by Mason Dakota
I noticed Michael’s slight hesitation to speak and a small spark in his eyes before he said, “No…no idea. But I know they are trying to frame me. I investigated it this morning. They used an algorithm I wrote a few years ago to bypass the bank’s security. Whoever this is, it seems they want to frame me or make some sort of statement. But I do not know who.”
“It appears they know you, though,” said Chamberlain.
“Maybe someone from your past, Michael?” asked Alison.
Michael didn’t answer but shook his head with a downcast look. He looked like a dog that had been caught tearing up the furniture and was afraid of being punished.
“I promise I didn’t do this.”
“Relax, Michael. I believe you,” I said. The words came easily and the anger vanished. I couldn’t stay mad at Michael. It was just impossible. Michael didn’t easily handle stressful situations. But none of this answered any questions. If Michael didn’t steal the money, who did?
Then again, why did it matter to me? So what if the flash drive and cyber theft victims were the same names? We planned to sell the information to begin with. Why did it bother me so much that someone made such a huge heist?
Am I so prideful that I can’t respect another thief’s success?
Michael seemed flabbergasted that I believed him, like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, and said, “Really? Oh, thank God!”
“None of this answers the question of what the hell has been going on lately,” said Alison, “I mean, does anyone want to talk about what happened last night?” Alison didn’t like dilly-dallying. I gave Chamberlain a look. However, Chamberlain returned a cold, watchful eye with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. He didn’t need to say it; I knew what he thought—what they thought.
“Were we there last night to investigate or just enact some long-awaited revenge? I really started to question it when you abandoned us to go charging head first at Ziavir,” Chamberlain growled.
He was angry, and Chamberlain didn’t normally get angry. The tone didn’t suit him. I’d seen the man get whacked in the face just to turn the other cheek. Only once before had he been angry with me, it wasn’t fun being on the receiving end of his disappointment. If I didn’t tread lightly, things could turn ugly.
I tried to say, “We went there to stop Ziavir—”
“Then when did it suddenly become you going lone ranger and murdering two individuals—one of them being a NPFC detective?” shouted Chamberlain. He got so close to my face that I had to look up to make eye contact. I felt like a soldier at boot camp before his drill sergeant. I didn’t take his intimidation well.
I blame the stress for causing me to push my friend. “Get out of my face, Illegal,” I growled as I shoved Chamberlain hard enough to hurt myself. I know I shouldn’t have said it; I didn’t even mean it; I was mad and on edge. Shamefully, the push against his solid frame only forced me back a step. He never budged.
Man, I really need to start working out more.
Chamberlain’s eyes flared up, and I saw his desire to hit me. He dropped his arms to his side with large, clenched fists. I knew if he chose to hit me I wouldn’t be able to stop it, and that scared me. Chamberlain could easily crush my face. I had poked the bear with a hot stick. Don’t ever poke a bear with a hot stick if you want to live.
Chamberlain had more self-control than me, and he kept his impending blow sealed away. He didn’t say anything; he just stared at me for a bit before he stepped back to lean against a wall. He remained silent, probably forcing his mouth shut so he wouldn’t say anything he would later regret (like me). His glare, however, never left me.
Everyone watched me, carefully studying my reactions and movements like I was some sort of threat. Both Alison and Michael stepped away from me. They were all appalled by my belittling statement toward Chamberlain and hurt by my suggestion that he was essentially less than human.
“What I did is in the past now. We can discuss it all day if you like, but that won’t change anything. The longer we waste time here the sooner Ziavir kills again. That monster deserves to be stopped—to be killed!” I said.
“And that makes you judge, jury, and executioner?” asked Chamberlain, adding weight to the last word. It stung. I gritted my teeth to stop another backlash.
“If no one else is willing to do the job, then yes, I’ll do it. Ziavir has to be stopped, no matter the cost,” I said.
“So that justifies murder! Griffon, we’re better than that. You’re better than this! We’re not killers!” said Alison.
