by Smith, Skye
She didn't get a chance to ask because most of the rest of the day was spent in public places like the top of the Empire State building and a very aloof restaurant.
Just before bed time, however, she did get some private time with a relaxed and somewhat drunk knight. "Where is this all going?" she asked. "The school I mean, and training the psychos, I mean, training the gifted."
"Why, my dear, it is going the same place it has come from. To understand it you must understand the beginning. Imagine back before history was written down. Men learned how to domesticate and herd animals. Goats, sheep, cattle, horses. It was easy to convince themselves that they were special and better than the animals and therefore had the right, were entitled, to herd them.
At the time, society was tribal and local. The next step was realizing that they could domesticate and herd people. Raiding other tribes and herding those people became the most profitable of all herding and breeding businesses."
"You mean slaves," she interrupted.
"Exactly. But slavery has two sides. Slaves and masters. No one wants to be a slave, and due to the emotion of remorse, it is difficult for most to therefore justify being a master. To do that they must believe, with all their heart and soul, believe that they are better than those that they enslave. Of course, this is much easier if there is a racial, cultural, or tribal difference."
Blah, blah, blah, she thought. Now he did sound like a principal.
"In master slave cultures, those who are 'gifted' tend to become the masters, and with time, the elite of the masters. Recent studies report that the 'gifted' are about one percent of the population, mostly male. In the masters, due to inbreeding and cultural forces, this percentage is much higher. I am told that around Wall Street it is now running about ten percent. In the ranks of the slaves, of course, the 'gifted' one would tend to be eliminated.
Currently the ruling elite of this world makes up about one percent of the population. There is an obvious correlation between the percentages. The masters consider themselves a class apart. They hold firmly onto a self-serving consensus reality that they are better than everyone else, and therefore are entitled to be the elite."
"But slavery ended a hundred years ago," She had found the flaw in his explanation. "I mean, except for sex slavery. Like, slavery has been almost stomped out."
"Not at all, my dear. The slaves have simply traded metal chains for money chains. Anyone who is deeply in debt is a peon. Peonage is an ancient form of slavery. Instead being forced to work by masters with whips, they are forced to work to pay the interest on their debts."
"So what do the masters have instead of whips?"
"Why, they own the debts, of course. It is a delightfully peaceful arrangement. Less violence means more productivity. More productivity means more credit, which means more debt, which means more slavery, and all without the masters having to whip their slaves. Very efficient. Very peaceful, because most slaves no longer live anywhere near their masters, and don't even know who they are."
"But isn't all this easy credit, like you read about in the newspapers, isn't that new? Like within my lifetime."
"Interest is just rent, rent for the use of money. In my father's time people rented their homes from landlords. Now they rent the money to buy those homes. It is the same. The landlords became bankers. The same families are still the masters. In England, those families date back to the same era as the founding of my schools. Back to the Norman Conquest and to their genocide of the Anglo-Danes. My schools will go on. So long as there is a master class, they will go on. Forever."
"Or until there is a revolution, like we had in 1776." She couldn't keep the irritation out of her tone.
"America, a revolution. Oh, my dear. You were ruled by both English and local masters. They had a divorce."
"Well what about France, and, and, and the commies?"
"In France they swapped the 'gifted' king for the very 'gifted' Napoleon. Now I must say that the commies in Russia and China were more frightening. They almost pulled it off. Would have too, if it hadn't been for the brilliance of Thatcheromics. You've heard of my dear friend Margaret Thatcher of course?"
She shook her head.
"Ah, of course, you would know it as Reaganomics. It was the completion of the switchover from rent slaves, to debt slaves. Landlords to bankers. You know. Easy credit. Get the slaves deeply in debt for consumer toys so that their noses are forced ever further down onto the grindstone. Brilliant. And in Russia and China, well all the commies wanted to drive flashy cars too. They capitulated."
She couldn't listen to this poison any more. She told him she was going to bed.
"Think about it carefully, Maya. What I am offering you is a once in a lifetime chance to switch from being a slave, to being a master. Think of the bother, the money and the time I have spent just to recruit you. Think about it."
She stuck out her tongue at him, but only after she had closed and locked her bedroom door.
* * * * *
* * * * *
MAYA'S AURA - the Ashram by Skye Smith
Chapter 5 - Manhattan, New York
Commonsense is the realized sense of proportion. - Mahatma Gandhi.
She met the lawyer outside the room that was to be used for the coroner's inquest into the death of Rich Lumbar. She had her luggage with her. There was a winter storm brewing outside, more of a weather bomb actually. Wherever the arctic outflow met the damp winds from the south, there would be a big snow dump. Traffic might be snarled. Flights may be cancelled. She was heading to the airport as soon as the inquest was over.
The luggage was a problem. This was a secure area, and security guys reacted to it as if she was wearing a turban and a straggly beard. She let them paw through her undies, so they would allow her to leave it with them while she was in the hearing.
The hearing ended almost before it had begun. The coroner, at least she assumed that was who he was, read the summary of the autopsy, the summary of the doctor's report, the summary of the paramedic report, the synopsis of the lab report, and the police summary about what those present at his death had reported. The press gallery collectively yawned. There was no news here.
