Maker Messiah

by Ed Miracle

  A taste of grit invaded his mouth. How could they thwart a lie so overwhelming? He didn’t care about Makers or Philip Machen. He cared about murder and stopping monsters who kill people. Out of the east, a williwaw twirled through the yard and scoured him with dust.

  By the time he finished refueling, the sun had sunk through a cleft in the hills and taken the breeze with it. Sweating in the barn, he shuttled up and down the ladder, disposing the empty fuel jugs into the Maker’s top cone. Yesterday, Jesse had dumped garden waste in there and, dilution notwithstanding, the slurry stank. Everett topped it off with a hose, submerged the buoyant jugs, then escaped the barn. A fresh and airy twilight soothed him.

  Across the yard, Bobby’s shadow passed to-and-fro behind the window shrouds. Everett couldn’t put him off forever, so he returned to the shed and went inside. Bobby was shoving clothes and ammunition into an old Navy duffel. There was no evidence of the dinner Everett hoped for. He shut the door and tried to sound upbeat.

  “Where you headed, Dad?”

  Bobby punched a shirt into the bag. “Pack your stuff. We’re leaving.”

  “What for?”

  “You took her down there, to see that thing. You tell me what for.”

  “We had to report what happened.”

  “And came back here to celebrate.” Bobby kicked the bed. “You lovebirds made another propaganda flick, didn’t you? To get your guy off the hook.”

  “It wasn’t a Powerpod, Dad. There were no Pods down there. We recorded everything. We have proof.”

  Bobby spat. “You went down there and saw that, and you don’t even have the decency to be upset.”

  “We saw the bodies . . .” Their black husks rose again in his mind. “. . . so close we could smell them. So stay out of my head, Dad.”

  Bobby shoved past him, through the shower-curtain drapes. He returned with a handful of boot socks.

  “Get your gear. I signed us up for the Concord Militia.” He crammed the socks into his bag. “I’m mustering-in as a sergeant, on account of my prior service. You’ll be a private. We start in the morning.”

  Everett moved to the counter. From its pint-size refrigerator, he extracted a Budweiser and popped it open, taking a long swig before sliding a tin of franks and beans off the shelf.

  “Militias,” he sniffed. “Tory know-it-all’s itching to shoot people they don’t like.”

  “Those volunteers may be the only hope we have for preventing the next explosion. Being as the cops and the Army can’t handle the situation, it’s up to we-the-people. So pack your gear.”

  Everett spooned brown glop into a pan and switched on the hotplate. Bobby straightened.

  “You moving in with her? Is that the plan?”

  “I’m not joining your militia, that’s for sure.” Everett poked the food with a spatula.

  Bobby watched and tamped his duffel. He cinched it with a padlock. “I’m trying to save you from making another dumb mistake.”

  Everett jabbed his beans.

  Bobby drew closer. “We can’t stay here, Son. Jesse thinks he can keep his damn Makers. They’re his property, he says, nobody else’s. Figures he and Marie can hold off the government and the vigilantes. If he doesn’t come to his senses, there’s going to be a shoot-out. We can’t be part of that.”

  Everett said nothing, which seemed to inflame Bobby’s conjunctiva. His father blinked and blinked until he whirled and switched on the wall screen. It resolved to a moss-green parka inhabited by a disheveled Latina newswoman. She wore a cartridge-filter face mask.

  “Live from California. Behind me is the apartment building where military police have taken a man into custody. The local news service, here in Coalinga, posted an interview with that man, Jungo Ilgunas, in which Mr. Ilgunas claims he saw an aerial bomb drop to the freeway east of here this afternoon. A military spokeswoman said she has no information about Mr. Ilgunas or his claims. She acknowledged only that the authorities are questioning him.”

  Bobby switched it off.

  “Hey, I was watching that.”

  Bobby tossed the control into the wastebasket. “Freemaker propaganda, trading on other people’s troubles.”

  Everett frowned, worked his beans. “Dad, let’s get out of here. Let’s take the plane to Canada. Find Mom and Melinda. Find a place to stay and let the chips fall without us.”

  “And live on what? Makers have killed just about every job there is, and Coalinga just killed the Makers. From now on people are going to have to earn their livings, like they used to. No more freeloading.”

