. There had been the attack, and then the President's speech the day after. People were fired up. The President had called it a war, and they were ready to enlist. But they didn't have an enemy yet. And now it had been five days.
“Doesn't make any damn sense. Why aren't they telling us who did it?” Larkin was an old timer, everyone at Maude's knew him. He was in almost every day, except Sundays, and always ordered his eggs runny and his toast burnt. “I just don't get it. They have to know. So what're they so afraid of. President called it a war. Well then tell us who were shootin with!”
“Aint afraid a nothing.” Abby said forcefully while she set down Harold's platter. “They aint afraid a no Ivans, or Zips neither. And they sure aint afraid of no damn fool old men. They'll tell us when they're ready. President Alexander's just looking out that's all. Taking his time. Things like this gotta be done right when they're done. That's all. Here's your eggs.” With that she nodded her head one more time, just to settle the argument, and disappeared back into the kitchen.
And it did settle the argument for a while. That, or the arrival of their breakfasts. But old men get up in the morning with plans to go down to the diner and spend the day arguing with other old men who made the same plans, and soon enough they were back at it again. And every fifteen minutes they got the weather, but precious little came across could be called news.
Thomas and Jennifer had made their plans weeks ago. They had arranged their vacations to coincide with their anniversary so that they could drive to the coast and spend a week with no deadlines, no responsibilities. It was their fifth.
The attack had made travel more difficult for a lot of people, but Thomas and Jennifer weren't flying, and they weren't going anywhere considered a “high value target,” so their vacation was left mostly unaffected. They were still able to get the time off, and still able to drive to the coast, and eight and a half hours after they packed the car, they were unpacking in the little beach condo they'd rented for the next seven days.
It was a strange feeling. They didn't know anyone who'd died or been injured in the attack. The press was now calling it the April 19th Devastation. They hadn't even been anywhere near it, living all the way on the other side of the country. But it changed the way you looked at things. In those first few hours after the attack, when the press was reporting the “possibility” of tens of thousands dead, people were horrified. The idea of so many dead in the rubble and the fires that followed. Even when the final count was only 543 dead, people couldn't shake that feeling they'd had when they considered the amount of destruction that they'd initially been encouraged to imagine. It would haunt some of them forever.
And so their anniversary had a strange flavor to it. Like a dark cloud in a blue sky, not blocking out the sunlight, but threatening rain to come. They were determined to enjoy their vacation, and both knew they would, but it wasn't the vacation they'd planned. Not anymore. Not since the Devastation.
They finished unloading their bags into the condo and Thomas sat down on the couch. Jennifer went to the kitchen and took stock. They were planning to eat many of their meals in and were going to make a trip to the store later to purchase food for the week, and she wanted to see what kind of cooking they'd be able to do.
“Looks fully stocked. Pots, pans. We'll be fine.” She called into the living room.
Thomas called back from the couch. “Good. We can go to the store tonight and pick up some groceries. Do you want me to make grilled chicken tomorrow?” He was leaning back on the couch with his eyes closed and didn't hear her return from the kitchen.
“That would be nice.” She walked over to the couch and sat down on his lap facing him. “I'm glad we’re here Tommy. Thank you for this.” She leaned forward and gave him a kiss. He put his arms around her waist and gently buried his face in her chest as he held her tight. She held him there for a moment, with her arms wrapped around the back of his head. After a second he pulled away and looked up at her.
“I'm glad too baby. We both needed this time away. It'll be nice.” He looked up at her. She was so beautiful. And in that moment he needed her so badly.
As they swept into the bedroom they tripped over the bags they'd put down inside the door and fell into the bed. Jennifer laughed as they tumbled across it. Thomas reached up and pulled his shirt off and then passionately kissed her until she pushed him away and gasped for air.
Somewhere along the way they knocked the alarm clock off the end table, so they didn't wake up in time to make it to the grocery that night. But when they did eventually awaken long after the sun went down, each found the other still lying naked in the bed next to them, and they began again where they'd left off.
The next morning Thomas woke first. He almost always did. Jennifer was a committed sleeper, and he had learned that everyone was happier if he let her awaken in her own time. So he left a note on the table and
drove to the grocery to pick up some items for breakfast.
On the way, he purposefully left the radio off. He didn't want to hear the news, and even the music stations couldn't ignore what had happened. It was strange, how a thing could happen and suddenly become the only topic of conversation for hundreds of millions of people who shared little in common. Two weeks ago you could flip the radio station and hear a dozen different discussions about a dozen different topics, or songs from any era and every genre. Now it seemed any frequency that didn't turn out snow turned out discussion of the Devastation. Who? Why? What to do? You couldn't tune it out if you tuned in, so Thomas didn't. He just rode along in silence.
Thomas was apolitical. He didn't support either party. He didn't follow elections. He didn't follow international intrigue. He just didn't care. It wasn't that he was stupid, or irresponsible, or ignorant. He was an educated man with two college degrees. He understood how the political system worked, but since he left college for the second time he hadn't bothered with a single political news story or listened to a single ideological commentator.
