The Arkhe Principle

by Maxwell Rudolf

  He crept up to the side of the building and peeked around. The complex, along with most of the buildings in the area, were simple flats. The Plasstien structure showed through the gray pseudo-paint. Orange arrows and symbols flickered on the walls directing traffic, comprised of old ground snow wreckers and vehicles designed to take passengers through the white, ten people at a time. They were cheap and as common as an STD in the Red Light District.

  A tall man stood, listening to something in his audiophones. His shirt, a pattern of gold and silver twisting triangles, fit with his short black slacks, lively orange striped socks, and glossy black shoes. The man danced perfectly, his legs and arms waving like rubber, looping like an American jumping rope.

  Digi-images splashed on the walls of a dancing man wearing a golden triangle suit. His movements were smooth but alien. He maneuvered to the side and used a mirror to look further in town.

  The two P-8 towers placed strategically on the inside of a P-1 razor fence would be a problem. They were in the most advantageous tactical position and one of them had a 75mm quad cannon scanning around the outside. If he could get in, they couldn't get a bead on him. That configuration would never work in The Empire. American Apache warriors were getting through their defenses every other week.

  Two other towers were erected at the gated entrance leading down a dirt ramp that lead into a jagged mountain face. His eyes trained on a neon sign flashing "Fascination" where dozens of people loitered about and danced and rubbed each other. Yes, they had to die.

  He flipped open the temp-monitor on his arm control panel and turned on the cooling system. The outside was registering 27 Celsius inside the town's perimeter. He tapped the gauge and restarted it, but the temperature didn't change. His coolant levels were off by several degrees, and he started sweating. Perhaps the op justified another approach: climb the tower and get inside using Asger. Murder everyone he could see and cause maximum disruption. Interrogate the guard using body language and terror, and learn passwords. This could only be attempted once. Gungnir swapped runes.

  Reaching in and opening his bag, he found his American sugar raisins and gorged, chewing as fast as he could. When he put the package away, his fingers brushed up against his bag of stim chocolates and, without thinking, he pulled out three and ate them. Even partially melted they were good. Time for the Wotan option.

  9 Nothing Beats the Black Watch

  Domain of King Edward

  The Institute

  Day 236

  "So are we still on for tonight?" John's best friend asked, tucking his bedding in between the bed frame, checking the hallway through the door.

  "Yes. Higgins just told me, 'the neo-sparrow flies.' She did it somehow. I rechecked the inspection schedule, and we are basically on temporary leave."

  "So what time you guys leavin'?" Koala said, peeking around the corner.

  "Get in here and shut your phallus holster. St. George, you are going to get me expelled!" He grabbed his collar and flung him in, closing the door.

  "Let me go with you. I won't..." Koala's voice raised an octave. "...Will not be much of a problem."

  "Yeah, he will," Neil said.

  "He is right," John said. "Rich would confess on you if you are gone for that long. Labor's Park is not close." He released his grip and pushed him.

  "I don't care I'm not going to pass tomorrow anyway, and this will get me mind off of things, see?"

  Chuckling, Neil tapped on his shoulder and waved a finger in Koala's face.

  "Go ahead and explain it to him. He is not listening to me."

  "What are you going to do about your roommate?" He stepped closer.

  "I'll pay him," he quivered. "Won't say anything. Promise."

  John clenched his fist and brought it to within a centimeter of Koala's nose. "Your motherfucking St. George shit-mouth contractions! Enough! Stop cussing in here!" Koala flinched back and put his arms up. John punched the wall, pain shooting into his knuckles.

  "How much you got?" Neil asked. Another shakedown, not uncommon from what Neil bragged out. A fast way to make easy bank if a person could dish out more than they could take. "Well, Big K?"

  "I can't afford to pay you," Koala pouted. "Come on, Neil. Lemme go, mate."

  "You will not be paying anyone, because you will be staying here and studying for your finals so you can graduate. We do not want to leave you behind, Koala. Remember?" John asked.