I turned toward her, spread my arms out wide, and shouted, “Then what should we do? We steal from the rich Nobles and give to the starving Outcasts, and what does it accomplish? I’ll tell you. Nothing! The Nobles just steal it back from the Outcasts! We beat up a couple of Noble thugs, but the next day they are back doing what they have always done! We can’t turn them in because of how corrupt the NPFC is. They’ll be back on the street in a few hours!”
“The NPFC can’t be counted on to stop Ziavir because they are distracted by their war with the mob—a war we started, if you recall! Kraine has buried all existence of Ziavir from the public because he fears the chaos that would ensue. We are alone, and nothing good that we do will bring about any profit in a world that wants nothing to do with goodness! The authorities are far more interested in stopping the mob than Ziavir, and that’s on us. We created the situation! We’re responsible! If the cops can’t find and stop him, who will? I’m tired of him getting the better of everyone! I’m tired of him killing and then getting away with it! And I’ll kill him if I have to, to stop him! It’s my responsibility. It’s our responsibility!”
My rant left me breathless. I panted as I felt a cold sweat form across my brow. I didn’t think before I spoke. I wondered if my words came from rage or deep seeded true feelings. My statements rang true, I was responsible for a lot. We all were, whether we wanted to admit it or not. We weren’t accomplishing anything.
What good is saving someone from another mugging when the police will never arrest and prosecute the offender and the mugger will be back on the street the next night just because he was a Noble and his victims are Outcasts?
Chamberlain spoke. “Nothing good ever comes out of doing evil. We only become the problem then, not the source of remedy. If you are lost in thinking that the good you do has no impact, then your biggest problem isn’t Ziavir. No, your biggest problem is you thinking that life is all about you and your self-perception. Your dissatisfaction is rooted in your self-righteousness—your thinking that you are meant to be a hero and defining a hero only one way—you receiving glory. Life is not about you, Griffon! And you were not created to receive glory from others! If that is your goal when you put on that mask and when you go out every night to put yourself in harm’s way for someone…to get doses of glory for being the hero, then you will ultimately fail and bring the rest of us down with you.”
His words crushed me. I couldn’t look him in the eyes.
I just didn’t get Chamberlain. His very existence was a crime. If anyone but us knew what he was they would try to kill him. That was the law; anyone caught not obeying the law could be hanged. That was more than enough to turn a man loose—to cross that fine line.
Yet not Chamberlain. Even with all pressure, he stood apart, a better man. He deserved more than what life gave him, but I knew he didn’t see it like that. He saw the good and the bad in everyone and believed the good despite the bad. I wish I had the gift to love like he did and have faith like him.
But I just wasn’t that guy.
“Then what do you suggest we do?” I whispered. My rage diminished, replaced by shame. A part of me wanted to cry right there. The others were silent for a moment before Alison finally spoke up.
“We do what we have always done. We help people. We find Ziavir and bring him to justice—to those willing and able to prosecute him legally for his crimes. We, together, stop whatever he has planned. No m
ore lone ranger nonsense. We work as a team like always.”
“So, what do we do now?” asked Michael.
I looked to Chamberlain.
He gazed at the floor for a while before he lifted his soul-searching eyes toward me. I wondered if he had always seen what lurked there beneath my skin. He said, “The Mentor’s not here. So that leaves it to Griffon to decide.”
They all looked to me for guidance and I sighed deeply. Gabriel was so much better at decision-making. I just said, “Gabriel left me a note this morning telling me to treat today as a normal day. He said to just wait, that Ziavir will show himself again to us soon enough when he was ready, and that trying to find him on our own would only put one of us in his crosshairs.”
“And what do you have to say about that?” asked Alison.
“I do not like the idea of waiting until a bullet kills me from behind, nor do I like looking over my shoulder everywhere I go. The sooner we find Ziavir the more lives we can save. What we need to do is figure out what Ziavir has planned. Any ideas what was in that shipping crate last night?”