And he liked it that way. It left him with a great deal of free time, and it prevented a great number of unpleasant conversations. Sometimes people would insist on engaging him in political discussions, even after he informed them politely that he didn't know and didn't care what they were talking about. Usually, they gave up after a few minutes of blank stares. When they didn't, he just got up and walked away.
He did have beliefs of course, just not political positions. And he had his own interests. He followed sports, and fiction. He was a big fan of a certain series of trashy swords and sorcery novels that he'd been following for years, and he loved detective stories. He worked on an old two door soft top in his garage on the weekends. He wasn't a boring man, certainly Jennifer didn't see him that way, he just found politics boring. So he ignored it.
Which was his right of course.
And is why Thomas just didn't bother. He paid attention to the things he cared about, and ignored the things he didn't. And no one had the right to demand more from him, even if they wrapped it all up in the seeming benevolence of self interest.
But of course, the Devastation was ubiquitous. You couldn't avoid it completely. You couldn't even really avoid it partially. It was everywhere. It was the word on every tongue. Even where people weren't discussing it, they were imagining it. The wound was too fresh, too frightening, for people to have given over to any other thought. And so, when he parked the car in front of the grocery and went inside, Thomas expected to be forced to confront once again the sense of helplessness he had been unable to escape the last week.
As he wandered down the aisles, picking out the things he would use to make their breakfast, he heard snippets of conversation. In the dairy aisle he walked past a young man talking on a cell phone to someone about how he was fine, and no, she didn't need to keep calling him to check. No terrorist was going to attack the BurgerHut. In the bread aisle he walked past two old women arguing about whether “that black fella” would've done a better job with the current crisis if he had been elected instead.
While picking up eggs and cheese he heard a clerk calmly explaining to one of the stock girls that the attack was the work of aliens and that the government knew all about them, which is why they couldn't reveal who was behind it. Each aisle, a different story, a different life, all impacted on and acted upon by a tragedy thousands of miles away. Thomas ignored it all as best as he could. Not out of apathy, just out of self defense.
By the time he got to the check out aisle, he felt emotionally exhausted. He needed to be whole for Jennifer. She deserved it on her vacation. He would pop in a cd on the way back to the condo. Something fun and mindless. By the time he got back, he'd be smiling. For her.
When she woke up the first thing she noticed was that Thomas was gone. She got out of bed and found his note, and decided to take a shower while she waited for him to get back.
Jennifer felt terrible. She was a worrier. She always had been. She hadn't even been sure that they should go on this vacation after the Devastation, but Thomas had seemed so desperate to get away, and he deserved it. She just needed to stay positive for him. If he knew how concerned she was, it might ruin his vacation.
But it was hard to stay positive. Jennifer had been hit hard by what had happened, and she was struggling with it every moment of every day. Thankfully no one she knew had been hurt in the blast. In fact, no one she knew even knew anyone who had been hurt by it.
But it felt like she'd been hurt. It felt like she'd been violated. This country was her home, and someone had attacked it. And her government had failed to explain to her who had done it, or why.
Unlike her husband, Jennifer was deeply politically interested. She not only believed in the political system, and supported it with her votes, she even took time off from the hospital where she worked to campaign for the current president. She listened to political commentators, and followed the political news. She didn't mind that Thomas wasn't interested, she understood why, and she respected his right to be left out of the system. Sometimes it was hard when she really wanted to discuss something she'd read on the net, or heard about at work, but she supposed it felt the same way for him when he was excited about something that had happened in a foot and ball game that she didn't understand and couldn't care less about.
But they loved each other. So he didn't bore her with sports and cars, and she didn't bore him with politics. But it weighed heavily on her mind.
And what was weighing on her now, was the fact that the government didn't seem to know what had happened, or what to do about it. Since that second day, when the President had called for a great commitment to a “war for the future,” there hadn't been any significant real news. There had been press conferences, and the media outlets reported constantly on the rescue efforts, and later, on the salvage efforts. But so far, other than consistent platitudes about “protecting the people,” and “seeking justice for the victims,” the administration didn't seem to have much of a concrete direction.
And that worried Jennifer. Because she'd spent her whole life believing that the government was the force which protected her. She knew some people complained about paying their taxes. She knew some people complained about government control of vices. And sometimes she even agreed with some of those complaints.
But the cost was worth the gain. Because the government kept people safe. It protected those who couldn't protect themselves. It provided for those who couldn't provide for themselves. It fed people, educated them, clothed and sheltered them. And so she supported it.
But government was failing her. And that was what was really worrying her. She'd heard some political commentators already attacking the President over how slow his administration seemed to be moving to resolve the situation. Already the Presidential Briefings were beginning to take on a defensive tone, as the Press Secretary was increasingly responding to calls for action with calls for patience.
So far, Jennifer was willing to wait. Because she really did believe. She just hoped she didn't have to wait long.
