by JL Bryan
“You guys really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” he said to his dark reflection. The reflection stared back at him, unblinking, and said nothing.
THIRTEEN
At the GlobeNet studio on Monday, a makeup girl painted over the bruises on Ruppert’s face and the injuries to his hands, then sprayed on a fake tan. One of the producers hung a plastic lei around Ruppert’s neck and told him they were going to “ad-lib” some chatter about Ruppert’s recent vacation. Ad-libbing meant they would read some scripted informal chatter, the type that reassured the audience that GlobeNet reporters were just regular folks like them.
When he’d settled in between Amanda Greene and the new, younger, hipper sports reporter, he waited for the theme music to pass and then read: “Good evening and welcome to GlobeNet-L.A.’s nightly news. I’m Daniel Ruppert, returning from a fantastic week on St. Lucia.” This confused him—wasn’t the lei associated with Hawaii rather than the Caribbean? Would the audience bother to notice?
“Looks like somebody wishes they were still on vacation.” Amanda delivered the line as if it were perfectly spontaneous. Following the stage direction floating before him in giant holographic letters, Ruppert pretended to notice he was wearing the lei.
“Oops!” Ruppert said, holding up the plastic flowers with a finger. “I guess I had such a good time I forgot I was coming back to work!”
“I think we all feel that way on Mondays, Daniel,” Amanda said.
“That’s right, Amanda.” Ruppert forced his charming newsguy smile. “Well, big news from the mayor’s office: This year’s Fourth of July parade is going to be bigger than ever, including tanks driven by the brave men and women at Fort Irwin and a spectacular air display courtesy of the fine boys at Los Angeles Air Force Base. Ten thousand flags will hang along Sunset Boulevard to celebrate.” Video of workers hanging flags and bunting played as he spoke. “Police are promising to sweep up the homeless and the drug addicts to make the parade safe for good citizens…”
After the taping, a notice appeared on the green desk in front of Ruppert summoning him to George Baldwin’s office. He trudged down the wide corridor, keeping his hands in his pockets to hide their shaking. The Terror agent’s office was at the end of the hall, walled with black glass where most offices had clear windows. His body seemed to grow heavier with each step. Could they be displeased with him already?
As Ruppert drew near the closed glass door, a glowing female face emerged from the black glass as if swimming up from deep waters—Baldwin’s digital assistant.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Ruppert,” she said.
“I had a notice to see George,” he told her.
“One moment please.” The beautiful face sank back into the darkness, then returned a few seconds later. “Please come in. Mr. Baldwin is ready for you.” The glass door slid aside.
From inside Baldwin’s office, you could see the hallway clearly through the black glass. The remainder of Baldwin’s walls were video panels. Images of paintings floated on them now—Baldwin appeared to have a strong affinity for the work of Hieronymus Bosch. The Department of Terror seal dominated the entire wall behind Baldwin’s desk, and its soaring silver eagle appeared six feet tall. Ruppert shivered at the sight of it.
Baldwin stood, all smiles, and shook Ruppert’s hand, grasping it just a little too hard. Ruppert tried not to look at the silver skull pin on the lapel of Baldwin’s black coat, remembering how the gleaming skulls had snapped at him in cyberspace. Baldwin was an imposing presence, taller and broader and no doubt stronger than Ruppert.
“Daniel!” Baldwin said, with a cheerful tone that implied they were old water-cooler buddies, though they’d rarely spoken. “Great to have you back. Have a seat.”
Ruppert did as he was told, facing the Terror man across a broad expanse of black desk.
“Can I order you anything?” Baldwin asked. “Water? Coffee?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” Ruppert’s knees were trembling. The wounds in his hands, now invisible under concealer, started to ache.
“I was so happy to hear from my director that you’re working with us now. I know there were some suspicions—you have to be suspicious, in a time of war—but I told them, no, not Daniel Ruppert. He’s a good, state-fearing man, a real patriot. He’ll be happy to help out. I said I’ve worked with this guy, I’ve studied him, and I think he will do anything his country asks.” Baldwin’s large hand slapped the glossy black desktop at the word “studied,” and Ruppert jumped a little in his seat.
“I appreciate it, Mr. Baldwin—”
“George.”
