by Kelly Brewer
Kyle pushed all concerns and jitters aside as his bandmates formed a tight circle around him.
“All right, captain, lets pray!” Moore shouted over the growing din and excitement. He was straight and clear. Kyle was thankful. Each man reached out to his left and right, a forearm on a shoulder or hand across a back. Kyle exhaled and his sure, strong voice pushed the gathering storm out of their small circle.
“Lord, we are ever before you. We dedicate our performance to your great name. Let each man’s heart be overflowing with your power and grace. Protect each one here tonight from harm and let a joyful noise fill the heavens! Amen!”
Each man then put his hand in the center, on top of Kyle’s.
He looked around, “Ready?… Go!” they shouted in unison.
The sound was lost in the roar of the expectant crowd.
They split up. Ox ascended the stairs, stage left. Kyle, Mactron, and Moore glanced at each other confidently, mounting the three hydraulic risers lowered beneath the stage. A deafening cheer rose up as Ox began his tribal beat under a single, glaring spotlight. Simultaneously, the three began to rise to stage level.
Kyle thought, This must be what it will be like on the Lord’s last day, when all will rise to meet Him in the air.
Surfacing, sound and light engulfed them… and they were gone.
CHAPTER 8
Hadjii
Dr. Alil Hadjii, founder of the World Generation Centres, beamed. Looking through the two-inch glass, he smiled with joy.
“What a wonderful thing. What a beautiful, wonderful thing.”
He gazed down proudly at the brightly lit, sterile birthing floor of South America’s first Birthing Centre, bustling with activity. Located in Sao Paulo, Brazil, the most populous metropolis in the Western Hemisphere, it was a triumph of humanity. The birthing centres were a subsidiary of the Indian doctor’s main focus, the World Generation Centres. The WGCs were the birthplace of the Deepening: mankind’s 150-year-old foray into the vast unknown of the Milky Way.
Dr. Hadjii lectured a small group of freshmen directors that followed behind him, watching their reflection in the thick glass that was the entire western wall of birthing room 10.
The doctor instructed matter-of-factly, “Reproduction is natural… and necessary to fill the vast void of space. At a Birthing Centre, children are cherished and nourished so they will develop and flourish, taking mankind with them. Each child is treasured, each child is a gift. Another seed casting itself into the infinite cosmos.
The Deepening has been called no less than the salvation of mankind. Humanity’s primary focus evolved rapidly, from a flaccid, introspective guilt to a tenuous hope that solidified in the hearts of the faithful. Conquering the vast distances of space has produced something millennia of bumbling kings and split-tongued politicians shamefully, or perhaps unwittingly, failed to do. The need to destroy a bright, peaceful future is receding into the dark, violent past of the collective human mind. Except for the sporadically reoccurring Spike anomalies, which you are all aware of and here to address, man’s childlike curiosity is diffused outward into a large fantastical playground.”
The doctor had been a key figure in mankind’s amazing turnaround. He would remain one of its champions until his dying breath.
Watching Medi, a new Middle Eastern recruit, with special interest, he said, “What we see from the effects of the Deepening is a miracle. The human race has decided to stop committing suicide. The controlled flow of humanity outward to the stars has given human life a new purpose, a forward focus. Every child becomes necessary, not a burden. Every born human can embrace a purpose, if they choose to. Every life can be worth living.”
The newcomer shifted slightly, dropping his gaze. Hadjii wondered if it was a sign of disagreement. The reflection was too blurred. Time would reveal any lapses of judgment in the Centre’s newest group of directors. That intellectual battle had already been fought and won; most of the world agreed with the doctor.
He was patient. Over 200 years old, he still had another good 50 years left. Enough time to see his beloved Deepening Centre to full maturity. And to weed out any naysayers.
He said, “Every person can be useful.”
He paused, glancing at the reflections in the glass.
“Of course,” he admitted, “there are exceptions to everything.”
CHAPTER 9
World Generation Centre (WGC)
The Centres, and thereby Doc Hadjii, were large players in the rapid, stunning success of the Deepening. The old man’s lessons were infused with a humble pride that could be heard in the tone of his voice.
He continued, “Thankfully, a reasonable president and International Congress were elected. Enough half-measures were voted in that gave me… us… room to begin this highly anticipated WGC.”
Directors followed him through the various classrooms and laboratories, listening intently.
“The Centres were purposefully built near deteriorating government offices and the most magnificent of churches to give bureaucracy and organized religion some competition for the hearts and minds of humanity. Instead of coddling victimhood in the one case, and coercing dependency in the other, both gradually recognized mankind was destined to leave this planet under his own power. Petulant clergy and bureaucrats fought us for decades, claiming, like children, man cannot—cannot!—leave the house of Big Brother in the one case, or the Father in the other.”
“Centres offer a third option. Centre curriculums and directives deliver empowerment directly to the individual. An educated, balanced human being will generally act with love on whatever opportunities occur to him or her.”
He paused to see if anyone made the connection, “Hmm? Thus? What?… the Deepening! …duh!”
They laughed respectfully.
