by Brandt Legg
“Any word on Drast?” Nelson asked quietly.
“There are rumors . . . he may still be alive.”
Chelle recalled the time when she met Polis Drast in college, she a student and he a young professor. The two shared a common philosophy for reform and would often talk late into the night. Nelson’s early writings, as well as those of authors he’d brought to their attention, had heavily influenced them. Drast had been the more ideological of the two. He thought the government too restrictive, that the AOI was more brutal than even Nazi Germany’s Gestapo.
“I still see him the way he was back in school. Do you remember his passion?”
“Yeah, he was a great speaker,” Nelson said. “I always thought he was going to get you all arrested.”
“A close friend back then said that I was an extremist by any government definition, but Polis was an extremist by any extremist definition.”
“That’s true. But you both put it on the line, and once you met Bull Andreas the team was unstoppable,” Nelson said. “But Bull is dead and Polis is too, or he’s rotting in an AOI prison wishing he was.”
“You know, Polis never got over my marrying Bull.”
“I know.”
“Polis had already proposed.”
“I know.”
“I told him I wasn’t the marrying kind, but he thought it was because he was older than me. It wasn’t that either. I didn’t care about his age. The truth is, I was afraid of him. He had so much torgon passion.”
Their ideological debates might have all gone the way of late night college talks had a recruiter not found them. At the time PAWN, enjoying a lax period in government monitoring, had begun aggressively recruiting. It didn’t take long for the underground to find Polis Drast and his star pupil, Chelle Wright. Soon the recruiter introduced them, and the still relatively unknown author Nelson Wright, to members who enlightened them further on the crimes of Aylantik. Eventually the three of them learned enough that their initial feelings of discontent were replaced with a burning desire to take down the government.
Over many months they developed a loose plan, independent of PAWN. They took into account the three paths to power. Chelle would enter the business and financial world while Drast would go into law enforcement and politics, and Nelson would use his talent and flare for writing to influence greater numbers. If they succeeded, they would have a grip on all aspects of the requirements for revolution – rebels, money, and military.
They were young, she recalled, and hadn’t a clue what they were up against.
Chapter 10 - Book 2
“There was a man named Clastier,” Miner said to Sarlo as he paced the Jatoba-wood floor of his Buenos Aires penthouse office. He liked the sound his expensive shoes, crafted from leather-like Tekfrabrik, made when he walked on it, like a soft click. “Before him, Saint Malachy, an Archbishop in the old Catholic Church, born a thousand years ago, saw things in the future that later came to be. And there have been others.”
Sarlo, sensing a long monologue, sat in one of the ultra comfortable tru-chairs, which not only conformed perfectly to the sitter’s anatomy, but delivered gentle massage and acupressure while harvesting body heat for energy.
“You see, the Banoff plague and war had been prophesized centuries ago,” he continued. “But none were as specific and accurate as Clastier’s.”
“Wait, if the Banoff had been predicted, why couldn’t it be stopped?” Sarlo asked.
“There were those who prophesized about World War II and assassinations of powerful leaders. Knowing something might happen is one thing, believing it is another, and quite another is doing something about it. Sometimes it’s a matter of faith, and then there’s the matter of the SDE phenomenon, meaning a suppressed destiny always expands.”
Sarlo stared at her boss, a man she believed she knew extremely well. “When did you get so metaphysical?”
“It isn’t metaphysics, it’s by any means necessary,” Miner said, staring back. “There cannot be a war.” He paused and stared out the window for half a minute. “But if war does come… we must win.”
It was the first time she’d ever heard him admit that war might be unavoidable. “Did you get this from the Imps?”
Sarlo had been impressed with the knowledge of the group of four Imps Miner had made a habit of consulting. He’d even put them on the payroll. But she didn’t trust them. Something about their being part human and part machine made her uncomfortable.
“The same Imp who told us about Deuce Lipton’s uncle.”
“But we never found him, we never‒‒”
“We might not have found Cope Lipton, but he was real. You know we intercepted that conversation between Deuce’s son and daughter talking about him, and there are the references in Nelson Wright’s unpublished work.”
“But none of that is verified. It could all be one of Deuce’s counterintelligence moves.”
“Yes, it could. But it’s not. What if the future is there to be known?”
“What is this? A science fiction novel? One of the burned books from Portland that caused us so much trouble?”
“That’s just it. They saved the books.”
“I know the librarian, his son Grandyn, Chelle Andreas, and her brother, that author Nelson Wright, got fifty or sixty thousand books out before the AOI crew got in there to do the burn, but what are you saying?”
“I’m trying to tell you that hundreds of years ago people prophesized, accurately, about the Banoff and other matters . . . including the rise of Aylantik, the Doneharvest, and a revolution.”
Sarlo studied him as she rose from the tru-chair. Obviously he believed the unbelievable things he was telling her. “A revolution?” She moved her hands in a quick gesture and a needle beam of light appeared. The air temperature in modern buildings was optimized to the body temperature of the occupants, but Sarlo liked it a tad warmer and quickly made the adjustment by touching the light.
“Yes. In our time. A revolution that is about to occur, and if we can find the prophecies we will know how to win.”
