Khan grabs it from the guard's hand.
Oval Office, The White House
6:01 p.m., 23 October 2096
The Homeland assistant deputy director stands in front of the seated president at his desk. The room is filled with other agents, staffers, and advisors.
"We did find our agent dead, but it was ruled as an accident."
"How?" the president asks.
"He fell down a flight of stairs. Broke his neck. But it was in a public place."
"What do you want done, sir?"
The president folds his arms. "I want every deep-background agent working on this. Have them identify all the terrorists' leadership. No." He looks away. "We're not going to play into their panic. Monitor and we'll move the Sphere Program forward, ahead of schedule."
"Yes, sir."
"Make it impossible for those not in the tek-cities to move in and out of the tek-cities."
"Outlands too?"
"Use our eminent domain statutes and start—quietly, complete media black-out—acquiring all of their territory. There will be no Outlands—just the outer perimeter areas of the cities."
"They'll have their lawyers on us," an advisor speaks up.
"The beauty of being the president is that we can nullify their lawsuits—national security. They don't like it, then they can go live with the Anarchists in the wastelands."
"We should also consider having Jew-Christian experts on staff, sir," another aide says.
"We did that before," another says. "Those JCs, Rabbi Susan and Bishop Joe. A total disaster. We moved three steps forward and ten steps back."
The president ignores them. "I'm the expert on religious people in this administration. These terrorists will not direct this administration's actions, but it will suffer from them. I want the Homeland Director and Joint Chiefs assembled."
Department of Homeland Defense and Intelligence Agency Security Dispatch / 25 October 2096
Notify POTUS that the Minister of Communications, Vinicius Khan, has seized control of the Brazilian government in a coup. The Brazilian president and all the federal cabinet are all unaccounted for and assumed in custody.
The Kremlin, Moscow, Russia
9:16 p.m., 25 October 2096
The KGB head, Zukov, waits with his four aides in the room. They sit around a simple table in a dimly-lit room. The dark-haired men are all dressed in dark uniforms, but Zukov is older and visibly more threatening, like some kind of crime boss.
"What do you think of my recommendation?" the aide asks.
"This Sphere Program of the Americans is our only focus now," Zukov answers.
"We must find a way to get into their program, use the Brazilian situation to our advantage."
"And what do you suggest we do? Barricade people in the cities? Kill anyone who sets up some community, small or large, outside the cities? This is a large planet and cities take up only a tiny fraction of it, no matter how large we make our skyscrapers or how massive our cities grow. There will always be people outside of the cities. We monitor and take action when we need to and that's it."
"And is the president simply going to ignore the Americans' program?" another man asks.
"Whether he does or doesn't, there will be some program. We need some version of the Sphere Program not against the people, but against the Americans, Chinese, and Muslims—that's who the president had to detonate a bomb against. They're the ones trying to invade our nation and kill and enslave our people. What a bunch of religionists in Europa do means nothing. We can quash them whenever we want."
"Zukov, be careful," an aide warns. "It is official Presidential policy—"
"Not all religionists are the same," Zukov says. "They are not our threat. Not anymore. We purged them from the government. It's finished. This is a real threat."
"These religions in Russia are a threat."
"They are Russian. They are Europan. Their loyalty is to the Russian Bloc."
"Just because we know good ones, doesn't mean anything."
"It means enough to me."
"But Zukov—" The man stops himself.
Zukov stares at him. "You weren't about to make the severe political mistake of mentioning my ex-wife?"
"No, sir. I would never do such a foolish thing."
"Good, I know you to be smarter than that. Besides, we can't watch everyone, but our machines can. We pick the threats we focus on. The religionists are not that threat, despite American and Chinese propaganda to the contrary. It's the superpowers—these super-thugs of the planet."
"We must do everything we can to elevate our own power to join them on the world stage, as it was in the past."
Zukov nods. "Exactly. That is what the president feels. That is what I feel. The Glory of Great Russia. When we were feared by our own people and everyone else."
"Zukov, why are we here waiting for the president?"
"Does it matter? He calls, we come. That's all there is to it."
The communication device on the table activates. Every man at the table has a look of fear.
"Zukov." The voice is low with a deep menacing bass.
"Yes, Mr. President."
"I need you to place a call."
The Palácio do Planalto, Brasília, Brazil
Noon, 26 October 2096
Brazil Khan enters his office—the Presidential office—and sits down in front of the desk phone. He pauses for a moment and then picks it up.
"President Khan here."
There is a long pause. "Congratulations, newly appointed President Khan. I like men who seize what they want—they are real men. I thought you were an effeminate academic that infests so many of the offices of heads of state. I see you can be ruthless...like a gangster should be. It's very difficult to impress a Russian gangster, but you have impressed me. To so completely seize power and execute all your opposition."
"You seem to know a lot about the internal workings of my country."
"Don't be naïve. Everyone does."
"What do I owe the pleasure of your call, President Igor?"
"What do you plan to do with your religious citizens?"
