by Drew Avera
“I don’t know, why don’t you tell me what you’re really after?” Her tone shifted darker and unsettling. I watched from across the table as she pulled her comm from her pocket and showed me an image. “This man was found dead hours after attacking Councilwoman Tyrel. The bruising on his neck suggests he was strangled, but a man that large had to be the victim of someone with great authority—
“What makes you think that?” I interrupted, setting down my napkin more forcibly than I intended, knocking the fork off of my plate in the process.
She didn’t even flinch.
“Because the evidence doesn’t show any sign of the victim fighting back, at least not with any DNA from the killer. I would assume the victim watched as his killer took his life.”
“That’s an interesting theory, but I don’t think you are a forensics expert,” I said coyly.
“Maybe I’m not an expert, but I studied outside of my major in college.”
“So, you think because this man was killed and didn’t fight back that he is a victim of some criminal mastermind? I’m sorry, but that sounds far-fetched to me.”
“I didn’t say that,” she spat.
It was clear that any stray thoughts of this being a date were wishful thinking on my part. She had strung me along just to drop this on me. I would be mad if I wasn’t so damned impressed. “Then what are you saying?”
She sat stoically across from me, her jaw clenched as she stared at me. “I’m saying that someone is controlling the criminal activity taking place in the Southern Sector. I think that by attacking a member of the World Council, this man angered the person behind the scenes and paid for it with his life. I’m saying that if someone has that kind of control to manipulate the activity taking place down there, then they could be a threat to that utopia you say you’re trying to create.”
“We live with threats every day,” I said before taking a sip of wine. “That’s the nature of humanity, to cause chaos and to threaten the balance of civilization.”
“That’s also the nature of an organization with enough power to rise against the law. If we can’t stand up to these criminals, then we will all be victims eventually.”
“Dully noted,” I said under my breath as I set down the glass.
“Then what do you expect to do about it?” she asked, her expression grim as her fingers tapped on the tabletop expectantly.
I knew she wanted an answer, either the politically correct one, or the emotional response of someone backed into a corner, but I knew better than to provide either without first considering how she might twist my words, again.
My comm chirped just as I was about to answer with whatever came to the tip of my tongue after being put on the spot like that. “Excuse me, I need to take this,” I apologized as I rose from my seat and stepped to a quieter part of the restaurant. “What is it?”
“We have a situation, sir. Someone just took down several members of a gang in the Southern Sector.”
“How many?” I asked.
“Seven men, sir.”
Impressive, I thought. “Was this a turf war?” I asked, knowing that despite our best efforts at controlling the activity, there were pockets of opportunists working on their own. They would be nullified in due time, but playing cleanup was trying on my nerves.
“It doesn’t appear that way. It looks more like a grotesque form of vigilante justice.”
I hadn’t expected that. “Are there any survivors?”
“Two, and only one of them can speak.”
“Get some answers and I’ll contact you soon,” I said as I glanced back to the table where Elenka sat, waiting impatiently for her inquisition to resume. This call did me more of a favor than merely informing me of an event in my city. It provided me an escape route if I needed it.
“Yes, sir.”
I closed the comm and shoved it back into my pocket as I made my way to one of the more uncomfortable conversations I have had lately. Still, there was something in me which hoped the previous tranquility of the evening could be restored. Perhaps another time.
“Is everything all right?” Elenka asked as I reclaimed my seat.
“It will be, I hope. There was some violence in the Southern Sector that was just reported.” I watched as her shoulders stiffened and she stared at me, looking for an answer to her previous question by reading my body language. “I have someone interrogating one of the survivors so we can begin an investigation. None of the security cameras work after dark, so we hope to have a description of the perpetrator before we begin.”
“How serious is it?”
“Only two survivors, one which can speak. I have a strange feeling that whoever did this wanted to leave a witness.”
“Why do you think that?” she asked.
I shrugged and took another sip of wine. “For attention, or to leave a message. What other reason could there be?”
Nineteen
Halem
Despite the obvious lie he told me, I couldn’t help but grin at the report coming from Clenist.
No one had identified the person who did this, but I could tell by the by way it was done that Pollux was the only person capable of such a violent act. I never had to deal with dishonesty on his part, though, and that had me concerned. Why would he give me a false report and then go to such extremes, knowing the news would make it back to me?
It didn’t make sense.
I picked up my comm and tried to reach him for the fourth time that hour. He still did not answer which gnawed at me more than I wanted to admit. The sensation was deeper than a simple lack of proper protocol, it felt personal, as if he was going out of his way to avoid me. I decided to leave a message in hopes it would trigger him to respond.
