The Gods of Color

by Gunnar Sinclaire

  “But that’s so revealing, isn’t it?” the Russian woman said. “They’re devoting a whole army group to sanitizing the countryside for their colonists already in Florida, and they haven’t even beaten us yet. They must think they’re indestructible.”

  “They do,” confirmed George. “And why shouldn’t they? All they’ve dealt with these past thirty years have been apologetic, squealing fools from the EU. The last serious threat they dealt with was our pan-Euro force back in the early 2050s. But pan-Euro is actually a misnomer because it kind of implies equal contribution. There weren’t many British or French or Germans or Norse in that army—just Greeks, Italians, and Slavs. And we would have beaten those Islamic bastards if Western Europe just would have gotten some backbone and helped and . . .”

  The Athenian felt his girlfriend’s hand on his back. “I’m sorry.” He sighed. “I digress. Point of the matter is I don’t think we should let any of their army groups unify. Because if we do their numerics could become too great an obstacle.”

  “I think he’s right.” The Texan felt the bristles of his shorn hair contemplatively. “When they divided their army into three like that—that was a gift. I don’t think we’ll be gettin’ any more gifts anytime soon, so let’s eliminate Army Group Two and Three before they can join.”

  “Yeah, well how are we going to do that without splitting our own army?” Curtis demanded. “We’re here in Boston, and that’s where these two million men are going to stay. If we tried to march out now there’s an excellent chance we’d engage with Uktar’s army group headed this way. Wouldn’t you rather let him try to invest the city and take huge casualties doing so?”

  All eyes turned to Guerrero. After routing the Muslim force in Maine, the three Aztec army groups had linked up and bivouacked in Hartford, Connecticut.

  “If need be I can split my army,” Guerrero offered. “I think a million Aztecs could give those one-point-five million Muslims on Capitol Hill a run for their money. Just bear in mind that I won’t be able to generate as much of a wallop against Uktar when he besieges Boston. Don’t forget, I’ve only got a total of two million men.”

  “I’ll tell y’all what I’m afraid of.” Rutherford tapped his glass with his finger. “Say Uktar attacks Boston and we draw him in nice and snug. Then Guerrero attacks with his whole army from behind and we really start pounding the shit out of the Muslims. Well, what happens if their armies from the Capitol and Florida link up and basically coral us into Boston? They’ve got their whole God-damned navy right there off the coast—and the shelling so far is just a tune up. Those reports General Curtis is touting won’t be representative of the losses to come. They’re holding back their heavy ordnance because they think they’re gonna cakewalk right through us into the city, so why level it if they don’t have to?

  “But if we beat em’—you better believe all hell’s gonna rain down.” The Texan pounded the table. “We could be cut off, bombarded, and cut to pieces. So if we do decide to commit to Boston, we sure as shit better commit our entire air force to sinking their navy. And our intelligence is so stone-age ever since they took out our satellites a few weeks ago. Just plain guessing about their troop movement makes me nervous as hell. Damn it we’ve got problems.”

  There was silence, broken only by the shifting and fidgeting of those who happened to catch Guerrero’s forlorn eyes.

  “He’s right,” the Aztec president said decisively. “I think I should split my army and send half to engage the enemy in Washington. I’m confident we can beat them before the Florida army group can render aid. With the other half of my army, which will include my elite divisions, I’ll run a spear through Uktar’s back as he ploughs into Boston. Meanwhile, the reconstituted U.S. Air Force will attack their navy.” The words were strong, and his voice was deep, but beneath the table his fingers twitched.

  “Is that the consensus, then?” General Sanchez eyed the Aztec president with no small comity, then looked around the group. The discussion carried on into the evening.

  Later, before he retired to the subway terminal turned bomb shelter, Rick paced the streets of Boston. Nearby, the military had assembled a communications tower impervious to Islamic wave obstruction, and tonight, Rick made full use of it. As he spoke with his wife and son on the phone, he was unaware of the envy felt by many of the people staring from shop fronts and street corners. Beneath the brick and dignified stone, his face was brighter than neon, his smile like a curved stick of the stuff in an ice cream store window. Not everyone had a family. Not everyone had someone in their life whose very voice brought them happiness.