She finished her shower and stepped back into the bedroom. After toweling off and putting on a pair of shorts and a shirt she began unpacking their bags into the dresser. Thomas would be back from the grocery soon, and she wanted to get things squared away first.
It would help him relax. And she wanted him to have a nice vacation. So she hummed to herself while she worked to take her mind off her worries. She'd be all smiles by the time he got back with breakfast.
The Board was extremely pleased with the information Issacson brought to them. They immediately cleared the boardroom and Issacson soon found himself facing the entire Board and asked to give a detailed report on his work and the results he'd gotten so far.
Issacson knew that unlike some companies, the Board of PVP was made up of men of science, it was one of the reasons he liked working with them so much, and soon they were interjecting into his presentation asking detailed questions. Issacson was prepared and was able to provide a number of answers, and show that they were efforting the answers he didn't yet have.
Soon, board members were calling in other department heads to join the meeting. Clavin from Statistical Physics was the first to arrive. He was given a copy of the informational dossier that Issacson had brought to present to the Board and began to familiarize himself with the information.
But he was only the first. Soon the heads of Analytical Thermochemistry, Conceptual Praxeology, and Quantum Mathematics arrived and took seats around the table. Each of them were well respected in their own fields, and were familiar with Issacson's previous work. There were no challenges to the legitimacy of his findings or his methodology, but every one of the men around the table were able to bring a diverse background in a number of sciences to his presentation.
Soon they exhausted the material Issacson had to show, and the meeting was adjourned. The Board promised to increase the funding to his department to “whatever he felt was necessary,” and to give him full access to any other departments. Issacson was given two directives by the Board, praised for his work, and asked to return to them as soon as he had more to report.
It was clear that PVP took his work in Temporal Logistics seriously, and Issacson returned to his office encouraged and excited to return to work. He immediately called his chief researcher Doctor James Lattimer, and his chief mathematician Doctor Ian Paulson. He needed to outline for them the reaction from the Board, their offer of interdepartmental exchange, and the two directives the Board had given him.
First he was going to have to find out whether organic matter could survive the transfer intact. Then he was going to have to find out a way to increase the dimensions of the transfer vessel itself.
Issacson had been working for PVP for 18 years. He had learned to look past the simple instructions of his employers and divine their specific needs. Doing so had earned him praise and promotions. He could see what their needs were now.
A person. Publius Valerius Publicola was going to send a person back through the vessel. And Issacson was the man they wanted to make that possible.
President Alexander looked down the length of the the oak table around which sat his many Intelligence Directors.
The table was over two hundred years old. The history of it was written not only in the official records, which described its gifting from the leaders of a former state enemy and current state ally, but also in the unofficial history of a series of meetings such as this one, always on the eve of war.
Before him the President saw men from every branch of the military. Men with backgrounds in business, politics, and even religion. Men whose job was to know the unknowable, make sense of the chaos, and bring it all back to their President so that he could make the decision.
Who to kill. That was the only real decision Presidents ever made. Good presidents understood that. Bad presidents wasted their time trying to fix an economy they had little control over, or apologizing for the mistakes of their predecessors.
In reality, the economy was perfectly able of fixing itself. People needed to eat. People needed clothing, and shelter, and heat, and roads. Because they needed those things, and were willing to pay for them, people would work to provide them on the market, and other people would work to be able to purchase them.
And apologizing for the mistakes of their predecessors was just a way for Presidents to pretend they cared. Alexander knew that the only way a President could show how he cared was by killing those people who would kill his charges.
Good Presidents understood that. James Alexander was a Good President. Which is why he was frustrated at the failure of his Directors to tell him who needed to be killed.
“So, you're telling me that no one, including ourselves, have the technological capability to execute the kind of attack we saw on April 19th?” As he spoke, Alexander looked from Director to Director, being sure to look each of them directly in the eye.
Director Anglewood spoke up first. “Yes sir. We've each arrived at the same conclusion. According to our foreign resources, even the Ivans and the Celestials don't have anything approaching what we've been able to determine was used.”
Most people didn't even realize that the government had an intelligence division working within the Church. Those that did were either involved, or discredited. There were only really two kinds of “informed” people. Those that worked with the State, and those the State worked against. John Anglewood had been working for the government since long before he'd become an Archbishop. He'd learned early on that electoral politics and church politics were more alike than many realized.
President Alexander looked again at the information they had been able to collect. “So we know that it was some kind of fuel air explosive right?”
“Yes, we believe so sir.” This time it was Director Castellan. “Given the fact that there was no nuclear residue at or near the epicenter the explosion, and the largest non nuclear explosive devices we have are thermobaric weapons, we believe that one was used here. We did find some kind of unknown material in the area of the Devastation.” He selected and opened a blue folder from the stack of folders in front of him. The other men in the room similarly opened blue folders on the table in front of themselves.