He then asked that anyone who suspected foul play should come forward now and state their reasons. Maya almost puked when the woman detective from the street outside Yvonne's apartment started to stand. But then she was pulled back down by the man sitting beside her. It was over. Maya's presence had not even been needed.
There was no mad scramble of the press to reach the phones to call the story in. They were all planning where to go for coffee to soak up the freed up hour that they would charge to their editors. Maya had sat near the back door, and now without a word to the studio's lawyer, she skipped out the door and down the long hallway to ransom her luggage.
She reached the taxi stand before anyone else and slipped into the back of the first cab in the line. "JFK," was all she said to the driver. Too late. The woman detective had chased after her and was now telling the driver to keep it in park.
Maya's heart jumped into her mouth when the detective opened the back door and started to climb in. The detective's spreading bum was about to touch down on the seat, when she was suddenly and ungraciously yanked out of the taxi. Replacing her were two elegantly long legs which connected a pair of expensive stilettos to a short, smart navy blue serge skirt.
"You had your chance," said an overly shrill woman's voice, "now get out of her face." The head ducked in. It was Wendy. "Get out of here," she ordered the driver and flung a hundred dollar bill at him before she had the door closed. The effect of the cash was immediate and the tires chirped as he hit the gas.
Maya turned and watched the detective almost fall over trying to regain her balance and clear herself away from the lurching taxi. It wasn't over, though. She was brandishing her badge at a squad car and waving to it to pick her up. "Thanks," she said to Wendy.
"Sir Nigel sent me. He's not taking any chances with his
new recruit," Wendy said as she swung back from watching out the rear window. "I hope your plane leaves soon. I don't think she is very happy with us right now."
"No such luck. I'm way early. I was scared of being snowed in."
"De wedder bomm eet is coming now, you betcha." said the driver. He knew at least three hundred words of English.
"You ever drive in snow before?" Maya asked him. He was so obviously from the tropics.
"Drive in mud, plenty. Same-same."
Halfway to the airport the rain turned to sleet. A mile further and it was laying down ice pebbles on the hood of the car, and on the shoulder of the road. Two more miles and the heavy wet sticky snow started jamming under the windshield wipers.
The driver almost wiped out, innocently accelerating into an ice pebbled merge lane. There was a wide shoulder here which was the only reason he didn't hit anything. "Pull over," yelled Maya urgently. "Pull over right now."
The driver obeyed. "Close to airport now. No problem."
"Yes problem!" she yelled, and told him to move over into the passenger seat. She had to physically push him to get him started. Then she jumped out and took the driver's seat. "Watch and learn," she told him as she eased away from the yellow line without spinning her wheels. "Gentle, in snow you must be gentle." He shrugged at her, not understanding. "Soft, in snow you must be soft. Soft on the gas, soft on the brake, and soft on the steering." He got it.
Ten harrowing minutes later she parked in the taxi zone in front of Terminal 9 Domestic Departures. The snow was now a couple of inches of slush. "No!" Wendy yelled from the back. "Go to 8, the International Departures. Wait there in case the detective comes looking for you."
Maya pulled away and went all around the loop again to get to International. The driver expected to be paid the meter despite already having a hundred in his wallet. When they refused, he laughed and helped them with their luggage. "Worf a try," was all his English allowed.
She pushed Wendy back into the taxi and told her to go home. Thankfully, the elegant woman saw the sense in it. She might just get home before the freeways became parking lots. The weather guessers on TV were all wrong. The weather bomb was closing in more quickly than they predicted, and from the announcements some flights had been cancelled already.
Maya waved goodbye to Wendy, who had taken the driver's seat, and then dragged her luggage into the terminal. She hated airports, or rather her aura hated airports. It would hide deep inside her and leave her feeling empty and alone. She put her hands together in prayer to try to stop it from going into hiding.
"Yeah, lady, pray for all of us," said the big black man behind her. "None of us want to get stuck in this airport overnight. There is nowhere to get comfortable in airports anymore. They treat us like herds of cattle."
She walked endlessly to reach the Domestic terminal and once there, watched carefully as she approached the check in desk for her flight. The woman detective was standing there with two uniformed constables. Damn, she was in so much trouble, police trouble, maybe jail trouble. She ducked behind a thick pillar and using it to block their line of sight, forced herself to walk slowly, rather than scurry back towards International.
It was a long walk but at least it was all indoors. Outside the snow flakes were crazy heavy and crazy fast. She looked up at the flight board. The next flight to board would be an American Air to Amsterdam. That was in Europe somewhere. Wait, wasn't that the city that her Belgian friend Marique used to go home to her parents in Bruges?
She stopped walking long enough to find her little black book. It contained not only Marique's address, but also the flight details of her last flight home. Maya had seen her off at Vancouver Airport. She looked around. She could see the American check in counter she needed way down the lobby. She picked up her pace. "Get me out of here," was the mantra she sang all the way to the ticket line where she slapped her credit card down.