  There were other men, too, pacing about while conveying unspecific news to their families in case of signal interception. But these men wore dour looks, and when they walked their feet scuffed the cement. They weren’t looking forward to battling Allah’s warriors in a frigid, bleak city. But for Rick, everything was relative. Even if he died, he’d do so with a gun in his hand or at his hip, among his fellow Americans, in a battle that would surely be chronicled with the same reverence as Yorktown. For him, whatever fate befell him seemed elysian compared to his experience at Sanity One. There was something far less distressing and more natural about dying on the edge of a Muslim’s sword than succumbing to the skull-cracking force of a monstrous hand or surgical experimentation while bound to a table.

  “Honey, before you go, Blake has something he wants to tell you. I wasn’t sure what to say on this one, so thought I’d let you handle it.”

  “Okay, put him on—I want to talk to him anyway. It may be one of the last times I get to speak to him before the siege begins. After that, I doubt the reception will be good enough to place many calls.”

  “Okay, love you. I’ll get back on after you talk to him.” Cathy touched her ear, and beamed the signal to Blake.

  “Dad! How are you?” His voice was anxious.

  “Fine, son, how are you? How was school?”

  “It was awesome, Dad! I got in this big fight with this bully kid and I kicked his ass, Dad, and I won and I was on the playground and all my friends were giving me high-fives!” He jumbled breathlessly. “Mom said I could stay up extra late to tell you about it. And the best part is that the prettiest girl in the class saw it and her friend passed me a note from her saying that she likes me! And I only got like three days detention for it, too!”

  “Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, Dad, I’m totally fine. He was like one of those, what do you call them, paper tigers. He didn’t hit me once. I think he may have swung once but he missed.”

  “Is he okay?”

  “Oh, he’s fine. Ms. Bramwell had to give him napkins to put over his bloody nose and I hope he’ll have a black eye tomorrow, too. He’s a real jerk, Dad, trust me.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “He was telling momma jokes and I guess he was picking on me ‘cause I’m the new kid. I don’t know. He wouldn’t stop. So I pushed him, then he pushed me, then I punched him and it started. He picks on a lot of kids.”

  “Well, I’m proud of you for sticking up for yourself and not backing down. That’s part of growing up and learning to be a man. Good for you—I’m proud of you.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I knew you’d understand.”

  “I want you to remember something, Blake. Always stand up for yourself and your rights—not just now, but later in life. Don’t let anyone walk on you. And if anyone tries, grab their foot and throw them off.”

  “I will, Dad. I’ll throw them off and get up and punch them.”

  Rick laughed, and gazed up into the snowflaked midnight. “Son, when you’re older, people might try to walk on you in different ways than doing it literally. They might try to walk on you by taking away your rights. They might try to do it by saying you can’t read a certain book or watch a certain movie. They might do it by saying you can’t attend a certain college or hold a respected job. And they might try to say they’re doing what they’re doing to you because you’re a sk
in color they don’t like, or a religion they hate.”

  “I won’t let them.”

  The vow was so resolute that Rick blinked.

  “All . . . all right, Blake. I’m glad you understand that. Because if you don’t, and the other kids at your school don’t, and the other kids across the country don’t, then your generation will end up like mine did.”

  “Dad, you and George and the rest of the guys are gonna win, right? You guys are gonna stop the Muslims, aren’t you?”

  “You better believe it. We’re gonna kick their ass just like you did that bully’s today at school.”

  “Good. Dad, I don’t want you to die . . .” Blake’s jubilation shattered, his voice trailed off, and he started to cry.

  There was a pause as Rick licked his chapped lips and glanced down at the salted pavement.

  “I . . . you know I won’t, Blake. I’m gonna be just fine, and when this is all over with you and your mother and I and your little sister or brother on the way are gonna link up and be one big happy family again.”