“Pollux, it’s Halem. We need to talk,” I said before ending the connection. It was short and sweet. Well, at least short. I didn’t want him to know how irritated I was after waking up to this news. Strangely enough, it wasn’t the fact it happened, but the idea that I was out of the loop and left to fumble the ball in trying to come up with a response when asked. The press briefing was ten-minutes away and I still didn’t know for sure if it was Pollux or someone else. I didn’t want to assume it was Pollux if the gang activity had indeed escalated but telling the people that I didn’t know was hardly the best course of action. They needed to have faith that we had control of the situation or else panic would fill the streets; and not just in Clenist. It happened many times over the years, the frantic nature of humanity taking over and making the situation worse.
“Call me back,” I spat as I dropped the comm back onto my desk.
Almost as if I summoned him, my comm chirped and I answered it in haste. “Pontiff Scrimpshire,” I said, my voice breathy with anticipation.
“We had a situation, Pontiff Scrimpshire.”
It was not Pollux. “Who’s speaking?”
“I’m sorry, sir. This is Councilman Micah Troth from Clenist,” he replied with a sense of urgency. I didn’t recognize the voice, but I knew his name. He was one of the newer, more ambitious members of the World Council who volunteered for duty in Clenist. I could count the actual volunteers on one hand, it was the ones who were forced to go that filled a majority of the ranks.
“What can I do for you Councilman Troth?” I asked, more than slightly annoyed by the fact I wasn’t about to get the answers I desired before stepping out for the media frenzy awaiting me.
“There was an event last night that you need to be aware of,” he said, his voice came across cool and calculating, in stark contrast to how he sounded when I first answered. It sounded as if he practiced his report for several minutes before making the call. A part of me wondered if he scripted his responses for any questions I might have.
“Go on,” I said, optimistic that I might have more to add to my notes.
“Gang activity has escalated in Clenist ever since the southern sector power grid failure. I’m afraid the attack on Councilwoman Tyrel was just the first shot
of a growing war. Last night there was violence in the streets and several suspected members of a gang were injured or killed.”
“Do you have suspects in custody?” I asked, hoping that Pollux was accounted for.
“No, we do not. There are no security cameras in the area that work after the lights go out. This has made it a hotbed of illicit activity and a burden to our law enforcement personnel. We can’t afford to send these men into harm’s way, but neither can we do nothing anymore. Last night’s action has proven this and I’m afraid it has gotten out of hand.”
I heard the pleading in his voice, and it echoed the same concern I heard from Akran before she was attacked. “I assure you, we have a plan to help, it just takes time to transport the security personnel to Clenist,” I said.
“I’m aware of your plan, Pontiff. My only point is that if this escalation of violence continues, then even your aid may not be enough.”
“What are you insinuating?” I asked. A gnawing in the pit of my stomach left me feeling unsteady as I stood, holding the comm in my hand like a lifeline. Failure was not an option, but I felt like I may have done just that by not acting sooner.
“I’m merely saying that putting people on this problem is not a solution, we need to overhaul the southern sector and so long as gang activity takes place there, we may never finish the job before your arrival.”
“Are you suggesting I cancel my trip?” I asked, hearing a tinge to the way he mentioned my arrival.
“I’m simply stating that you are at an increased risk if you come here before we restore order,” Micah replied coldly.
“I see,” I said, half under my breath. “Look, I appreciate your concern, but the World Council needs to make their presence known in Clenist. You and your members have done an excellent job in representing the whole, but until the citizens see that they are under the same governing body as Archea, then they will feel segregated from us. This is a unity mission and has top priority.” I wasn’t lying, this had been planned for nearly a year, but I had personal reasons for not wanting to postpone the trip. Not all of them were in the strict interest of World Council business, but I was not about to mention that out loud.
“I just thought you should hear it from me that it is not as safe as previously reported, sir.” Micah said, the wind seemingly out of his sails. It struck me how quickly his tone shifted from calm and collected to manic and desperate.
Apparently, he didn’t script his responses, I thought.
“I understand. Thank you for the brief. If there is anything else that you need, don’t be afraid to ask. We want to help Clenist prosper just as much as you do.”
“Thank you, Pontiff. I appreciate your time.”
“Have a good day, Councilman Troth,” I said before closing the comm once again.
I glanced at the clock on my desk and sighed. I was out of time and without the answers I needed to appease the waiting reporters. I hated going into these things blind. I knew I could wing it and say anything I wanted in terms of speculating about the situation, but the more I had to rein it in later, the worse it would be perception wise. There was a delicate balance to these things that put people’s minds at ease or sent them into a panic.
A knock at the door drew my attention as Massa stepped in. “Are you ready, Halem?”
Massa stepped up as my handler while Pollux was away. “It would help if I knew exactly what was going on,” I said, rising from my desk and pulling on my jacket.
“Gang activity, it’s pretty simple, Halem. Just ride that message as long as it’s viable. If the situation shifts, we roll with it.”
“Spoken like someone who won’t have to retract their statement later on down the road,” I teased.
Massa chortled. “You know I don’t have a taste for any of this ‘in front of the camera’ stuff. I’m more of a behind the scenes guy.”
“I know,” I said, both eyebrows raised as I adjusted my lapel and walked towards the door. “That’s not very comforting, though.”