  John walked over to the cold unit and retrieved a six-pack of Londun Fake Ale. Perhaps this would lighten the mood. Everyone peeled one off and bit their beer caps off. "To the King," they repeated and sipped. Koala drained his and pulled another free.

  "We can get another keycard," Neil admonished. "You go with us next time."

  John squeezed himself between the two and righted one of Koala's medals. "The probability of us all getting caught if you go are too high. Make sense?"

  Koala finished the next Fake in one long pull from the bottle. "Sure guys. I will talk at you later." He tossed the bottle in the recycler and squirreled out.

  "Your contractions are going to get you killed one day. Serious." John pulled the desk away from the wall and un-taped both stacks of Edwards. Some of the adhesive stuck. "You think we should keep it back here? It will not stick." John tried to pull his fingers apart. "What if he confesses?"

  "He's going to walk back to his room and be the bitch he is," Neil said, opening the door and spying down the hallway.

  "We need more of this tape. It is all zeroed out."

  "We don't have any more. Tape it to the chair or something."

  "What about the desk?"

  "Hurry up! I think someone is coming!"

  "Keep an eye out!" John peeled it off and tried to find a way to make it stick to the bottom but the stacks were too high. He grabbed a handful and shoved some bills into his pocket. He secured what he could and pushed the desk back.

  The door flung open and both snapped to attention. Holding his immaculate lash, decorated in fine gems and golden script, Hallmaster Thomas Barth Shoehorn thundered in like a winter death-spell. And John held his money, trying to palm it, but bills kept sticking out.

  "What are you degenerate excrement heads doing? The latrine must be cleaned before finals tomorrow. It smells like someone urinated all over the floor in there. Cadet Rex..." The Hallmaster's voice softened. "What by St. George is in your hand? Hand it over."

  "Sir, I have no excuse!" His clammy hands clutched the rolled up Edwards, palms sweating more than at any other time in his life.

  "Open your hand."

  He obeyed and his heart sank with his dreams washing away like romance vids featuring widows and orphans.

  "What else are you hiding in here, Cadet?" he asked. Shoehorn gave him no time to answer and sucker punched John in the ribs. Gasping, he went to his knees, and Shoehorn scooped up the evidence.

  "Nothing, sir," he tried. His peripheral vision caught the next blow halfway before impact. He fought against the tears, but they were too strong, and when Shoehorn saw him cry, he used the lash on his back, hitting him hard, making him bleed. The inability to resist kept him steady because there was no way out from this disaster. More lashes followed until he rose to attention, staring forward as if nothing happened. He counted Saxon numbers in his mind and dreamed of Victoria and her arched eyebrows.

  "Nirvana, what do you know about this?"

  "Nothing sir," he gambled.

  John moaned, taking in painful sporadic breaths. "My personal file says I am having a bit of a family problem, sir."

  "If you have an important one worth mentioning, it will be in there, and if you do not, you will receive twice the amount of lashes I have administered."

  Well, by St. George, please let the data be in there... "Yes, sir."

  "You can count on a lot of things. Like us finding out about mischief in our halls and in our dorms. And be assured, the usual methods of dealing with those who do not conform are brutal."

  "Under
stood, sir," they both said.

  "Tell me now if I will find anything in here when I search. No? I am going to teach you lesson in honesty."

  Shoehorn rummaged around and upended the bunk, sending thirty minutes of perfectly arranged green bedding to the floor. Stepping back, he pulled out his lash, and cracked their shared locker door open. Each uniform landed on the ground off its hanger, and he threw the socks and underwear in the recycler. He grabbed the dirty clothes hamper, dumped out everything, and mixed the clothes together like a tossed wasteland salad.

  John wanted to observe the destruction behind him in their private toilet room, but he knew Shoehorn would be waiting for either one of them to break their attention stance. John's ears melted as shaving cream sprayed until emptied, 2.15 Edwards worth of expensive, necessary supplies everywhere. Something splashed in the toilet.