Castellan continued. “The substance appears to be some kind of organic material, although at this time we have no known analogue. We believe it to be some kind of amorphous carbon based substance, most likely a genetically manufactured compound. It was found finely spread around the area in extremely small quantities, most likely the unexploded remains of the fuel used in the explosive.”
The President looked up abruptly. “Organic? Is it some kind of bio-weapon? A contagion?”
His Director looked around the table before answering. “We don't, believe, so at this time sir. There's been no evidence of that. But we can't rule it out completely.”
The President put down the folder after examining the amplified image of the substance for a moment longer. “So not only do we not know who has this technology, but it's composed of some kind of organic matter we can't identify. Do we know what the delivery system was?”
Director Stephens had a background in ordinance while working in the military. He was a former ground pounder who actually managed to work his way up through the ranks. He pulled out a green folder. “Not yet sir. A conventional thermobaric weapon consists of a container of a finely powdered solid fuel of differing particle size mixed with a low percentage of oxidizer and binder. The solid fuel is usually an explosive metal powder or reactive organic. A high explosive charge is placed in the middle of the mixture. The weapon is then initiated upon dropping or firing, and the explosive charge bursts open the container and disperses the fuel in a cloud, and ignites the mixture in a single event. In this case though, we haven't been able to find any evidence of the massive heat and vacuum effects generated by a conventional thermobaric weapon.”
Stephens looked up from the folder and removed his glasses. He looked his President directly in the eyes. “Sir, the simple truth is we have no idea how this was accomplished.”
President Alexander pushed away from the table and stood up. “Gentlemen, we have a problem.” He began to pace back and forth at the head of the table. The Directors leaned back in their chairs. “We don't know who did this. We don't know what they used. We don't know how it was done. We know that the technology and the material used are both beyond anything we, or our enemies, have ever seen. Too many questions gentlemen. Too many secrets.” The president continued to pace. “I need something to tell the people. It's been eight days now. We need an enemy.”
Chapter Two
Enemy One
It was almost, normal. They had avoided watching the TV or listening to the radio, and so they hadn't heard much news. They couldn't avoid the talk completely of course.
Every time they went out they encountered people, and the people were still engrossed in the Devastation. When they went to the grocery, or ate lunch at a restaurant, or went out to a movie, the talk was of the news. And there was news to talk about at last.
The President had scheduled a news conference for that evening. He was going to tell the people what the government knew. Tell them who had done this thing, and who they were at war with. Already, in preparation for the event, people were sharing a growing excitement. You could feel it. There was a buzz.
Jennifer wanted to watch the President's press conference on the TV in their condo, but Thomas was against it. He knew that it was all anyone would be able to talk about in the coming days anyway. He knew that they wouldn't be able to avoid finding out whatever news the President would be sharing. So why waste one of their lovely sunsets on a boring, meaningless bit of theater.
But Jennifer was persistent. She had campaigned for the man after all. And it was their vacation, not just his. In the end, she promised that they would take the rest of the vacation off from the news and he gave in.
They decided that they would grill kabobs for dinner and then settle down to watch the President. They walked down to the open air market down the street from their condo to purchase the vegetables they would use that evening. As they walked through the market they could hear a radio someone had on in one of the booths.
“The time has come for the President to step forward and explain why his administration has moved so slowly here. This country was attacked. Our government needs to take action. Somewhere there is a country that needs to be a sheet of glass. We have spent too much time waiting. Tonight the President needs to be strong. He needs to show the world that we are powerful. He needs to make an example.” It continued on more or less in that vein.
Thomas leaned over to Jennifer. “Sounds like someone's out for blood.”
Jennifer punched him in the arm. She wasn't any fan of the radio ideologues either. She saw them as little more than snake oil salesman, less than rabble rousers. They made money from advertising. In order to sell advertising, they needed to have listeners. In order to have listeners, they needed to be as inflammatory as possible. It was a formula. And it worked. Good for them.
But neither Thomas nor Jennifer really cared. They were happy, and after the last few days on the beach, even the Devastation seemed far away, and no radio bomb thrower was going to bring them back to earth. They walked through the open air market from booth to booth, picking up peppers and heirloom tomatoes. They found a monger selling fish and steaks and picked up some fillets and tuna.
By the time they got the fire started back at the condo they'd almost forgotten about the President's press conference. Almost.
“My fellow citizens. I have come to you tonight to share with you what your government has learned about the event now being referred to as the April 19th Devastation.”
President Alexander wore a dark gray suit that day. His tie was navy. He stood before the legislative body gathered to receive the most important speech of his presidency.
“I know that many of you have been concerned with what you may have thought was your government moving too slowly to address this very serious situation. I assure you, we have not been halting, but rather deliberate. What may have appeared as cautious, was calmness. What may have been seen as timidity was patience.”
The President looked out across the men and women assembled before him. Even on the faces of his opponents, he could see a need for guidance. A need for hope.
“And our patience has been rewarded. We know now who the enemy of this great nation is. We know now who is responsible for the great evil which was committed against us.”