"Why? I thought you had called to talk about this Sphere Program. Why would you call me about them?"
"You are not to harm them. Exile them to a region of your country like we have done. Leave them alone and go about your business."
"Why would you take an interest in such a matter? It's beneath you."
"If you harm them, I will kill you."
Khan's expression changes to anger, but he says nothing. He listens, but, again, there is a long pause.
"I need them," Igor continues. "They must remain alive as the fail-safe for what I'm becoming. Separate them from your country, if you must, but leave them alone. Do I need to demonstrate my seriousness?"
"No, but I have every intention to marginalize them."
"I don't care about that. But you can't kill them. That means civil war. I can't take the chance that you'll kill them all. Neither of us can. They may even retaliate and kill you."
"I doubt that."
"Doubt whatever you want, but that's what will happen. Ignore them and I'll ignore you."
"Does that mean you'll ignore Brazilian forces within the Russian Bloc territory?"
"Don't be insulting. You set foot on my Russian continent and the people will kill you. Stay in your region and we'll stay in ours."
"Canada and America? Mexico, the Central Americas?"
"I care nothing about those places."
"Good, because Brazil will no longer be in the shadows, and, as of today, there will be four superpowers in this world, despite my nation's global enemies."
"I myself will continue to recede into the shadows. And President Khan?"
"Yes."
"There will be five superpowers in this world."
"I'm glad we could talk, President Igor."
"Yes, President Khan. Have a good day and a good life, since I don't expect us to ever converse aga
in after I end this call."
Chapter Seven: Wolves of Exodus
The Oval Office, The White House
11:01 a.m., 26 October 2096
The Secret Service chief faces the president, who sits at his desk, staring out his bay windows.
"Access is like a fingerprint. Endless strings of changing algorithms," the chief says. "How did this designated terrorist get through to your Presidential secured line? Even if they did it before, twenty years ago, it is not the same as today. Every possible protocol is different, the tek is different, the security measures are different. Different meaning better. However, the breach was made and we're not able to trace the line.
"Sir, the only way the terrorist could have called in to your Presidential secure line, that we can speculate, is if they had a legitimate line and cloned it."
"What are you saying?" President T. Wilson asks.
"One of the superpowers gave it to them."
"Who? The CHINs? Caliphate?"
"We'll find out, sir."
The president swivels in his chair to look at him directly. "Seems logical. The only problem is that I don't believe for a second that either one of them would do that."
"Maybe someone within their administration."
"That I would believe. Or...once again they just cut through our impenetrable Net-security like they did twenty years ago."
"We'll follow every lead, sir, and find out which one."
The president swivels his chair around again to stare out the window. "You do that."
Trog-land, America
9:01 p.m., 25 October 2096
They said in the future, there would be no poverty, no homelessness, and no aimless masses. Everyone would live in shiny, silver cities and everyone would have purpose. The reality is a dark opposite outside the tek-metropolises.
Trog-land. The term originally described those territories outside the tek-cities where Luddites lived—those who were rebelling against mechanization in favor of a simpler, retro-life, but that was so many decades ago. The term now describes the vast stretches of untamed, outer wastelands; dangerous territories outside the tek-cities filled with Anarchists and all their sub-divisions—Nihilists, Hedonists, Space Cadets, Goths, drug Zombies, Nudists, and Space Cadets. Trogs—the people of Trog-land.
It is where no sane—or insane—tek-dweller would dare go with its rampant violence, murders, and rape gangs. In a nation where all drugs are legal and age-of-consent laws for sex had long been abolished, it was where those activities still illegal happened and were run. Trogs, namely Anarchists, had long surpassed Muslims as the chief culprits of domestic terrorism in America—though the government still painted all terrorism as religious-based.
It is also where the general public believes Jew-Christians live, but the government knows they live beyond Trog-land.
Hordes of Trogs surround the three-vehicle armored RV convoy with an assortment of attack vehicles—franken-cars, two-wheeled motor-bikes, three-wheelers, quads, attack Segways, and motorized rollerblades. The headlights of both the Trog hordes and the three trespassing vehicles illuminate the night sky.
Inside the lead RV, Stein and his fellow Exiles watch them through the tinted windows in fear. The Trogs are a sight to behold—most are half-naked, bodies pierced and tattooed everywhere, most wear inhaler mouth masks or nose tubes so their drug of choice can be continuously pumped into their bodies from backpacks or waist-belt distributors, lots of bald heads and spiky hair, lots of clawed gloves, lots of weapons. The RV slams to a stop—their path is completely blocked by Trog vehicles.
"We should never have done this!" one of the male Exiles yells. "What if they have laser weapons? Our shielding won't protect us."
"Give it time," Stein said.
"Time for what?" another asks.
"They wouldn't send us through Trog territory unprotected."
"Wouldn't they?" a female says. "It's payback. This is their way to kill us. Have these degenerates do it. Look at them. If they breach the vehicle, I'm committing suicide."
"Stop it. We're not being abandoned," Stein says.