When she finally got her baggage checked, she was told to run to security. Her plane was boarding early, hoping to get off the ground before the storm worsened. There was another long line at security. Someone was on the ball, however, because one of the security women was checking boarding passes and moving those on 'already loading' flights into a separate and quicker line.
When Maya was three from the front, an airline employee led a business man around everyone and directly up to the security check. "Do this one next. He is first class." The business man put his carryon bag on the conveyor, but the bag was too big and wouldn't fit through the machine.
"We are holding his plane for him. He's first class. Just let him through," said the attendant. The security staff all nodded and the businessman grabbed his bag and started to walk around.
"Hey!" There was a yell from the middle-aged man in front of Maya. "No you don't. Don't you know that all the hijackers on 911 had first class tickets. That's how they pulled it off." Other passengers were now paying attention and started to yell things like, "Strip search all first class passengers."
The security team stopped in their tracks. Finally a woman in uniform grabbed the businessman by the arm and dragged him to one side and started to empty his carryon of enough bulky items that it would fit through the machine. Maya didn't see anything more, because now she was through and slipping her shoes back on so she could run to her departure gate.
She had made it onto the plane, but now she was regretting her split second decision. The plane was full because people who were supposed to be on later flights had come to the airport early to catch this one. She had idly dreamed of having the three seats by the window all to herself. Instead, both the other seats were filled, no overfilled, by two very obese men. They looked like brothers. She could barely see her seat between them because they so overflowed their own.
She tried to get past the one on the aisle, but the man's two legs each probably weighed more than she did. She asked him politely to move over and switch seats, but he wouldn't. He told her that there wasn't enough room for him in the middle seat.
Now the stewardess was telling her to put her side bag in the upper bin and take her seat. The stewardess pushed by her to help someone else who had a bag that was way to large to be considered carry-on. Maya grabbed her by the arm and pulled her back. She whispered in the stewardesses ear, "There is no way I am going to sit between those two pigs, even if there was room. Do you blame me?"
The stewardess looked down at the middle seat. She asked the aisle man to move over. He held up his boarding pass, pointed to the seat number and refused. She looked back at Maya and said "Take off your coat. I will hang it up."
Maya did as she was told. It was bulky if she were going to be forced to sit in the middle. Underneath she was dressed for comfortable traveling. She wore a two piece cream body suit, over which she was wearing a light blue blouse, and a darker blue travel skirt complete with belt loops, pockets, and slits front and back.
The skirt had been a joy to find at a church rumble sale. It was polyester cotton, so it was easy to keep clean and fast to dry, and looked great without ironing. The front and back slits were not actually slits. It was not really a skirt, but a gaucho culottes designed for riding horses. Over her blouse she wore a turquoise cashmere cardigan to keep her chest covered and warm.
The stewardess eyed her head to toe. "Good enough. I'll seat you in first class. Do not tell anyone that you have an economy ticket, or else I'll wear it." She led Maya back to the front of the plane, and sat her in an immense leather covered seat next to the man who had been searched at security. He was looking out the window watching the snow build up on the wings.
"Hello, I am Tomas," he introduced himself politely in a Germanic accent. He smiled and nodded his thanks to the stewardess for seating her beside him. "I hope they back us out soon. They vill need to de-ice the plane before we can take off." As he said it the plane lurched, and the stewardess lost her balance and Maya grabbed her around the bum to steady her.
The stewardess thanked her and then
started yelling for everyone to make sure they were seated and had their seat belts secure. Maya pulled hers tighter and then put her hands together in prayer. She pulled her aura out of hiding and its gentle goodness made her feel all cozy warm.
"Don't worry, child," said Tomas, "this is one of the safest planes ever made." He reached for an airplane blanket and shook it out and used it to cover the lovely young girl beside him. She did not unclasp her praying hands or open her eyes, so he went back to watching out the window.
She did open her eyes when she heard a thump and some strange noises. "It is nothing," he told her. "They are just spraying de-icer on the plane. It means we have permission to take off. And none too soon. Look how heavy those snow flakes are getting."
Maya kept her eyes closed but unclenched her hands so that she could hold onto the arms of the chair. She heard and felt the big jets and then the plane started taxiing again. It turned, and almost as soon as it turned, she was pressed back into the leather seat. How could anything so big and heavy have so much acceleration. It was frightening just thinking about the forces that had been unleashed.
And then the terrible vibrations stopped and she knew they were aloft. She opened her eyes and looked down at her hands. The man's hand was on top of hers, comforting her. Damn, she had taken her gloves off to pray. She took a breath and waited for the black darkness to creep up her arm, and for the scent of charred toast to begin.
Nothing. No darkness, no charred odor. She left her hand under his, for it was comforting. Nothing. She had so expected that any man flying first class out of New York would surely be a psycho. It took a few moments for logic to make its presence known, with the thought that even on Wall Street it was only one in ten males.
Of course. He had not chosen the seat beside her. He wasn't stalking her. She had a nine out of ten chance that he was a normal man, and therefore he was probably just a guy hoping to get lucky. Once the plane leveled out, he removed his hand and reached forward for the water bottles that were complimentary and waiting for all first class passengers.