He would give them that hope. Because he was a Good President, he would tell them who needed to be killed.
“Ladies and gentleman, the evidence we have gathered all points to a collection of loosely affiliated terrorist organizations known as Las Apatridas. They are some of the murderers indicted for the bombing of our embassies and responsible for attacks on our military installations abroad.
Las Apatridas is to terror what the Mafia is to crime. But its goal is not making money, its goal is remaking the world and imposing its radical beliefs on people everywhere.
The terrorists practice a fringe form of political extremism that has been rejected by philosophers, scholars, and the vast majority of religious leaders; a fringe movement that perverts the peaceful teachings of societies everywhere.
The terrorists' directive commands them to kill followers of all religions, to kill foreigners and make no distinctions among military and civilians, including women and children.
This group and its leader, a person named Xavier de Vitoria, are linked to many other organizations in different countries, including terrorist organizations around the world.
There are thousands of these terrorists in more than 60 countries.
They are recruited from their own nations and neighborhoods and brought to camps where they are trained in the tactics of terror. They are sent back to their homes or sent to hide in countries around the world to plot evil and destruction.
The leadership of Las Apatridas has great influence in their part of the world, and supports favorable regimes in controlling most of those countries. In those countries, we see Las Apatridas's vision for the world. The people have been brutalized, many are starving and many have fled.
Women are not allowed to attend school. You can be jailed for owning a television. Religion can be practiced only as their leaders dictate. A man can be jailed there if he speaks out against the government.
We respect the people in these countries, after all, we are currently their largest source of humanitarian aid, but we condemn the terrorists and the regimes they support.
As of April 19th, this country is at war with Las Apatridas.
I know our people are asking, “Why do they hate us?”
They hate what they see right here in this chamber: a democratically elected government. Their leaders are self-appointed. They hate our freedoms: our freedom of religion, our freedom of speech, our freedom to vote and assemble and disagree with each other.
These terrorists kill not merely to end lives, but to disrupt and end a way of life. With every atrocity, they hope that we grow fearful, retreating from the world and forsaking our friends. They stand against us because we stand in their way.
Our people are asking, “How will we fight and win this war?”
We will direct every resource at our command, every means of diplomacy, every tool of intelligence, every instrument of law enforcement, every financial influence, and every necessary weapon of war, to the destruction and to the defeat of the global terror network.
Our response involves far more than instant retaliation and isolated strikes. Our people should not expect one battle, but a lengthy campaign unlike any other we have ever seen. It may include dramatic strikes visible on TV and covert operations secret even in success.
This is not, however, just our fight. And what is at stake is not just our freedom. This is the world's fight. This is civilization's fight. This is the fight of all who believe in progress and pluralism, tolerance and freedom.
We ask every nation to join us.
We will ask and we will need the help of police forces, intelligence service and banking systems around the world.”
They would thank him for this someday. History would remember that he was the one who gave his people back their hope.
“The civilized world is rallying to our side.
They understand that if this terror goes unpunished, their own cities, their own citizens may be next. Terror unanswered can not only bring down buildings, it can threaten the stability of legitimate governments.
And you know what? We're not going to allow it.
Our people are asking, “What is expected of us?”
I ask you to live your lives and hug your children. I know many citizens have fears tonight, and I ask you to be calm and resolute, even in the face of a continuing threat.
I ask you to uphold the values of our country and its history, and remember why so many have come here.
We're in a fight for our principles, and our first responsibility is to live by them. No one should be singled out for unfair treatment or unkind words because of their ethnic background or religious faith or political affiliation.
We will come together to give law enforcement the additional tools it needs to track down terror here at home.
We will come together to strengthen our intelligence capabilities to know the plans of terrorists before they act and to find them before they strike.
Great harm has been done to us. We have suffered great loss. And in our grief and anger we have found our mission and our moment.
Freedom and fear are at war. The advance of human freedom, the great achievement of our time and the great hope of every time, now depends on us.
Our nation, this generation, will lift the dark threat of violence from our people and our future. We will rally the world to this cause by our efforts, by our courage. We will not tire, we will not falter and we will not fail.
It is my hope that in the months and years ahead life will return almost to normal. We'll go back to our lives and routines and that is good.
Even grief recedes with time and grace.
But our resolve must not pass. Each of us will remember what happened that day and to whom it happened. We will remember the moment the news came, where we were and what we were doing.
Some will remember an image of a fire or story or rescue. Some will carry memories of a face and a voice gone forever.
I will not forget the wound to our country and those who inflicted it. I will not yield, I will not rest, I will not relent in waging this struggle for freedom and security for our people. The course of this conflict is not known, yet its outcome is certain. Freedom and fear, justice and cruelty, have always been at war, and we know that
God is not neutral between them.
Fellow citizens, we'll meet violence with patient justice, assured of the rightness of our cause and confident of the victories to come.
In all that lies before us, may God grant us wisdom and may he watch over us all.
Thank you.”