“Yeah, well we all have our strengths. Don’t let mine distract you from yours.” He led me out to the atrium where the short press conference was to be held. We limited the number of reporters, but I knew that did little to minimize the onslaught of questioning I opened myself up to by inviting them here.
I would feel more comfortable in riot gear, I thought as I rounded the last corner and stepped into the atrium as sunlight gleamed through the tall windows. Silence fell over the room as I took my station at the podium. The temperature of the room felt ten degrees warmer and my hands were already beginning to get clammy. I nonchalantly wiped them on my pants leg before placing them onto the podium, a habit formed when I first began speaking publicly after becoming Pontiff.
“Where do I begin,” I said, not intending to say it out loud. But like a true professional, I made the most of my lapse in judgement. “I’m sure by now you have heard about the events last night in Clenist. I just got off the comm with one of our Councilmembers and he assured me that they will make good use of our law enforcement personnel slated to assist in Clenist. He also said he was hopeful that a resolution can be swift and absolute. The people in Clenist deserve better than we are currently able to provide, but I know the Archean assistance coming to their aid will do their job and do it well. As of right now, we believe the violence is a result of growing gang activity. This presents many problems for law enforcement, and the citizens. Let me go on record and say that we will not tolerate this behavior and that we will take the highest means possible to punish those who step outside of the law and perform violent acts.
“Now, are there any questions?”
My words came across like a dictator, and despite the fact I heard it with my own ears, I didn’t think anyone else would. Based on the lack of raised hands, it seemed I made my point clear. I just hoped the backlash wouldn’t be as severe as Massa’s eyes as he stared at me from across the atrium.
It was too late to take it back.
Not that I would have wanted to.
I just wanted a resolution sooner rather than later, and this was the only way I knew how to do it.
With brute force.
Twenty
Pollux
The sunlight gleamed through the window of my hotel room, stirring me from my slumber. I tried rolling over in bed, craving another hour of sleep before starting my day, but the light was unrelenting.
As I lay in silent rage, my thoughts drifted to the tinge of pain in my right hand. I looked down and lifted my arm enough to get a good look and noticed my knuckles were sliced in some places. At first, I assumed that it was the result of night terrors, and I lashed out in my sleep, striking the corners of the bedposts, but the haziness of sleep faded, and I remembered the events from the night before.
A sense of hollowed disgust filled me as the memory played back in my mind like a motion picture. Had I been so out of my mind that I slipped back into the control of my programming? I thought I had overcome it years ago, that the lapses were nothing more than distant memories of the man I once was, and not who I actually am.
As the recollection reminded me of what I had done, it felt like it was a different person in control of those actions. I didn’t remember making the conscious effort to return to the Southern Sector, yet I saw it play out in such vivid detail that there was no questioning that I was there, at least physically.
The thought of losing control of myself was disturbing to say the least. I was outraged, torn by the fact that I couldn’t remember why I would do such a thing, but accepting it as the truth nonetheless. The chime of my comm drew my attention away from the darkness enveloping my thoughts, my memories.
I groaned as I lifted it from the nightstand and noted that it was Halem. I had no desire to speak with him before I could collect my own thoughts and piece together what had happened in a coherent enough string to understand it myself. If I lost control, then I needed to know how to restore it. Was it the programming defaulting me b
ack to the killer I was made to be, or was it a new development attacking my sleeping disorder that I hadn’t noticed before?
I was terrified of the answer; mostly because either option was one which was out of my personal control. That was the one thing I thought I had given back to me after the Agency was dismantled.
Control.
“Sorry,” I said, plopping the comm onto the bed beside me and letting it ring unanswered as I rolled over once again. I would have felt guilty, but those chambers of my mind were already occupied. Instead, I felt numb, disconnected from the world I left behind in Archea. It was the only way I could cope, if that was even the word for what I was doing. It felt more like surrendering.
Sleep would not come. It never did once my mind began putting together the puzzles of memories of which I had little recollection of experiencing. I felt this way more often than not for the past four years, always in a blur, fixating on things that I would never dream up at any other point. But those times were less physical, and more like waking up feeling guilty for the dream your subconscious planted. This time I acted on whatever barbaric thing clouded my judgement, shutting off the logical part of my mind, and disconnecting me from reality until the damnable deed was done.
“What’s wrong with me?” I mumbled into my pillow. My words accompanied images of me destroying a man’s face with my bare hands in my mind. I still had his, or someone else’s, blood under my fingernails. I was not repulsed by this fact, nor was I wanting to accept the reality of it.
As if on cue, my mind filled with another memory, this time with the sound of an electric hum filling my ears. Responsively, I rolled over again and turned on the television. The report on the news was about last night, about me, though it gave nothing away of my identity. The reporter said it was “gang rivalry”.
That is a lie.
At least I think it is, I thought as the disoriented feeling overtook me again, first the haze, then the heavy head and dulled hearing, and lastly, the false sense of clarity.