Watching the way his words affected each one, the philanthropist turned the corner at birthing room 2 and continued, “The key is so simple, yet the establishment couldn’t see it and didn’t want us to see it, either. Determining then developing each person’s unique gifts and talents as young as possible proved to be the catalyst. Finally, the glass ceiling confining people’s minds to Earth was broken. A laser-focused, joyful student body erupted from these very halls with passion! With vision! Youth conquered space, and it happened as naturally as their ancient ancestors conquered Earth’s seven continents.
“The Centres are mostly privately funded by booming, off-world businesses started by the very same recruits who left here only a few generations ago!
This worker-exchange program is partnered with trade academies set up for qualifying cadets. Millions of highly trained, productive workers will move into good-paying first-level jobs utilizing their certain talents. That’s why you are here now. And I only hire the best.”
The youthful directors smiled at each other, shuffling feet, murmuring hopeful agreement.
He continued, “If a graduate opts out of service, fine. He or she is required to pay back half the cost of their training, interest-free. The whole point is accountability! Trust is the great commodity of this entire experiment. This is a strict discipline and not for the faint of heart. Some of you will wind up permanently employed here at Centre or out there, in the Deep, if you have honed your chosen craft, your gift.”
He slowed his delivery for effect. “Free men are the salvation of this world… and all the rest. Freedom allows like minds to cooperate, building trust. Implicit trust gives rise to extreme focus, which produces phenomenal progress! Space is the logical and rightful place for our burgeoning knowledge and population.”
Turning, the doctor walked slowly, reverently. “As you know, Centre policy is to pay for a child rather than see any destroyed. Orphans are accepted without question and educated equally. Worldwide, prostitutes and the poor bring hungry newborns in daily. Such were some of us. It seems desperation comes in many forms.”
Again Medi, the newest team member, squirmed.
“Of course, traditional families are encouraged because they make the happiest recruits, theoretically.”
He stopped the group outside the window of an orphan rehab pod. “Instructors aren’t guaranteed pay, they get paid from results. Each class must be better than the last. Every year, the mean IQ of the human race ticks steadily upward. Openness, education, and information have greatly reduced mankind’s distrust of its different cultures. Cooperation, not radicalization, has heralded an unprecedented and timely era of productivity.”
The group was moved, silent.
“Peace through purpose,” he beamed again.
Looking over the rim of his glasses at the youthful directors then settling his eyes on Medi, he closed the lesson, “War is entirely unnecessary.”
CHAPTER 10
ChicA BOOM BOOM
War is almost entirely unnecessary.
Some men would ever burn with anger and envy. Some men would never have enough, even if they had everything.
Chica had nothing.
The black hole of his anger consumed anything he’d ever had, consumed everything he touched.
Right now, he was touching a petite little whore who strained weakly underneath him. She would not survive, she realized too late. His dirty underwear, stuffed in her mouth, strangled her screams. She puked and it gushed out her nose.
He didn’t care.
He could get underwear anywhere.
Right now, he was riding her little frantic bucking butt to her death. He timed it right, and as she turned blue, he released her throat and his ejaculate. As their movement subsided, the smells filled the dank air of the shitty room.
Life, he thought. The smell of her expired life filled the cramped hole that he had rented for one hour, fifteen minutes ago. He uncoupled and wiped off on the back of her grimy camisole. Sitting down on her legs, with his pants around his knees, he lit the remainder of a joint they had shared ten minutes ago and admired his work. He loved her.
She had given her life to him.
Well, not exactly given, that was putting too fine a point on it.
“You mesmerize me, baby… lying there. I will think of you like that all day. I love what you’ve done with your hair.” He tousled her pretty, store-bought goldie locks.
He inhaled slow and long and held it in. Leaning back against the wall and slowly exhaling, he closed his eyes, feeling his heart pounding sweetly in his temples. A moment of sparkling double-vision subsided and he climbed off the death bed, pulled up his denims, and buckled his black leather belt.
Reaching over, he rummaged through the pockets of his long, black faux-leather overcoat. Feeling the shape he was looking for, he pulled the container of liquid out.
He cut a small opening in the lid, put his thumb over the hole, and shook the bottle of sulfuric acid he’d drained from an old car battery before entering the sagging motel. Some of the fluid trickled down the sides of the plastic bottle as he slipped it, foaming, into her. He sat back down on her lifeless legs.
“I’ve always loved that purifying smell, baby. Lets me know no DNA will be… left behind.” He smiled at himself for his bun pun.
“Reminds me of my childhood. My stepdad showed me how.” He paused.
He dare not tell her all his secrets. She, like the others, would use his honesty against him.
She was not to be trusted.
He had accidentally killed his second girlfriend after a football game on Mars when he was seventeen and from then on knew he would never again have problems with women. This one certainly would never be a problem for any man ever again. Never again would a young man’s fragile self-esteem be shattered by a few careless words from this one. The slut had been given what she deserved, and probably expected. Somewhere inside, she was probably a little grateful to him.
He used her before she could use him.
It was that simple. He took another delicious toke, holding the nearly empty bottle in.