Paul Regny was waiting inside his office when the President returned from the speech. In some ways, he was the last person Alexander wanted to see.
But he'd known that Regny would be there, waiting. He was a consummate professional after all.
“Las Apatridas Mr. President? Xavier de Vitoria? Is that the official position then?” And never a kiss ass.
The President sighed. “Yes Paul. That's the official line. Get the word out. You can contact the Directors for information to release to the press. Square it up and start painting a portrait for the people. We need this to look believable. From today forward, de Vitoria is enemy one.” The President took off the dark gray jacket he'd been wearing at the speech and went to lay it over the chair.
“I will sir. Do we have a stopgap sir? In case anyone learns the truth?” Alexander's hand froze inches away from the chair, still holding the jacket. He turned his head a little towards Regny, but looked out the window instead of at his COS.
“You mean that de Vitoria couldn't possibly have been involved? That because we've funded the government where he makes his home for decades, we know exactly what his organization’s capabilities are, and that they don't include what we saw on April 19th? That Las Apatridas is a philosophical political movement, not a terrorist organization?” With those words he turned and looked Paul Regny directly in the eyes. To his credit, Regny simply waited for his President to finish.
“The truth is what we say it is Paul. What you make it. Go tell our people the truth. Go tell them who our enemy is.” With that, President Alexander looked down at the gray suit coat in his hand, and instead of laying it down, he placed it back around his shoulders and walked out of the room.
Paul Regny took one of the folders from the stack of folders in his arms and placed it on top. Inside was the collected life and times of Xavier de Vitoria. Lists of known associates. Places he'd take refuge. Where he'd gotten his funding. Where he'd gone to school. What kind of suits he wore.
Pictures of his children.
Now that his President had decided who to blame, it was Paul's job to make sure everyone else got on board.
The men listed in each of the other folders in Paul's stack might never even know how close they had come to being “enemy one.”
“I think it was an excellent speech. President Alexander did everything we wanted him to do. He showed us the face of the enemy. He laid out our strategy to defeat him, and he told the people what to expect, and what would be asked of them. This will be remembered as an historic speech.”
Kristine sat across from Joseph Krenshaw. She was wearing a cobalt blue blouse over a black a-line skirt. Kristine Fletcher was a beautiful woman. She knew it. She also knew the value of looking her best in these televised “debates.” Because of her looks, men tended to underestimate her and assume she was a bubble headed slut. They were wrong, but Kristine was more than happy to let them have their prejudices when it suited her purposes.
Joseph Krenshaw was the kind of man who underestimated not only women, but anyone who didn't agree with his position. On anything. If you didn't drink his beer, you didn't know beer. If you didn't vote for his politician, you were either a socialist or a moron, which were basically the same thing to Joseph. If you didn't like his kind of women, you were probably a fag.
Joseph had a radio show where he spent three hours a day calling for one country or another to be turned into a sheet of glass, or ridiculed the opponent's of his political heroes, or spending time stroking and being stroked by the endless parade of callers to his show, many of whom would wait hours to spend fifteen seconds telling him how great he was before he went to break. He had voted for the President, and he couldn't help but love the fact that the man he'd supported had become a war time hero.
“Not because he wanted to be one. History has pushed our President into this role. Events have conspired to thrust greatness upon James Alexander. Thankfully, we were blessed by a man who is capable of such responsibility.” He probably rehearsed these speeches in the shower.
“But who exactly is this Xavier de Vitoria Joseph?” Kristine found that using men's first name always lowered their guard. They wanted so badly to trust her. “Until the President named him our enemy, most of us had never even heard of the guy, or this group Las Apatridas. From what I can gather they’re a bunch of intellectuals who post on net forums. What evidence does President Alexander have that de Vitoria and Las Apatridas were responsible for the Devastation?”
She had barely finished her sentence before Krenshaw began to shout. “What do you want Miss Fletcher? Do you want our President to share sensitive information with the people? Information which he would also be sharing with the very terrorists responsible for this atrocity? Information which could put our men and women in harm’s way? Is that what you want, dead citizens of this great country?”
Of course not. “No Joseph. But we the people are supposed to be guiding the actions of our government, in this as in all things. How can we make sensible decisions about a course of action if we have only a limited understanding of a small number of the related facts? I don't want innocent people to die. But I do want transparency. How can we choose who or what to support if we aren't informed?”
Joseph was ready of course. “You support the politicians, like our President, who promise to defend this nation. Unlike the man he defeated, who would be reaching out to men like de Vitoria now, this President has promised to wage total war against his sick beliefs. That is what we should be supporting now. Any politician who doesn't promise total victory in the face of terrorism is promising total defeat for this country. From this day forward, that has to be the yard stick against which we measure those running for public office. Nothing else will suffice. Not health care, not taxes, not immigration. You can't argue about those things if you’re burned to death in a fiery explosion in the early morning hours by a terrorist's bomb. And don’t call them intellectuals. These men are monsters. They are responsible for the deaths of innocent men and women. Men and women who are your fellow citizens I might add.” Joseph was a true believer. He was a mercenary of course, he wasn't doing this for free, but he sold his soul to the party that promised him victory over his enemies.