  He stormed back, pulled the pillows out of their cases, and beat on them. Finding nothing, he tore them open and flung feathers across the room.

  "When I find something, I will discipline both of you to the maximum extent of the law." Shoehorn explained, feathers landing on top of his head. "But if you tell me now, I could be tempted to look the other way." A floating gray feather flew in his mouth, and he spit it out. "Out with it." Marching towards them, he glared at the personal curtain Neil and him had made in class together. "Whose is this?" He dragged his finger over the top and brought his glove to his eye.

  "It's ours sir," Neil muttered.

  He snapped his head around, body tensing. "What did you just say, Cadet?"

  "I said it is ours, sir."

  The lash cracked down on Neil's shoulder, and he went down like a soggy bean bag.

  "You just used a contraction on me, son. You see this filth? Is this your level of quality? Do you think this is in keeping with the standards of the Institute? Unacceptable! I could have you both flogged 100 lashes. Do you know what that means?"

  John, of course, knew. Only one Cadet, a girl by the name of Rachel Quarter-Smith, had ever withstood 87. Before the whipping, she had taken enough Aspire to kill a neo-jackal. She never prayed out or anything; she just stopped breathing after a while.

  "Yes, sir," John marched over to the toilet closet and his feet shot out from under him. Catching the edge of the sink, his hands slick with water, he slipped on the thick shaving cream. After he stood up, he balanced himself, spying his toothbrush, upside down in the toilet, and his comb laying at the bottom.

  "Good," Shoehorn said facing the desk. "Nothing hiding in there, hmm? Ah, your desk." He pulled out every drawer and rifled through papers and broke the pens in half. Then he took out a blue wand and twisted its center, and a white light shot from the the tip like a flashlight. And he brought it close to the pens, the papers, and inside every drawer. It clicked three times and nulled it out.

  "Alright, Cadet Nirvana, I cannot find anything. I am going to take Cadet Rex back into my office so he can tell me all about this. Meanwhile, you need to clean up this filthy, St. George forsaken pigsty before I return. Otherwise, you can forget about any form of leave of absence or ever having another chance to go in front of the board for promotion. Animals! Worse than the Romans! Make it spotless!"

  "Yes, sir! May I start now?" Neil asked, his voice breaking.

  "Yes, Cadet. Rex, come with me."

  John and Shoehorn marched in step, his heart galloping. He had never heard of anyone going this far inside the Institute, certainly no Cadets. The wall's paint matched the pea soup he ate every 8th day during dinner. Retro prints of famous vid stars and war heroes in antique, wooden, Pre-Times frames hung on the walls. He had to know. The need to survey the walls nagged his willpower, and he glanced right, away from Shoehorn. He read the tiny label across an orange door. 'Procedure 12.'

  "Stop spying around. Eyes forward or I will blindfold you."

  "Yes, sir." Showing weakness now, when he was alone with him, could mean anything, especially if the rumors were true. The lash was sometimes called The Cadet Tail. John promised himself if he tried something like that, he would rather die and would fight until death before being raped.

  Shoehorn took out an E-card and a thin laser beam across a magno-bar. Another light beamed in his eye, and the door buzzed. He opened it and John went inside. The interior was a splendid mix of military-deco designs spanning a century. Most of the sculptures were complex hand-made Plastien forms based on The American-Roman Battle for Lancaster he's been reading about. John noticed an immediate lack of personal details in the room. No diplomas or qualifications were displayed. The desk was a desert of Shoehorn's personality. He didn't see a single print of his family or any mementos .

  John waited for permission to sit down before sitting.

  "Cadet Rex, what is this money for?"

  "It is the money, sir. My Edwards."

  "Do you know how much you have here?" He reached into his pocket. "Well?"

  A bead of sweat formed on his nose. How much had he pulled out of the stack? Over half.

  "One hundred and forty Edwards, sir."

  Shoehorn upended the bills and placed the wad on the table. "Why? How did you come by this?"

  "Sir, I take full responsibility."