His hand-phone rang and startled him. He lost his slippery grip on the bottle and the building pressure popped it free. Her lifeless body sprayed him point-blank with its final revenge.
“Smell that, asshole,” she would have quipped.
His right side caught the ass blast. Burning, acidic shit slid down the right side of his face and bare arm. He belched marijuana smoke, stifling a scream. With his left hand he clamped his mouth shut. Do not alert the bangers in the next room! The phone rang again.
Flailing, he glanced at the incoming call with his left eye and hurled his 300-pound frame into the septic, blue-tiled bathroom. Panic mixed with searing pain as he tried to answer the call. He ripped the mildewed shower curtain aside while pressing the phone’s on button with his left thumb.
A loud, broken “Heeeegh...oooowww?” was all that came out. He fumbled the shower on, holding the hand-phone away from his face. Cold water began to flow across his agony. A mechanical voice spoke then hesitated, then questioned. Comprehension escaped him when the taste of human waste and battery acid flowed down into his mouth.
Gagging, he dropped the loosely attached device. Feces and acid combined with vomit in his mouth, turning the sweet head rush into a pulsating migraine.
“Oh no…oh no, no …oh no…Don’t mess…this up, Chic…you dumbass,” he gurgled.
The voice stopped.
Chic spit out shit and puked simultaneously, then gulped the heavenly water flowing weakly from the clogged shower head.
Burning acid seared his skin as he scrambled in the mess. The phone made a crackling sound and his left eye saw its faint blue light behind the toilet. That sent him on his belly across the slimy floor, left hand extended.
On the other end of that call was the biggest score of his life. Don’t, can’t mess this one up... not this time… not again.
“He… eh… hey… helllo?” He tried to speak clearly, listening intently to the faint hiss of dead air. Screwed again. Damn. Damn damn! This was all her fault! His massive frame slumped down next to the unflushed toilet, tears welling up.
This job was all he had.
He didn’t even have the $50 to pay the half.bot.whore. She had suggested this room and after they’d smoked she’d wanted to see the money. When he didn’t have it, she’d cussed him and tried to leave.
It had been her last voluntary act.
The connection crackled and hissed. He revived. This call was coming from off-planet. The contact was still on the other end.
“I’m here…”
“(ZZzackkle) In the drawer next to the bed is a new phone…
(crack…) itt-t-t… has an untraceable number.
You will rezzzeive instructions and…
(buuuzz) weeeell finalizzze paymentt-t-t.”
Then silence.
‘Assid’ numbed his right arm and face. He thought he might lose his right eye. He rubbed it with the back of a dirty hand.
Hot water made it burn worse, so he resumed soaking in a cold shower, eventually regaining his composure but no sight in his wounded eye. Water rationing shut off the shower automatically. It would be fifteen minutes before he could turn it back on. He would be long gone by then.
Staggering out of the dank bathroom, he yanked opened the drawer and found the phone, never questioning how it got there. At least now that the connection was made, things seemed better.
Like a coward, when the coast was clear his courage ebbed back, clearing his mind somewhat. Taking a deep breath, he closed his eyes. Think. He could not leave the way he came in.
Too many eyes. Too many mouths.
A half-baked face, soaked clothing and the growing stench would surely draw inquiries. Gingerly putting on his coat, he listened for witnesses outside in the hall, then eased a window open by cracks, loathing the rusty, intermitt
ent whine that was drowned out by the noise of the sprawling city below. He slipped down the steel fire escape, running before he hit the ground. Fleeing, he never looked back.
Familiar anger replaced his choking fear, taking its rightful place as protector of his realm. He wanted to cut on her so bad for what she had done to him, but there was no time. Besides, there was no pleasure cutting down to bloody steel and piano wire. She was half.bot and would not fully appreciate his skills.
On the hectic, indifferent city street, in his natural habitat, he escaped. A few frantic, cat-like moves found him blocks away from his non-existent pursuers. Sitting down heavily on a transit stop bench, he pulled his right sleeve back, revealing reddish blisters already forming.
The implant was now a liability and had to be destroyed. He cut the phone flap near his wrist with a dirty fingernail. The phone tab was damaged and he had trouble catching it. Finally, with his teeth, he ripped the bloodied enhancement out of his arm.
“Ahh, shit! That hurt!” Dropping it near a drain, he crushed it easily with one steel-toed boot and brushed it away.
Immediately, the new phone rang in his pocket.
It was no surprise, as he was about to answer a phone someone had wanted him to find. As hard as he tried, there was nowhere to hide in the city anymore.
Putting the new mobile phone to his good ear, he listened to the final commands without a word. A phone app confirmed payment wired to his one-day-old bank account. Scribbling a few notes on his good hand, he wiped, crunched, and kicked the new phone into the same drain.
As night began to fall in Lost Angeles.us, he dug in his wallet and pulled out a new space-travel visa and all-access stage pass for the War on Mars show, three days from now. He had received the papers at his rented room seven days ago. The pass expired in five days. Perfect. Four days from now he would be headed back to Earth with a pocket full of cash and a kilo of dope worth a million on the street. It was the largest score of his sputtering life. And he would earn credits for working the show.