  “That sounds great,” Blake whispered behind a sniffle. “I was just wondering because I know that sometimes good guys get killed when they fight. Sometimes, the bad guys win . . . and all the good guys die. I know how it is. The good guys and their families have to come outside and get into groups and cry and then the bad guys shoot them all.” Tremulous lips imparted those last words, his eyelids shut, and tears pitchered over his cheeks.

  “No, no, shhhh,” Rick consoled. “That happens sometimes but it’s not gonna happen this time. It’s not gonna happen to me; it’s not gonna happen to you or your mom, either. I promise.” He heard a deep inhale burdened by a stuffed up nose.

  “Dad, I know what happens when you lose a fight. I saw it on TV.”

  “What did you see?”

  Blake’s face twisted redly, and his mouth opened but he couldn’t speak. When he finally spoke, his voice was loud and the words came pouring.

  “There was this mom and her little boy with funny accents on bloody grass. And there was this big Muslim guy with one of those swords they have and the mom was telling her boy not to watch and then they just killed her. And then the boy went crazy and started shaking and her blood was on him.” Blake sobbed over the line.

  Rick heard the connection shift, and Cathy’s voice registered sharply.

  “Honey, what are you telling him?” she demanded. “He’s almost hyperventilating here!”

  But Rick was staring at the stars above. They were icy and clinical. And as his eyes became wet, they appeared to have jagged edges that knifed outward into the vastness.

  “They’ve commandeered our television channels somehow, Cathy. I’d stick to the Aztlan programming until this is over with, or you’ll see lots of things you’ll wish you hadn’t. I’m going to do my best. I love you both so much,” he said vehemently.

  Meanwhile, in the western edge of town, refugees streamed over Harvard bridge. It was the only bridge to weather the naval bombardments and fighter sorties launched from Logan International Airport. Anti-aircraft and anti-missile batteries grew in prickly congeries along each side. George studied them as he embraced Aleksandra in a hug neither of them wanted to end. And then they kissed—again. For twenty minutes the most subtle pull from each other’s warmth had brought a fast and torrid reunion. Her blue eyes were tear streaked, and her lips were full and glistening red.

  “This is only the beginning,” he whispered in her ear, then inhaled deeply of her perfume and bottled it mentally to savor in some dark hour. “After we secure America we’ll head back to Europe and free our people. We’ll liberate Greece and rebuild a magnificent Parthenon. We’ll free everyone—Red Square will be returned to its glory. The Muslims will be thrown down. And Russia will step into a new age guided by democracy, identity, and orthodoxy.”

  “I . . . I do not even care what happens to our beliefs,” she said tearily. “I just want us to live together happily and free. I want you to be safe . . . I want you to come back to me. I do not want you to become a martyr.”

  “I’ll come back to you, Aleksandra.” He pressed a piece of jewelry into her gloved hand. “I’ll come and find you at Baba Yaga’s apartment, where I used to pick you up.” He tried to make her laugh.

  In her hand, she saw the medal of Saint Constantine.

  “If any jewelry store around here had been open I would have bought you something really nice. But this is all I have right now.” He said, frowning at the ten karat gold.

  “Oh, George, I love it—it reminds me so much of you. I will treasure it always.”

  Nearby, one of the batteries launched a bright missile at some far off assailant it had detected. It was beautiful, in its own way. The plume of orange with a nucleus of blue projecting from the finned tail. The conical tip alive with a precision and sense of direction unknown to the most gifted birds and bats. They watched it streak eastward above Charles River, past the ruin of Longfellow bridge, then off into the night. Seconds later, far out to sea, a dome of white lit the night like a setting sun on water, and was gone.

  Chapter 50

  On January 28, 2085, Laurence’s world was hellfire and swirling ash from pulverized buildings. From his redoubt on School Street, he had a plenary view of the decimated city. As he ran up steps to the tenth floor of the building, his hand picked up a strange vibration from the railing. Removing his glove, he gripped it again. The metal hummed in his calloused palm. Swearing, he bounded up the remaining steps, threw open a door, and was out into the chill air. Cardinal, one of the black nationalists who had taken in Laurence and his family several months ago, stood on the lip of the roof, hands on his hips. He had been one of the few, along with Laurence, to survive the raid that killed Trisha. Laurence never was positive where Cardinal had acquired his name, but was confident it had something to do with the beret he wore of the same color on his sable pate.