  Shoehorn took out a bottle of Black Watch whiskey from his desk and two shot glasses with the unit insignia of the 2nd Sun Tank Division. "Ever had this, Cadet?"

  "No, sir."

  "Why not? My guess is you have not figured out how to find it yet." He poured until it was just over the lip of the glass, and poured himself a half a shot. They raised their glasses, and Shoehorn said, "For King and Country."

  "For King and Country, sir." The shot went down hard, and the liquid burned his mouth like Sergeant's Brandon's cooking. The sting came down, and he gagged.

  "Keep it down, boy. Do not make me lash you." He poured himself another shot and slammed it home. He jerked his head to the side and said, "Nothing beats the Black Watch." He screwed the cap back on. "At ease."

  John relaxed but remained rigid. "Thank you for the whiskey, sir."

  "What did you need this money for?" Shoehorn wadded up the bills and flung them in his fist. Everything stank of booze.

  He glanced over and uncapped the bottle and poured two more shots. "Just drink."

  The second one was honey water. How could that be the same drink? The sweet taste coated his mouth and numbed the inside. The third, a memory of the first taste of fresh American chocolate milk.

  "I appreciate the secrecy," Shoehorn licked his lips. "It means you are not a neo-rat." He poured more. "Cadet, I have a problem you might be able to help me with."

  He slid the Edwards back to John and swept his hand forward. John gathered them up and pocketed his wealth.

  "If necessary," John took a deep breath and recited, "I will sacrifice my life for the Institute, sir."

  "This girl you are tutoring... Victoria Tesla. How much do you know about her?"

  What kind of a question is that? His mother had tried cornering him a few times. Ask him something and then remark on something completely different to get the truth out of him. It usually worked.

  "Not much, sir," he said.

  "You know more than your little piggy mouth is letting on. Here." Shoehorn withdrew a navy gray E-Reader from his desk. "You have temporary clearance to read this."

  Lowing the brightness, he started.

  Victoria Tesla

  Birthdate: 002/303

  Height: 1.681

  Weight: 55.329

  Hair Color: Caramel

  Eye Color: Blue

  Language Aptitude: Max

  Mathematics Aptitude: Max

  Application: 4

  Cleanliness: 6

  Sexual Partners: Minimum 2 (Known Dr. Bells) Abortions 1

  (Pending)

  His stomach knotted thinking of him and Victoria together. Disgusting.

  Religiosity: Unsuitable

  Close Combat Skill: Yellow

  Ranged Weapon Skill: Proficient
<
br />   Parents: Unknown

  Threat: 7

  How was a threat 7 allowed to be in the school?

  Background: A new student was admitted to the 1st Edwardian Military Discipline School on 002/305. Certified agents performed a routine background check of Victoria Tesla's parent's house, but were informed by X to proceed with caution.

  The Institute contracted a General House Contractor to interview Tesla's parents, Person A and Person B butContractor X neverreturned. (See File E.TESLA_1a). After 24 hours, a Person Hunt was announced with a generalized description of the two suspects. Subsequent data revealed a possible tie to the mountain tribes.

  Several composite digi-prints of Victoria's parents morphed across screens. The man looked like her: chiseled granite with the same blond hair and the woman like a pagan goddesses. He continued to read.

  Two 10-person teams of armored investigators were sent in T-GR-18 scout vehicles, but the parents had evaded capture.

  The search was expanded and a reward of 10,000 Edwards was promised if the data led to their arrest. The trail soon zeroed and the investigation was suspended.

  It was reopened when three major banks, The Filamont, Bradbiry, and The Crenshaw Savings Union were robbed within hours. In all, over 33 million Edwards were stolen and 46 people massacred. Additionally, the bank vid recordings were scrubbed.

  Suspect: Arkhe knowledge

  >>Line

  The machine beeped and clicked back to the main menu. Pressing the side keys didn't do anything, and he set the device down.

  "I suppose you have a few questions for me?" Shoehorn asked, taking back the E-Reader and locking it up in his desk.

  "Yes, sir. What does this have to do with me?"