by Brandt Legg
“We’ll mobilize the people just like we did during World War II,” he continued. “And we can make part of the reforms the environmental regulations you want—no material can be manufactured that can’t be recycled, fossil fuels will be taxed into oblivion, pollution of any kind will be so cost prohibitive that companies doing it will find alternatives.”
“That may be a tougher sale than you think.”
“Not if the REMies are in prison,” Hudson said. “Preserving the planet and taking care of each other will become more important than profit and greed.”
“Didn’t you run as a Republican?” Melissa asked, laughing. She liked and agreed with what he was saying, but knew it was the nine minutes talking. She marveled at his change.
“Forget the labels. Democrats and Republicans are both REMie parties. From now on, I’m an egalitarian.”
Chapter Four
For the first time since their organizational meetings some years earlier, Booker Lipton—AKA Washington, Fonda Raton—AKA Jefferson, Thorne—AKA Hancock, AKA Adams, and AKA Franklin were together in one place. They met on a secluded island off the west coast of Mexico, one of many owned by Booker, who collected islands.
“In light of what Fonda has reported about her meeting with Pound, and with Booker’s similar experience with him,” Thorne began, “I think we can no longer ignore the fact that he needs to be removed immediately.”
“No,” Fonda objected. “He can still help us.”
“He’s the one who needs our help!” Thorne blasted. “I didn’t think he was ever strong enough, but since being dead for nine minutes, he seems even weaker to me. And do I need to remind you that he’s alone on a virtual island? Congress hates him, his approval ratings are in the basement, the media treats him like a punching bag, and it’s only a matter of time before the REMies figure out a way to actually kill him, yet again.”
“Then we can wait for them to do the job,” AKA Franklin said.
“Perhaps you need the reminder,” Fonda said. “Congress, the media, and the REMies are who we’re fighting. Hudson is fighting the same battle we are.”
“No, he isn’t,” Thorne argued. “He thinks the REMies can be defeated by talk and law.” Thorne laughed. “A REMie put him in power, and he still doesn’t understand them. He believes wars happen by accident.”
“I don’t think he does,” Fonda said.
“Then he’s no good at math, because just off the top of my head, I can rattle off over one hundred million deaths in the last hundred years in wars that the REMies made happen. Does the president think that the REMies, who have long used violence as their main weapon, can really be brought down by love and light?”
“We need him,” Fonda repeated, her tone flat and firm.
“I’ll tell you who needs him, the twenty-two thousand children under the age of five, around the world, who die every day due to poverty! Ten million kids died before age five last year—that would be like every kid in France and Germany dying in a single year. Can you imagine?”
“I know the damage the REMies’ ‘empire system’ has wrought,” Fonda said calmly, while silently thinking that she knew almost all such statistics better than he could ever hope to. The fool!
“Yeah, but does Pound?” Thorne asked as he flailed his arms and paced around the large gazebo where they were gathered. “The world spent a trillion dollars last year on weapons. One and a half million children die every year due to lack of safe drinking water and sanitation. Do you know how much it would cost to fix that, to save those kids? About $9 billion. That’s how much Americans spent on cosmetics last year. Half of what we spend on pet food! Hell, Europeans spend a lot more than that on ice cream!”
“Enough,” Booker said quietly, yet it felt like a slamming door to the others. “This isn’t your radio show, Thorne.”
“The world is so screwed up!” Thorne screamed at the ocean.
“We know,” AKA Adams said. “That’s why we’re here, why we’re doing all this.”
“Well we’re not doing it fast enough!” Thorne said, finally returning to his seat. “I say kill Pound and let Brown have a crack at it.”
“No one’s going to kill Hudson Pound,” Booker said. “At least not if I have anything to do with it.” The billionaire was both a REMie and a NorthBridger, but he was also an extremely persuasive and authoritative man. Even Thorne knew the argument was over, at least for now, but the shock jock couldn’t resist one final jab.
“So the president is coming after us, wants to stop NorthBridge,” Thorne said, staring at Fonda, “but we can’t fight back?”
“We have enough to fight,” Fonda said.
“More if the president finds out who I am,” AKA Adams added. “If he discovered your identities, he’ll get mine sooner or later.”
“The person who IDed Booker, Fonda, and Thorne is dead,” AKA Franklin said. “It’s likely with everything going on now, and with what’s about to happen, the rest of us who are still incognito will be safe. The president is going to be too busy trying to hold the United States together to worry about our names.”
“By the time Pound finds out who you and AKA Franklin are,” Thorne said to AKA Adams, “it’ll be too late.”
“That’s right,” agreed Booker. “And the reason we risked this meeting is because it’s time to enter phase two of the revolution.” The billionaire slowly scanned the faces of the other four leaders to be sure they understood the gravity of his statement. “The course on which we are about to embark will change everything. There will be no turning back.”
Each person nodded solemnly.
“As you know,” Booker continued, “this war against the elites may be lost, but win or lose, the world will be left a fragile disaster area. From this day forward, we will be walking away from life as we know it. Destroying the REMie empire destroys all that we have ever known or counted on . . . which means all the rules are about to change.”