  “Me and Marcy,” Everett said, “are not partisans. We just want to know what’s going on, show people what’s happening—without getting slammed for it.”

  “You’re so close to them now, you don’t even see it,” Bobby said. “But I do. Every time you use a Maker, you boost your addiction. You’re a Maker junkie. You’re going the wrong way, Son. We are going to stop this guy, but you’ve turned into his accomplice. The Vatican put out a papal bull today. Do you know what that is?”

  “You haven’t been to church since you married Mom.”

  “The Pope knows what he’s talking about.” Bobby jabbed the air. “Did you see that bastard, parading through Nigeria? In white robes? Women laying palm fronds at his feet? He was mocking Jesus, don’t you see? People say Philip Machen is the Antichrist. As far as I’m concerned, Coalinga proves it.”

  Everett rolled his eyes. “Jesus doesn’t need a militia.”

  “Don’t you smart-mouth me, boy.” Bobby punched the air. “Don’t you—I’ve had just about—” He worked his rant down to an accusing finger. “Is that our last can of franks and beans?”

  Everett stifled a laugh. “I’ll get some more tomorrow.”

  “Beg Jesse for another handout,” Bobby said, “to copy in his Maker.”

  “We earned our beans today, building his walls. That ought to make you happy.”

  “You ingrate. I sacrificed everything to get you into an airline cockpit, and you give me lip. I sold my business and my house. Took out a loan to keep your sorry ass out of jail. Everything I’ve done for you, you’re throwing away—your career, your future, everything. For what? You’ll never fly for the airlines. You’re too damned lazy. You just want to hang out and copy stuff. Party hardy and play hide-the-salami with your girlfriend. At least Jesse grows food. You’re just a parasite.”

  Everett sucked more beer.

  “There’s not going to be a world without Makers, Dad. Just people who have them and people who don’t. You know the fat cats are never going to give up theirs. Not in a million years. Once they strip us of our Makers, they won’t be letting guys like you or me near one. Once the Maker Lords take over, they are going to own our asses and we will be their slaves.”

  “Beats anarchy.”

  “It’s not about them, Bobby. It’s not even about him. It’s about us.”

  “That’s what I been trying to tell you,” Bobby shouted. “It’s up to you and me. We have to do the right thing, Son. Right now. You gotta stop messing with Makers and the people who want them and come with me.”

  “Or what?”

  “Or there’s gonna be another Coalinga.”

  “Coalinga was rigged.”

  “I don’t care if those damn things are safe as beach sand. I don’t want ‘em. I don’t need ‘em. And I’m not gonna live like a hippie mooching off people, pretending what’s theirs is mine, living in a commune like bugs on a log. Makers are wrong, that’s all you need to know. They’re immoral. We have to stop ‘em before they suck our souls.”

  “I’m not going with you, Dad. I don’t know what these Freemaker people are all about, but I’m no vigilante.” The feeling washed over him again, the frisson of resisting a false either-or. Choose your mom or choose your dad. Choose Tory or choose Freemaker. Nobody could make him do that. “You can’t make me.”

  Bobby fell into a protracted wobble, glared until Everett lost patience. “I thought you were
leaving.”

  Bobby stopped, no longer seeing. His voice went cold.

  “Yeah, I’m leaving.” He parted the curtain and returned with his rifle, the bolt-action Winchester with a bull barrel and a sniper scope. He strode to the door, opened it, and heaved his duffel into the dark. Then he stomped out after it.

  Everett rubbed his face. It was always him who had to make amends. He went to the door and flung it open. Why did Bobby have to be so—

  Boom!

  By the glare of a muzzle flash, Everett saw his father shoot their Powerpod. Behind him, the shed went dark.

  “What’d you do that for?”

  “One less Pod.”

  “You can’t shoot all of them.” Instantly, he regretted saying it. “Dad?”

  “If Jesse won’t get rid of those damned machines, somebody will have to do it for him.” Bobby’s voice trailed toward the barn.

  “Dad?”

  A figure stirred on Jesse’s porch, and the yard lights winked on. Beneath a flickering orange lamp, Bobby rushed into the barn.