Michael said, “It could have been anything: drugs, weapons, vehicles, a bomb—”
“A bomb! You think he plans to blow up the city?” asked Alison.
“I am not sure. That crate was big, and if it was a really big bomb then it could do a lot of damage,” said Michael.
“You said it yourself yesterday that Ziavir was a demolitions expert, right? Isn’t he tied to dozens of bombings around the globe? And he did say this city would burn and be reborn from its ashes, right?” I asked. Michael gave a nervous look, as if he thought that if he could deny the possibility then it would insure the unlikelihood of it being true.
“A bomb big enough would do that,” said Chamberlain. None of us needed to be reminded just how deadly a bomb could be. We needed only to look out a window to see evidence from the war that ravaged our land generations before.
“So, if we assume Ziavir came to Chicago with a bomb, what’s his target and why?” I asked.
“He’s a mercenary for hire. What do you think, detective?” mocked Alison. I ignored her smart remark as I paced around the dining room thinking.
“If you were in Ziavir’s position, what would you do with a bomb? I mean what would you target?” I asked no one in particular. They were all silent for a minute. The list of possible targets in Chicago was very long.
“The Mayor’s office?” asked Alison.
“Any number of businesses,” added Chamberlain.
“The docks themselves?” said Michael.
“It would have to be something very big knowing Ziavir. Something valuable that makes a statement,” I said.
“Maybe it’s not even a traditional bomb, but a sort of alternative version of one—like an EMP,” said Michael.
“A what?” Alison asked.
“An electromagnetic pulse, or EMP, for short. It is a burst of electromagnetic radiation, usually caused by a nuclear bomb blown up high in the air or a fluctuating magnetic field that wipes out electrical circuits and electrical devices over a wide range. A blast big enough could wipe out all electrical devices in Chicago. It would be like going back to the Dark Ages.”
“Does it kill?” asked Chamberlain.
Michael shook his head and said, “No, it just fries all devices using electricity. Not many people would be harmed in the initial blast; unless you were flying a plane or something. But if done in the right way and in the right setting, its effects could be devastating in the long run. We are talking about a collapse of government, starvation, a complete implosion on a social and physical level. It would be a very slow death for many, all the while people are hoping for a salvation that would be very difficult to find and slow coming. In some ways it would make a nuke seem more merciful.”
“Ziavir doesn’t seem like one to play long ball. He strikes quick and big, and then disappears. The crate would have to have carried something drastic. Drugs and weapons would imply a long-term assault. That’s too risky for Ziavir’s style, especially since he’s got such a small force. Unless it’s a tank you can count vehicles out of the question. So, let’s assume it’s a bomb. I’m betting Ziavir is more likely to choose a certain fiery explosion over an EMP with many unpredictable outcomes. We’ve seen already how he feels when something doesn’t turn out like how he predicts. An EMP has just too many variables,” said Chamberlain.
I said, “So, if Ziavir has a possible nuke, why hasn’t he detonated it? And why risk his operation to try to blow up the train two nights ago?”
“Well, if I were Ziavir, I’d want to make a show of it. But to do that would require prep work, and that means neutralizing the city’s transportation system to prevent people from escaping. Its basic crowd control,” said Alison.
The three of us guys just stared at her in bewilderment. Such a statement seemed out of character for Alison. She looked at each of us, and then sighed and shook her head as if she was a wife disappointed in her husband’s foolishness.
“If he had succeeded in blowing up the train, it would have crippled Chicago’s main source of internal transportation. The NPFC would have spent days distracted by the clean-up and a long investigation, Ziavir would have been unhindered. At the same time more traffic jams slows the authorities down even more. Even though we stopped that plot, we caused the NPFC to be distracted with this little war of theirs with the mob instead,” said Alison.
“You’re a beautiful genius,” sang Chamberlain as he wrapped an arm around Alison’s thin waist and kissed her on top of her head. Alison blushed and brushed a strand of hair from her face.