“So that we cannot predict the outcomes of our own actions,” AKA Adams said. “In trying to protect the world from REMie rule, we may destroy that which we are trying to save.”
Chapter Five
Lester Devonshire stood on the top floor of a building housing the west coast offices of Gaston, Gaston, and Wyatt, one of the largest law firms in the country. The thirty-eight-year-old’s mood could not be soothed even by the stunning view of San Francisco’s skyline and the bay beyond. Lester, a newly minted billionaire thanks to his uncle, the late Arlin Vonner, seethed. Many people would have been happy with a billion-dollar inheritance, but Lester thought he deserved much, much more.
For some impossible reason, his uncle had left most of his fortune to the president’s son! And as far as Lester was concerned, Schueller Pound was nothing more than a B-list, wannabe rock star who didn’t deserve a bequest of a thousand dollars, let alone fifty-two billion.
Lester whirled around, tired of waiting for his “useless” attorney to answer the question. “Nothing?” Lester repeated. “There is nothing you can do?”
“The terms of the will are explicit,” the attorney said, trying to hide his exasperation. “Should you contest your uncle’s wishes, you forfeit everything.” He enunciated each syllable in the final word. “And, in the event that you were successful in a challenge, then the trust stipulates that all the money is instead to be distributed to the Arlin Vonner Foundation.” The attorney paused until his client looked up. “Do you really want to risk a billion dollars?”
“You tell me.”
“There seems to be no precedent in any of the case law that supports your claim. Your uncle was very careful in how the document was worded. However, should you wish to proceed . . . ” The attorney handed a folder to Lester. “Here’s a detailed brief outlining the options and explaining how we would go forward, but I have to advise against it. Any judge is going to look at three salient facts: Arlin Vonner was of very sound mind, you were left one billion dollars, and aside from a list of other relatively
minor bequeaths, the balance of his estate went to a blood relative.”
“So?”
“There’s nothing unusual here, and most probate courts tend to side with the Testator.”
Lester, the only son of Vonner’s late sister, had actually been surprised that Vonner had left him a billion dollars, since the two weren’t exactly close. But as a guy who had hustled for everything he’d ever gotten, he wasn’t about to let the possibility of becoming one of the world’s top ten richest men slip away without a fight. Lester never minded a battle. He’d won more than he’d lost, thanks in part to his talent for fighting dirty. He actually took pride in constant negativity. He felt it gave him a special edge against nice people—actually, any people.
Lester ran several brothels in Nevada, as well as the Cash-O-King Casino, one of the smallest casinos located at the “drab” end of the Vegas strip. The place was famous for its low table-game betting minimums, dollar craps, and dollar black jack. Cash-O-King’s cheap, watered-down drinks and few hundred slot machines attracted the kind of low end gamblers who wouldn’t last long in the bigger gaming castles. Lester didn’t mind the riffraff; all their nickels and dimes had made him a millionaire. The brothels had helped, too.
He was worth eight million dollars, but he’d never stopped lusting after his uncle’s epic wealth. Over the years, he’d tried kissing up to the old man every way he knew how, but Vonner never seemed impressed. Still, Lester had long planned to attack the will whenever his uncle “kicked off.” He knew he had a good chance because of being the only living blood relative, but that was before he knew about his distant cousins, “the damned Pounds.”
The billion had been an unexpected gift. He would have only predicted a nominal amount like a hundred grand or so, but his uncle’s generosity only made Lester believe he was entitled to a lot more.
Lester had been working a “big deal” to get into marijuana dispensaries in three states, which included a back-alley line to a lucrative import-export business. Legalized pot was extremely profitable, but the real money was still in the illegal side of the trade. Lester could parlay a billion into three times that much in a few years. He also had his eye on a bigger casino, which, even with his inheritance, was still out of reach.
Although it would take at least six months to probate the will, Vonner had made a shrewd move by including a Payable on Death, or “POD”, clause on his main accounts. And by utilizing living trusts, loans, survivorship clauses, corporate transfers, and a host of other legal and accounting tactics, had managed it so that the funds went to Schueller and Lester immediately. Finalization through the probate court was a mere technicality. The estate’s structure also made it extremely difficult for Lester to challenge.
Lester angrily shoved several law books from the table, sending them crashing to the floor. Then he snatched the folder from his astonished attorney, never intending to read it, and stormed out of the office. He also had no intention of paying the legal bill for these “useless leeches.” Lester had other connections, ones that didn’t care so much about the law.
“I’ll get that money one way or another,” he muttered to himself as the elevator doors opened, the plan already formulating. By the time he reached the parking level, he was certain that both Hudson and Schueller Pound would have to die. This realization actually caused him to smile, a very rare event.
Chapter Six
The president looked up from the Resolute Desk and smiled as Vice President Brown entered the Oval Office. “Give me a moment,” he said, typing another few lines into his laptop and pushing send.
“Of course,” the vice president replied. She had just returned from a meeting with a Norwegian delegation at Blair House.