  “Stop!” Everett chased him. He powered through the door and shouted the one thing his father might respect. “It doesn’t belong to you. It belongs to Jesse.”

  Bobby froze in mid-aim.

  “It’s not your property,” Everett said.

  Bobby lowered the gun. He glanced at Everett, then headed for the side door, where he aimed again.

  “Dad, stop!”

  But it was too late. From ten feet back, Bobby fired into Glamorous Glennis.

  Everett sprinted.

  “The hell is going on out here?” Rural Supply boots came running from the house.

  Bobby chambered another round as Everett pounced on him. They spun in a sloppy jig until the gun discharged between them. Boom!

  “Stop shooting!”

  They careered through the door and fell—arms, elbows, and knees digging for purchase. Everett grabbed the rifle. Bobby thrust it high, then released it. In the slack, Everett got hold of the barrel and held on, but Bobby swung a meaty fist. Everett’s ear banged sharply, though now he hugged the rifle. He twisted it away and kicked at Bobby, who grunted, kicked back, and swung another fist. Which missed.

  Then a torrent of Portuguese curses laid hands on Everett’s shoulders, flipped him like a turtle onto his back. A boot slammed his stomach, knocking the wind out of him and releasing the gun, which levitated into Jesse’s hands. Another boot thudded but brought no pain. Bobby went oof and curled like a leaf in a campfire.

  “Gimme that piece,” Jesse growled. “Nobody shoots up my place, goddamn it. Get up, you jackasses.”

  Spittle rained on Everett as he crawled for the airplane.

  “Don’t shoot,” he rasped. He reached GG’s nose and gathered his legs. One shaky thrust heaved him onto her canopy, where he spread himself. “Don’t shoot my plane.”

  Behind him, the rifle snicked and slapped, snicked and slapped, flipping its remaining shells away.

  “The hell is going on out here?” Jesse demanded.

  “Stay out of this, Jess.” Bobby grunted to his knees. “This is between me and him.”

  Jesse slung the rifle over his shoulder and kicked the dirt.

  “We go back a ways, Bobby, but this is too much. This time you screwed up. I’ll just keep the gun while you cool down. Go collect your things. I want you out of here. Tonight.” Jesse strode for the house. “My supper’s getting cold, damn it.”

  When he reached the porch, he stomped twice before looking back. A shake of his round head propelled him inside.

  “Damned fool,” Bobby muttered. He steadied himself then loped away to the darkened shed.

  Everett clung to his airplane, lungs heaving, ear ringing, protecting his possibilities. Bobby was right. He would never fly for the airlines now. Having his own plane had spoiled him for fixed routes and rigid timetables. He fingered GG’s canopy, sighted anxiously down her wings, and surveyed her delicate skin. He found the hole, a single puncture aft of the rear seat, directly over her engine. He folded himself, smeared his forehead across the wound.

  “You might as well have shot me.”

  A lidded moon hung low in the eastern sky. Everett straightened, brushed dust from his back and his elbows. Suck it up, jackass. He could repair the engine. He had found a worthy woman. And this wasn’t over. By his reckoning, the future was still half-full.

  Across the yard, under a buzzing light, Bobby strapped his duffel to the old Yamaha dirt bike. He kick-started it and charged with a ragged blaaat to Jesse’s front walk. He sat there, revving the engine until Jesse came out with the Winchester. If they spoke, Everett didn’t hear it. When Jesse turned away, Bobby slalomed the hundred yards to Vineyard Avenue, rifle over his shoulder, ripping gravel and spewing dirt. The racket receded until it was gone.

  Everett waited alone in the yard. After years of gathering the threads of their two-man family, struggling to keep them knitted together, the split had finally come. And it was Bobby leaving him. He’d always thought it would be the other way ‘round, that the time and the place would be his to choose. The reversal burned hot on his neck. Losing his family had always been his worst nightmare.

  He hadn’t trembled like this since his mother left. He swallowed and returned to the shed.