Something hits the top of their RV and they all jump. Then another. They realize that the Trogs are throwing rocks at the vehicles.
"Oh God, I don't want to be here," another female Exile yells.
Stein looks around. "How many weapons do we have?"
"Weapons? There's hundreds of them out there. Oh no, what's this one doing?"
A Trog walks up to their RV and starts to urinate on it.
The voices of the other RV drivers come over the speakers. "We should run. We can't simply wait here to die!"
"This is what happens when you align with religious terrorists."
"Give it time," Stein yells. "They're coming."
Bright lights appear in the sky, blinding everyone, inside the RV and outside. The lights disappear. The Trogs stare up at the sky; the Exiles do the same from within their RVs.
The Trogs hear something approaching from the distance. As the sounds get louder, all of the headlights on every vehicle automatically get dimmer.
A grinning Anarchist yells, "They've remoted in. Change the frequency!"
The lights continue to dim, including those of the RVs.
"They're here," a Space Cadet says, pointing.
The figures come out of the night, all wearing black helmets and dressed in black. After a few moments, they see a faint glow from the center of their chests. As they near, symbols glow brighter on their leather uniforms—large crosses on each of them.
"Them," one of the Nihilists says.
Trogs scream and run at them to attack. One second. Bullets rip through every approaching Trog. Their bodies fall to the ground dead at the same time. Every other Trog stops and makes no movement.
The first one reaches them, covered from head to toe in helmet and uniform. "I'm Goth Lila of the Goth Christian Order. I thought we had a treaty." Her voice comes through the helmet's speaker.
"You're trespassing in our territory."
"They are with us and, therefore, under our protection. Do you intend to do something about it?"
"One day we'll come out to where you Jew-Christians live," another Trog says.
"And do what?"
"You killed our people. Go away," a Hedonist says. "I'm already bored."
"So am I," Goth Lila says. "Sound your retreat call."
"No," an Anarchist says.
"We both have the same enemy. But don't make us an enemy too. Sound your retreat call," she repeats.
"No," the Anarchist leader says.
The Anarchist next to him shoots the leader in the head. "We can't lose any more people. We need them to attack the city." He takes his laser wand from his belt and vigorously waves it around. "Move out!"
The Trog horde responds by breaking their circle formation around the RVs. The new Anarchist leader jumps back on his quad with four others and drives away. The entire horde heads back to their wasteland city leaving all the dead Trog bodies behind.
Goth Lila walks to the lead RV as her other people watch the hordes retreat. She knocks on the side door. It opens slowly and Stein peers out at her from inside.
"You will see a lighted vehicle. Follow it closely. When we near the compound our auto-drive will take over your controls."
"Okay," Stein says.
"We thought you were going to leave us out here to die," a woman behind him says.
"Should we have?" Goth Lila asks and then turns from them.
Stein closes and secures the door.
"This was a mistake," a man says. "We've put our fate in the hands of terrorists."
Stein yells, "Shut up, all of you! I have never met any of you before, but from the moment we've been together you've been complaining. I've never heard so much complaining. If you don't want to join Faith World, why are you here? I'm going to ask this once: Who wants to go back home?" He looks at all of them. "Can you hear me on the other RVs?" He waits for a response. "Well?"
"Yes," a voice from the second RV says.
"We hear you," the third RV says.
"I heard many of you refer to the Faithers as terrorists, which means you've completely drank the government propaganda. As a member of the courts for his entire life, let me tell you what the truth is and maybe you'll do me the mutual courtesy of remembering it. Back in the '70s, the definition of terrorism was greatly expanded far beyond engaging in it, directly supporting it, and financing it. First it was expanded to those who supported terrorism ideologically, then it became those, according to the government, who likely supported it, though no proof had to be provided, then it became anyone the government didn't like. That's been the definition ever since T. Wilson became president. Terrorism by Faithers is nil. Terrorism by Anarchists surpassed those by Muslims and CHIN sympathizers back in the '80s. You all don't know anything about anything.
"For the duration of our time together, I don't want to hear a word from any of you. Not one world. You people are certifiable. The second we get to the compound I'm going to ask to be separated from you, because if I were them, I wouldn't take you back." Stein moves to the driver's compartment. "I truly don't know why you are here. You people are the most morose, negative, sorry sacks of life I have ever encountered. They offer you a way back in and this is how you act." Stein sits in his chair and sees the SUV in front of him with very bright rear lights. "Sit down! Or jump out! I don't care which. We're driving."
China
7:01 a.m., 26 October 2096
The jungle surrounds the tiny, ancient city, but the tree-shaded roads are modern and fairly new, courtesy of the government. A convoy of several cars are parked to the side of the road. A female soldier in a black uniform stands at the rear passenger side of the lead limo. The window rolls down and a middle-aged man speaks to her.
"Call in the troops. We will move within the hour."
"The dissidents, commander?" she asks.
"The Underground Church."
"They still exist, commander?"
Pure Conspiracy (The After Eden Series): The Genesis of World War III Page 15