It wasn't really any different than high school. You cheer your team on to victory against the other guys because you're the badgers and they're the hawks. Of course, this time the hawks had been directly responsible for killing 543 innocent people and injuring over a thousand others, but that wasn't really the point. You cheered your team and booed their's. Or you didn't belong at the game.
“All I'm saying is that we should try to understand more before we act. Even if we accept that they did, why did Las Apatridas attack us? What did they hope to gain? Is war the best solution to this?” Kristine knew she was wasting her time with Krenshaw, but changing his mind wasn't really her goal anyway. She was getting paid too, just to be here and argue with him. If she wanted to accomplish anything of value here, it would be by presenting a counter to his nationalist sensationalism. Maybe someone out there in TV land was listening. Kristine wasn't a true believer at all. In some ways that made her more honest.
“War is the only solution. You heard President Alexander. They hate us for our freedoms. You either stand up to evil, or you let it stand unchallenged. Which is it going to be Miss Fletcher? Which do you want our country to do?”
A false premise of course. But that was always the way with Krenshaw. “I want freedom Joseph. I want to find a solution to terrorism that doesn't create more terrorists along the way. I want a government I can trust, not just one who tells me to trust them. I want a country I can be proud of.” Such a waste.
“I do trust my government, and I am proud of my country. Maybe you should look at yourself.” He was so, sure. So convicted. Always the way with Krenshaw.
Finally the anchor weighed in. “That's all we have time for tonight. I'm sure we'll be discussing this more in the days to come. Thank you both for being here. Stay tuned after the break for a discussion about the impending energy legislation. Will the government be deciding how many miles we can drive each day, or will people driving to excess jeopardize the future of our environment. Our own Steve Garagos has the report after this.”
By the time the motorcade had made its way to the airport, Legislator Grandon had already made several important phone calls.
First, he'd called his wife. Because when he first ran for city councilman thirty eight years ago she'd made him promise that politics would never prevent him from being her husband first. “You made a vow,” she'd told him, and no other vow made later could ever be allowed to come before that one. Susan had already put the kids to bed and had watched the President's speech on the television before getting ready for bed herself. She wished him well, told him she loved him, and reminded him not to drink any caffeinated beverages before bed.
Secondly he had a conference call with the other ranking members of the legislature. If his party was going to ever return to power, they were going to have to be very careful in the days to come, and coordination was key. The President was a war hero already without firing a single shot, and the country wouldn't look too kindly on any politician or party that protested his actions too vehemently. No, for now it was better to be seen as cheerleaders. Sure, cheerleaders had to suck a little cock sometimes, but it got them close to the football stars, and that’s where they needed to be if they wanted to have any hope of riding Alexander back to glory. Plenty of time to raise concerns later when things went south.
Next he called an old friend he had in the intelligence community. Legislator Grandon needed to know everything he could about both Las Apatridas and Xavier de Vitoria. He made sure the necessary documents would be faxed over directly. He couldn't send them to the office where just anyone might stumble on them, so he had them sent to his private home number.
Before getting out of his limousine at the private airport and boarding the jet he had waiting there to return home for the weekend, he made one more phone call.
This time he contacted a man he'd met seven years before during a foreign affairs luncheon at the Capital.
Theodore Grandon was always bored out of his mind by those sorts of events, and he inevitable took the opportunity to sneak out once the cameras were turned off and slip away to somewhere where he could enjoy a fine blended whiskey in relative peace.
That day he'd simply walked down to the lounge on the first floor and sat down at the bar. The place was exclusive to politicians and foreign dignitaries and their staff, and was unofficially known as the “Greater House.”
Grandon was known there and they poured him his drink without his having to ask. He loved everything about his country, but he relied on the beady-eyed lumberjacks up north to provide him his drink of choice. Whiskey neat. He liked to imagine himself as a king anyway.
He sat there for a while, enjoying his fine amber refreshment, until he noticed another man sitting at the end of the bar. He looked over at the man, who noticed his attentions, and raised his glass to him in salutation. The other man smiled a strange, half smile, and nodded his head, before downing his drink and calling the barman over for a second.
The man was wearing a fine dark suit. Even from the end of the bar, Grandon could tell the tailoring and material of the jacket were exquisite. It was a suit that screamed of both refinement and wealth. Attributes Grandon appreciated in men.
Grandon recognized him from one of the delegations that they had greeted at the beginning of the luncheon. If he remembered, the man had come in with the Ivans. He seemed to be involved in their security. Grandon got up and moved down the bar to sit nearer him.
“I guess I'm not the only one who likes to sneak out of those things huh comrade? Name's Grandon. You were with the Ivans right?” Grandon was always comfortable making acquaintances, especially with men who enjoyed whiskey.