Instead of making my usual teasing remark, I said, “Ziavir wants to expand his death radius as much as possible? Who would hire him to do all that?”
“Why do you think someone hired him?” asked Michael.
“Ziavir works for the highest paying individual or organization—you said so yourself just yesterday. He might be proud of his morals, but his allegiance is to his financial source. Someone must have hired him to terrorize Chicago. There’s no other explanation for why he is here now. Alison, did any of your contacts turn up anything? Maybe one of them knows who could have hired him.”
She shook her head and said, “I’m sorry, no. Whatever Ziavir is doing, he’s not using any locals for help. He’s a ghost as far as Chicago’s underworld is concerned. Even my contact in the NPFC reports that they are being ordered to ignore all suspicious theories of his existence or involvement in the city.”
“That’s right. I overheard Kraine speaking with the Police Commissioner asking him to focus on the mob threat—that he didn’t believe in Ziavir’s presence,” I said.
“That’s strange. Why would Kraine do that?” asked Chamberlain.
“That’s simple. Money and fear. If someone really is funding Ziavir then he’d have to be someone with the power and resources that Kraine has. Everyone knows that Kraine is trying to push some bills and that he’s hitting walls within his own support system. Maybe one of those individuals funding Kraine is also funding Ziavir and using that leverage to influence the NPFC through Kraine.”
“Or Kraine is the one funding Ziavir,” said Michael.
“If that’s the case, Griffon’s life could be in jeopardy,” said Chamberlain.
“Or I’m in the perfect place to learn the truth. There are many in this city with the money to fund Ziavir—not just Kraine. But he does seem to know more than we do, and is trying to benefit politically from this situation. We can treat him as a suspect, but if it becomes clear that we are looking into Kraine or really anyone with his level of power, then we’ll show our hand too soon. What we need is more support,” I said.
“From whom? The NPFC doesn’t care,” said Alison.
“Not everyone in the NPFC feels that way. Agent Jeremiah Lorre seemed pretty committed to bring Ziavir in,” I said.
“You mean the partner of the agent you killed last night?” asked Michael, with no sensitivity.<
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I cringed and said, “If he believes that Ziavir was somehow responsible for his partner’s death then maybe he might just be an ally we could count on. We can drop some bread crumbs to keep him on Ziavir’s tail. Better that he comes to our conclusion organically if he will accept it.”
“Ziavir doesn’t seem to be working alone. He has an organization behind him. Any idea who these guys are?” asked Chamberlain.
Michael was quick to respond, though his face showed a bit of nervousness as he spoke. “I think I may have an answer for you there. I did some research into that symbol that you had me look into, Griffon, and while I did not find much, I did find a little.”
I perked up. My heart rate jumped with the excitement of getting at least some answers. Knowledge was power. It separated the fools who got themselves killed by their own stupidity and those smart enough to handle a situation when it presented itself. At that time, I felt more like the former.
“What did you find?” I eagerly asked.
Michael took a deep breath and said, “Its pre-Abandoned War, associated with a radical group of assassins and extortionists that scholars believed shaped the outcome of the global war more than any other organization. Most scholars and experts believe the organization to be extinct—even a myth. But thirty years ago five bodies were discovered in a bombing with the only forms of identity being rings with that very same symbol upon them. After that, every conspiracy theorist out there has written about this mythical group. They are called Nebula.”
“What did the investigation about those bodies turn up?” asked Alison.
“Well the theory is that the five victims were actually the real bombers. But something went wrong or their own device was sabotaged by someone else. The authorities just wrote it off as a lucky accident and nothing else was ever said or written,” replied Michael.
“Ziavir said that ring was the mark of his family. Could “family” be another word he uses for them?” I asked.
“Makes sense to me,” said Chamberlain.
“Maybe Ziavir’s not acting alone then. Maybe more of Nebula are here, too,” Alison said.