  Inside, he lit a candle and sat down to a cold pot of beans. The plane he could fix, but not his old man. They could have handled the situation, with or without Powerpods, with or without Makers. They could have lived off his charter business and kept their family together. The problem wasn’t Marcy or Makers, it was Bobby, running hard from his demons. The real terror, that he might have to change and adjust his self-concept, was simply too dangerous for him to contemplate. Rather than think a new thought, he had abandoned the only person who still loved him.

  Everett ate in the flickering gloom. The burden of ancient taunts and expectations lifted slowly from his shoulders, but it was a sour deliverance. The human rock against which he had always pushed and pulled, to balance and measure himself, was gone. First, Coalinga, now this. Even his fearful buzzes had departed.

  He finished the beer and called Marcy, just to hear her voice. She was crying too.

  “They arrested Uncle General,” she said.

  FORTY

  Washington, D.C. Monday, June 8

  Day Fifty-one

  Main Justice, they called this building, and despite his rush, Nick Brayley stole a moment while crossing its foyer to absorb a celebratory dose of gravitas. Thirty minutes ago, in the White House oval office, he had conveyed a ceremonial pen into Jack Washburn’s hand, and the President had signed the document Nick had written, his executive order outlawing Powerpods.

  Exiting the elevator on the fifth floor, Nick clutched that special pen and looked down on a sun-dappled Pennsylvania Avenue, his attention catching on the sharp northwest corner of the J. Edgar Hoover FBI Building.

  Finally in his chambers, Attorney General Nicholas T. Brayley stood in the full light of summer, absorbing divine approval. He turned from the window to extract from his desk a crystal decanter and its matching glass, into which he poured two fingers of Maker’s Mark scotch whiskey. Drawing the amber liquid into his mouth, he received its salute—a warm jolt of victory.

  As usual, the Russians, the Europeans, and the Chinese had swung their enforcement hammers first, seizing Pods, blocking the internet, and jailing Freemakers. But Jack Washburn had finally addressed the nation and signed the American order. And this one had teeth. To restore the national security, to ensure the public safety, all non-federal Powerpods must be destroyed forthwith, without notice, without compensation, and without appeal. As Abraham Lincoln had once done to quell Civil War draft riots, Jack also suspended habeas corpus, up to ninety days, for scofflaws and resisters. The order did not include the additional sanctions Nick had wanted, but Justice had finally gained the upper hand against Philip Machen and his anarchy pods.

  Nick toasted their achievement—his achiev
ement—with another sip and stuffed the ceremonial pen into his pocket.

  “Now who’s going to save that sonofabitch,” he said out loud.

  Coalinga was smashing those starry-eyed Freemakers and clearing the political decks. Jubilant campaign donors were bound to reward their most effective champion.

  By nominating Selena Gilmar back in February, and adopting her pro-Powerpods agenda, the Democratic Party had sealed its fate. Though Gilmar had yet to withdraw from the race, it pleased Nick to imagine the panic flooding her sanctums this afternoon. Come November, Republicans would sweep the elections, and a grateful nation would elect the architect of their salvation, Nicholas T. Brayley, President of the United States. A prospect that warmed him more than the whiskey.

  Very little stood in his way: a few holdouts; a few enclaves; a journalist here and there. Nut jobs and head cases linked by their fuzzy ideas and dwindling Cambiar connections. Knock out a few more satellites, and the whole insurgency will suffocate. Then everyone returns to nice, clean cell phone communications and safe, non-nuclear power. Back to honest labor and political sanity.

  Nick keyed his Cabinet Officer’s Notebook and checked the status of General Holmes’s anti-satellite operations. From a peak of thirty-two when Makers were announced, the joint efforts of three nations had whittled the Cambiar fleet down to nineteen. As he watched, the screen updated itself to eighteen, and he toasted the ceiling.

  “Thank you, Clint.” He drained his glass and sat down to contemplate the beautiful, backlit photograph of his wife.

  Yvonne didn’t like Philip Machen—especially his arrogance—and she didn’t care for Freemakers, who were the usual left-wing scum, but she refused to believe Powerpods could explode. Hadn’t the one in their basement worked for years? Last spring when that tree crushed Mr. Toomey’s Pod, it didn’t blow up the neighborhood. Pods died all the time, she said, without hurting anyone. Coalinga could not have been a Powerpod.