  “Get over here, Laurence,” the pan-African nationalist commanded. “You ain’t gonna believe dis shit.” Beside Cardinal, a group of reactivated U.S. soldiers had gathered and were shouting into sundry communications devices. Drawing near the troops, Laurence squinted into the dust clouds that had been ubiquitous since the Muslims had begun their assault on Boston two days prior. Far down the street, there was a brooding, towering opacity that sent a jolt down Laurence’s spine that turned to a shiver.

  “Some kind a movin’ wall or somethin’,” Cardinal murmured, peeling back the Velcro of his pistol holster. He raised binoculars to his eyes, and bit his tongue. “Fuck, it’s got plasma guns all over it blastin’ away. Movin’ on treads. Taller than most o’ the buildins. Spewin’ all sorts of hell from lots a cannons—and Muslim soldjas marchin’ behind it.”

  “George?” Laurence spoke tensely into his walkie-talkie. “You there?”

  “Yeah, go ahead.”

  “There’s this . . . giant . . . tank-type vehicle coming toward us on School street. Looks like it’s destroying everything in its path. Taller than the buildings. It’s headed right for us.”

  “Shit. God damn it!” the Athenian swore.

  “What, what is it?” asked the attorney.

  “If it’s as tall as you say it’s the king of Turkish siege mechs. They call it City Taker after the siege machine that helped take Constantinople a long time ago. Honestly, I didn’t think they’d freight that thing all the way across the Atlantic. I don’t know how the hell we’re gonna take it out.”

  “Can’t we call in an air strike?”

  “We can try—but City Taker’s built to withstand every kind of conventional weapon system I know of. Tell the commanding officer there to order one up and we’ll see what happens.”

  “See what happens? This isn’t a science experiment, George. This thing’s headed right for us—there has to be a way to beat it.”

  “Back in 1453 the Greeks and Italians took its predecessor out by rolling barrels of gunpowder underneath it and lighting ‘em up. But something tells m
e that won’t work on this one. I’d get the hell out of its way, man. At least it’s slow—come join up with me and Rick and the general staff at the Old State House.”

  “On my way.” Laurence holstered the walkie-talkie and turned toward the stairs.

  “You just runnin’ away like a little scared bitch?” Cardinal asked. “How long you gonna keep runnin’? If death wants you, he’s jes gonna come getch ‘ew. No use runnin’. No use hidin’. I’d rather die in mah place and be able to look our African gods in da eye in da aftalife when I go befoe ‘em.”

  “Well, good luck with that.” Laurence watched the gravel on the rooftop quiver in agitation at the machine’s approach. “I’m falling back a few blocks north with the others at the Old State House if you decide to join us.”

  Cardinal issued some expression of contempt that was only partially heard by the attorney. As Laurence flew down the steps, he heard shots and explosions ringing out from below. Then he heard deep cries of “Allah, Akbar” coming from outside. Stopping to peer out a window on a landing, he saw that Islamic infantry had overrun the eastern side of the building and were pouring into the first floor. Cardinal banged open the roof door and was upon him in an instant.

  “Dey broke through down below! Les try to plug da gap!” he roared, leveling his machine gun and bounding past the lawyer. “Come on, Laurence, stand wif me against ‘em. We need umoja—unity.”

  “I’m right behind you.” Laurence sighed, careful not to kick the bigger and slower man’s heels in their descent. Outside, the chant of “Allah, Akbar” was deep and intimidating. It seemed to resonate through the foundations of the building, through its walls and windows, and echo into the most fortified recesses of consciousness.

  “Don’t chyu be worryin’, man.” Cardinal panted as they neared the bottom, and the chants became louder. “Defs a release. Def brings freedom. Def brings you back in contac wif fambly members and our old gods. Da gods of our people.”