“And that’s what the librarian was really trying to save?”
“It doesn’t matter what he was trying to do, but yes, he probably thought that was all it was about. But Deuce Lipton knew because of his Uncle Cope, and he knew because his grandfather, Booker Lipton, knew about the prophecies.”
“Wait, back up.” She touched her INU and a VM came to life between them. “You’re telling me that Booker Lipton who was, back then, the wealthiest man in the world, had these prophecies that predicted the Banoff, and did nothing to prevent it?”
Booker’s photo appeared in the air. Below him, a photo of Deuce’s father, Spencer Lipton, and next to him a blank silhouette labeled Cope Lipton. Below Spencer was a photo of Deuce, and below him Twain and Tyler Lipton. Next to the family tree was a similar chart showing the known holdings of Deuce. It was enormous, representing major corporations in key industries, and even in the vastness of what it showed they both new it was incomplete, a fact that constantly infuriated Miner.
“I don’t know what Booker Lipton knew about the Banoff,” Miner said. “I hardly see why that matters now. He’s long dead, and so are his sons.”
“Booker was lost at sea in 2060, but no body was ever recovered,” Sarlo said.
“Are you being serious? Are you trying to imply that Booker is still alive?” Miner asked incredulously. “Booker was born in 1975, he’d be one-hundred-twenty-eight years old. Impossible!”
“And how old is Munna?” Sarlo asked, raising her eyebrows. “I’ll save you the math. Munna is reportedly between one hundred thirty-three and one hundred thirty five.”
“We don’t have time for this fanciful talk.”
“Really? Then please, let’s continue the conversation about prophecies and saints.”
He couldn’t help but laugh. “Hell, I don’t know what I believe, Sarlo. But I know there are things in this world we can’t explain. Like how could Munna
live to be so old? How come the Field can’t penetrate into any large forest? How the hell did the universe begin?”
“Big Bang,” she answered as a troop of at least thirty AOI agents with jet packs flew past the building. The formation was more than a hundred meters from their windows, and a common sight, but no one really liked it. Drone flyovers happened so often that most people didn’t even notice them.
“And before the Bang?”
“Have you read the prophecies?” she asked, trying to rein in their winged conversation.
“No.”
“How do you know they exist?”
“The Imps, and not just them. I have countless intercepts going back to the last days of the librarian’s life when he was urged by Deuce to search for them. And even . . . ” He hesitated.
“What?”
“They predicted the Eysen.”
“So? It’s a huge invention.” Sarlo, knowing the Eysen INU to be the most revolutionary object ever invented by humans, wasn’t surprised.
“They predict its discovery, not its invention.”
“What? Booker Lipton invented the Eysen.”
“No. He found it.”
“Where?” She couldn’t believe how strange this conversation had become.
“I don’t know, but he found it and reverse-engineered it.”
“This is some sort of fairytale made up by the Imps at the direction of Deuce.”
“I don’t think so. The prophecies are said to have come from Eysens.”
She scoffed, walked around the room, stopped at the window, and then whirled back around to face her boss. “If that’s true, then we’ve got a bigger problem then PAWN and the so-called prophecies.”
“What could be bigger?” Miner asked.
“If the prophecies came from an Eysen that Booker didn’t invent, then his grandson, Deuce, may have that Eysen. If he does, then he already knows the future.”
Chapter 11 - Book 2
Inmate Evren entered the room and looked at Terik with total disinterest.
“I’m AOI agent Ander Terik. I have a few questions for you, Mr. Evren.”
“I was napping.”
“Sorry to bother you, Mr. Drast,” Terik said.
The use of his real name got his attention. In all the time he had been there, the AOI had sent eleven different agents to harass and interrogate him on dozens of different occasions, but this was the first time anyone had ever addressed him by anything other than Lex Evren, or “dirt bag,” or “good-for-nothing-treasonous-bastard,” or some other equally unpleasant term of endearment. It was also the first time he’d ever seen an agent so young.
“New tactic?” Evren/Drast asked.
Terik held up his Whistler.
Drast nodded knowingly and looked around suspiciously.
“I need your help.”
“You need my help?” Drast asked. “Are you in hell? Are you in an AOI prison? Because if you aren’t in one of those synonymous places, then you don’t get to ask for help because freedom, by its very nature, affords endless opportunity and limitless possibilities. Prison, on the other hand, steals everything!” He looked into Terik’s eyes with steely penetration.
The outburst surprised Terik. “I don’t have much time,” he said firmly.
Drast laughed. “You don’t have much time. Oh, the irony. The torgon irony.”
“I need to know if you still have access to your data?”
“My data?”
“It was reported that all your data was destroyed when you died.” Terik gave Drast a hard look, as an attorney might do while trying to lead a witness on the stand. “Was it?”
Drast glanced at the Whistler. “Do your superiors know you’re here?”
“No.” He subconsciously rubbed a thumb over the gold AOI emblem on his Tekfabrik shirt.
“You’re a fool.” He shook his head and got up, but then sat back down. “Why are you here?”
“I want your data. Specifically, everything you have on Grandyn Happerman.”