Hudson entered a few more commands into the computer, closed it, slid it into a case which he slung over his shoulder, and then walked over to the built-in bookcase and pressed a concealed switch. A wall panel slid back, revealing a secret door. The vice president looked surprised.
Hudson ushered her inside the small space and led her down the stairs. They came out inside a closet near the president’s private elevator. The passage opened into the network of secret tunnels which connected the White House to several other buildings in Washington—escape routes.
“I’d heard rumors about these tunnels,” the vice president said.
“They’re quite elaborate,” Hudson said as they headed down one of the lighted corridors. Beige linoleum from another age covered the floors, and shiny tiles one might find in an old public-school cafeteria gave the walls a cheap, dated look, nothing like the grand appointments normally associated with the office of the president. “I brought you down here because it’s just about the safest place,” Hudson said, stopping at an intersection. “One where we will not be overheard.”
“Are you certain of that?” Vice President Brown asked.
Hudson nodded. “The damned leaks are a bigger problem than the eavesdropping. At least those I can find or defeat with our own electronic devices.” Choosing the passageway to their right, he began walking again. “We may have stopped the war with China,” the president said, “but that was merely a battle in a much bigger war. You know this.”
“The REMies.”
“Yes, and they’re going to continue to try to kill me. Should that happen, you must be ready.”
The vice president stopped and touched Hudson’s shoulder. He turned to face her. “Mr. President, I’ve been ready since inauguration day to assume your duties, but we cannot let that happen.”
“I appreciate—”
“No,” the vice president pressed. “Whichever REMie succeeds in having you assassinated will win the CapStone. I may become president, but I’ll be powerless or dead myself . . . ”
“From now on, we can never be in the same building at the same time. We can’t let them get us both at the same time.”
The vice president nodded solemnly.
“And it isn’t just REMies, this is a two-front war. NorthBridge is as big a threat. Not only do they want me out of office by any means necessary, but they’re forcing a revolution.”
“NorthBridge was against the war with China,” the vice president offered. “They exclusively target the tools of the REMies.”
“Don’t let your anti-war beliefs cloud your judgement,” the president said as the corridor curved. “There can be no alliance with terrorists. And never doubt that we will stop NorthBridge. I know who three of their leaders are, and it’s only a matter of time until we penetrate their veil of secrecy. Once we identify the rest of the hierarchy, we will cut the head off that snake and stamp out this talk of revolution.”
“If you know the leaders, why not engage them?” the vice president asked. “You say we cannot ally ourselves with terrorists, but isn’t the priority to shatter the REMies’ empire? It’s a near impossible task. We could use NorthBridge to help—”
“Celia, I’m surprised you would ever consider working with a group like this. They are at war with everyone who disagrees with them. NorthBridge is using brutal violence to accomplish what could be done peacefully. How can you reconcile that with your long-held position against violence and war?”
“I don’t condone their barbaric actions, Mr. President, not for a minute, but I fear that there’s only the smallest window remaining to defeat the REMies. If one of them gets the CapStone, we’ll be under absolute REMie rule, and NorthBridge will become a legitimate resistance to the oppressors . . . a resistance which will quickly be crushed.”
“We’ll just have to beat them both,” the president said.
“My father always used to say that a person has to know his priorities.”
“Wise man,” Hudson said.
“Then you know you can’t succeed by trying to have two top priorities. REMies or NorthBridge. I don’t think we can beat either one of them unless we use all our efforts against one of them first.”
“Maybe,” Hudson said. “I recall what someone said about the 2016 pr
esidential race, deciding between Clinton and Trump was like choosing between cancer and a heart attack.”
The vice president didn’t join in Hudson’s smile. “NorthBridge may be a heart attack, but the REMies are a cancer, and we don’t have much time left.”
Chapter Seven
The president, Melissa, the Wizard, Schueller, and Dranick huddled around the conference table inside Laurel Lodge at Camp David. Not trusting the Secret Service, the Wizard had already used one of his custom inventions to scan for listening devices.
“As you know,” the Wizard began, “I’ve finally retrieved most of the data Crane hid on the DarkNet. There are still one or two lost NorthBridge files, but knowing what we do about Booker, Fonda, and Thorne, it isn’t nearly as urgent.”
“That depends on who else is part of the terror group,” Melissa said.
The president nodded.
“Of course,” the Wizard agreed. “However, there’s enough information here to keep us busy for a long time with the REMies.”
“NorthBridge may destroy us and fracture the country long before we can even get to the REMies,” Melissa said harshly.
“Let’s hear what he’s got,” the president urged, placing a hand gently on top of Melissa’s.
“The two most dangerous REMies that seem to have the best shot at getting the CapStone are Bastendorff and Coyne,” the Wizard began. “The first one—Bastendorff. Not a nice guy. Hands into everything. He likes destabilizing governments, causing famines, small wars, uprisings, and just generally excels at peddling fear.”
“I’ve heard he also likes Legos,” Schueller said with a laugh.
The Wizard nodded. “Strange dude, no doubt. Crane also uncovered evidence to suggest Bastendorff hired Kniike, the assassin who tried to off you on inauguration day.”