“The days of The Party are behind us Legislator. I am Gorsky. Shouldn't you be schmoozing our fine leaders right now?” The man seemed casual.
“Shouldn't you be protecting them?” Grandon prodded back.
“Protecting them from what? We are in the heart of your country’s power. They have nothing to fear here. So Gorsky finds a bar, and gets a drink. When they leave I will make a show of how important they are, and they will pat me on the head and tell me what a good boy am I. This is working vacation, but is less work than vacation.”
Grandon liked the man. He seemed to be a pragmatist, which Grandon appreciated. They chatted for close to an hour, until Grandon had to return to his office to earn his pay. But before leaving he got Gorsky's contact information.
Over the years they'd spoken more than once. Grandon learned that Gorsky had been a player in the former government, and though his star had fallen, he still knew things which were useful. And so from time to time, Grandon would share information with Gorsky which would find its way to people who could profit from it, and from time to time Gorsky returned the favor. Nothing that would jeopardize their own power of course, but both had seen their rivals fall victim to well placed and completely untraceable news stories that happened to hit the wire at just the right time to have a powerful impact. It was a working relationship, and everyone came out ahead.
So when President Alexander named an obscure terrorist Theodore Grandon had never heard of before as the mastermind of the single worst attack on civilians in his nation's history, Grandon thought immediately of his friend with the fine suits and taste for whiskey, and while his own security detail moved his luggage into the jet, he dialed a number very few men knew about.
The voice on the other end of the phone didn't sound surprised to hear from him. “Hello friend. I expected your call. So late in the evening though. First you had to call Susan yes?”
“Good afternoon comrade. It's not late in the evening there is it? Aren't you some eight hours later than I am? Shouldn't it be tomorrow where you're at?”
“It would be, were I in the motherland. But some Work has carried me away I am afraid. Things are happening in the world.” Grandon could hear the capital “w” in the word work.
“Really? Now might not be a good time then. But you and I need to talk. Soon. As you said, things are happening. Perhaps there is an opportunity here which we need to discuss.” Security knocked on the window to let him know that the plane was ready when he was. They wouldn't bother him again, no matter how long he took. Their job was to wait on his pleasure, and they were all professionals.
“I agree completely. Sometime very soon we must speak. Great men can make much of great events. And surely, we two are great men. Will you be home for the weekend?”
Grandon considered for only a moment before answering. There could only be one reason for Gorsky to ask. “You're here? Good. Call on me at my home tomorrow afternoon. I have some information we can go over. Bring anything you can on Xavier de Vitoria and Las Apatridas.”
“Why else would I be available my old friend? I am a professional after all. Tomorrow it is. I will bring what I have. You make sure you have something to drink when I arrive.”
Grandon smiled. It would be a working weekend, but that didn't mean it had to be a dry one. “Very well comrade. Tomorrow then.” With that he hung up the phone and stepped out of the car.
As he leaned back into his seat to nap on the short flight back to his home near the coast Theodore Grandon smiled to himself. A chance meeting in a bar while skipping a state function. And everyone stood to gain.
The noon day sun burned hot over the dry sand on the desert floor. The mother huddled with her children in the comparatively cool shade beneath the small rocky fingers jutting out of the ground. There was a small amount of moisture there. Not much, but enough to sustain them until nightfall.
She didn't go out much during the day. It was dangerous. She knew to avoid the light as much as possible. Her children were too young to protect themselves. She knew she had to scavenge for food during the night.
But food was running short. She couldn't afford to wait until nightfall. And so when she saw a small horned lizard crawling nearby, she decided it was worth the risk to venture out after it.
She knew it was dangerous, especially with her children, but they needed the food. So she looked for the telltale shadow of predators, and when she determined it was safe, she streaked out after the lizard.
It turned towards her and puffed up. It was bigger than she had first thought, but she was committed now. Suddenly she heard a screech from behind her. She and the lizard both froze for only a second before she abandoned her thoughts of food and streaked back to the relative safety of the rocks. If only she could make it before the creature overhead swooped down.
But she wasn't going to. Instinct compelled her to run, faster. As fast as she could. Her children clung desperately to her back. But whether she knew or understood, the decision to pursue the lizard had doomed her.
Just as the hawk overhead swept down towards the scorpion and her children a sudden brilliant white light filled the valley for only a moment. The hawk veered upwards into the sky in self defense instead of towards the ground, giving the scorpion just enough time to scramble under the small rocks it had been hiding under before.
Today, everyone would go hungry. But neither the lizard, nor the hawk, nor the scorpion and her children would die just yet. The bright light wasn't seen by anyone else, and they didn't know what to make of it. Soon the delicate balance of predator and prey would begin again.
And they would learn to ignore the strange metal sphere which had appeared in their midst. Over the course of the next thousand years, animals and insects would rest in the small circle of shade it created in the early morning and late evening. Eventually it would be buried under by the shifting sands. But it would remain for the most part untouched by nature.
Waiting for two men to drive out into the desert and dig it back up.