Drast laughed again. “My, oh my.” He rubbed his hands down his cheeks. “Trying to be a hero are you, agent Terik?“
“Can you help?”
“Why do you think I would help you with something like that? That is crazy, and contrary to what my former AOI colleagues might think of me, I’m a careful man. Do you know I was going to be the next World Premier? Do you think that kind of thing happens by accident?”
“Look Drast, I’m short on time. Tell me what you want.”
“Is this the AOI asking? Or some reckless and cocky young man?”
“Take your pick.”
“Why don’t you tell me what I want,” Drast said, looking into Terik’s eyes.
Without dropping his gaze Terik whispered. “Chelle Andreas. You want Chelle Andreas.”
Drast nodded slowly, but didn’t speak for at least twenty seconds, never taking his eyes off Terik. “And how can you give me Chelle Andreas?”
“Well, obviously I cannot bring her here to you, but I can get a message to her, and from her back to you.”
“Careful, boy. You’re talking treason.”
“The message would have to be non-conflict-related. Strictly personal. I would read it and her reply.”
“Do you know where she is?”
“Yes,” Terik lied, he hoped convincingly enough.
Drast thought for a moment and then smiled. “Messages,” he said.
“What?”
“Not one message, but messages, plural, as in a continued correspondence.”
“No way.”
“No deal then.”
“Even one exchange would be incredible risky.”
“Well then, go shake in a corner somewhere, but if you’ve got any balls, boy, then cut the deal. Get what you want and retire a hero.”
Terik looked at his INU. He had just over a minute left. “How many messages?”
“I want a dialog with Chelle. As much as I’d like to know she’s okay, and for her to know the same about me. That’s just not enough for what you’re asking. But an on-going conversation with her, that might be worth the treasure you seek. That might be worth the private files I can give you on Grandyn Happerman.”
“And the related parties,” Terik added.
“You can have the three Happermans and the TreeRunners. You shouldn’t need more than that.”
Terik saw his seconds ticking away. “I want Nelson Wright and Vida Mondragon,” he said.
Drast stroked his chin. “Fair enough. Come back tomorrow and I’ll give you the first message to Chelle and tell you how to access the first of the data files.”
“The first?”
“You want six data files. I’m not giving them all to you at once. I want to be sure the messages get out and back in first. I want to be sure you really can reach Chelle.”
“No. You’re in no position to bargain. You give me the message with the six data files. You have my word I’ll get the message to her.”
“You’re wrong. I am in a position. You want what I have far more than I want your services.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Try me.”
“With all due respect Drast, the Chief may decide to execute you at any time. I can’t risk everything I’m risking and then have you turn up dead. It could just as easily be that they transfer you to another prison that I can’t access.”
“Don’t worry, agent.” He said the last word as if spitting it in two hard syllables. “They aren’t going to kill me until they’re sure I can’t hurt them.”
Osc came to the door and gave a firm out-of-there signal.
“Okay. I’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Excellent,” Drast said. “Now you be careful. And remember, making a deal with the devil is never what it seems.”
Chapter 12 - Book 2
Chelle recalled the feeling she had one day when she, Drast, and Nelson were attending a secret PAWN rally in Vermont the autumn after she graduat
ed.
“Nelson, do you remember that October in Dorset?”
“Sure, why?”
“It felt like anything was possible. Like we could really change the world.”
“And we have.”
“Well so far all we’ve done is make a mess of it.” She thought of the disastrous fates of Bull, Runit, Polis, and of all the others who’d already died in the quiet rebellion. “But I believe we’re right, and we can still prevail.”
“Peace prevails, always,” Nelson said shrilly, mocking the Aylantik’s motto.
“But according to Munna and Cope Lipton, what I felt back in Dorset was destiny.”
“According to UC, destiny is a multi-layered force, always changing. In some ways your true destiny is every conceivable thing that could happen to you during the course of a lifetime.” He paused and looked at her, seeing the new lines of age in her face, thinking about how she’d been as a girl, following him around, asking questions, demanding things be done a certain way. “But it most often is the thing we’re passionate about. Or at least, that is the vehicle in which we travel to our destiny. For me, it’s writing.”
“And mine?”
“I’d have to say it is your sense of justice. That is your vehicle.”
She nodded, as if satisfied with that assessment. “And my destiny?”
“To help right the greatest wrong ever wrought.”
“I hope you’re right.”
The years since college and that sense of justice had been hard on Chelle. After finding and marrying Bull Andreas, a man who shared her passions and dreams and had his own brilliance, he became the first casualty within their circle. Suddenly, reality crashed in on their private conspiracy, making everything more personal, more dangerous, and victory more essential.
Bull Andreas had grown rich and powerful as a private banker and dealmaker to the elite. In the beginning, they never could have imagined the fortune he’d amass, the success that never swayed or deterred the couple from their mission. If anything, the vast wealth made them more determined because they knew where the easy funds had come from – the manipulation and exploitation of the masses. But along the way, Bull discovered too many secrets held by the powerful super-rich, and one of them got him noticed by the AOI, who did what they always did when there was even a hint of a threat. They eliminated him.