“George,” Ruppert said. “We all have to do our part to support our brave men and women in uniform.”
“That’s absolutely right. We live in dangerous times, Daniel. Enemies without and enemies within. The role of my organization is, as you know, to search out the enemies within. Now you have your part to play. I want you to know I’m here if you need any support on this.”
“Thank you…George. I appreciate it. I’m not entirely sure why I was chosen for this task—though of course I’m happy to help my country in any way I can.”
“Well, we didn’t do the choosing—I’d rather have kept you out of it, naturally, so you could focus on your work and family like a regular citizen. But they chose you, so now we have to play along.”
“Who are you saying chose me?”
“They. Them.” Baldwin waved a dismissive hand. “The enemies of the state.”
“I don’t understand.”
“That’s why you’re perfect for this, Daniel. You’re not meant to know very much about the situation, and you don’t. You’ll be able to play your role with great honesty.”
“You mean capturing the neo-Nazi guy.”
“Exactly right.” The graying, age-progressed image of Hollis Westerly appeared on one wall. The man had the glazed eyes of a corpse.
“I have to tell you,” Baldwin said, “This is a dangerous job. You’ll be exposed to all kinds of enemy propaganda. I’m sure you can hold up, but I want you to be warned.”
“I would like to know a little more about who this guy is, why you need me to—”
“No need for that. The op requires you to be unaware. You’ll act much more naturally that way.”
“Okay.”
“I know it’s difficult to understand. You just play along with whatever they offer you, and you’ll be fine. Now, have you attempted to make contact yet?”
“Not exactly. I was still recovering from—from my vacation, over the weekend.”
“Probably a smart choice. We need you at the top of your game. I’d suggest you wait another day or two, in fact, but no longer than that. We need to move while this is hot.”
“I understand.”
“We’re on the enemy’s ten-yard line here, Daniel. We just need you to take the ball and run it to the end zone. Remember, make contact, stay in character, go along with whatever they want. Keep your nose in the air for any word of this Hollis person. Do you have any more questions?”
Ruppert had a thousand, but not the kind Baldwin would care to hear. Ruppert's only concern was getting out of the Terror agent’s office as soon as possible.
“I think I understand what you want.”
“Perfect. Well, don’t let me detain you any longer. Remember, I’m available if you need me, day or night.”
“Thanks, George.”
Ruppert took some pleasure in skipping Revelation Review on Tuesday night. Let Liam O’Shea whine and moan all he wanted. Ruppert had already been hauled off in the night, tortured, and conscripted by the Department of Terror. O’Shea’s petty snitchery was not even on his radar anymore.
As he parked outside the Video Terminal on Sepulveda, this minor sense of triumph evaporated. He’d selected a low-end video café in the dirty concrete hell of Van Nuys to avoid any chance of encountering people he knew.
The blue-braided, multi-pierced girl who accepted his cas
h at the front booth didn’t seem to recognize him, either—obviously, not a big consumer of local news. Her appearance was a remnant of older, more freewheeling California. Had she been anyone of importance, the way she looked would be sufficient to convict her of dissidence. The truly poor and powerless were unofficially indulged a certain, limited freedom in minor consumer matters, either because they influenced no one or, as Ruppert suspected, because it helped keep the upper classes properly frightened in their enclaves. Talk-show hosts and pundits needed somebody to attack and hold up as examples of immorality.
People with much darker skin than Ruppert was accustomed to seeing crowded the café, the sort of people men at his church would refer to as having “suspicious blood.” They clustered together around shared screens, drinking and smoking, pausing to glare at Ruppert as he passed. He’d tried to dress down for the occasion, but the designer jeans and the blue Oxford shirt, however rumpled and untucked, might as well have been a royal silk robe in a place where many dressed in scraps of mismatched cloth crudely stitched together.
He sat down in his rented video booth, which had flimsy blinder walls on either side of the screen but nothing behind him—any of the customers wandering by could see what he was doing.
Ruppert used a coffee napkin to wipe some of the unidentifiable crust off his screen, which was only twelve inches high and jammed with corporate logos jockeying for his attention, seeking to lure him onto their retail sites.
“Manual dialer,” he said. A classic QWERTY keyboard appeared as a two-dimensional projection on the narrow shelf in front of the screen, while a blank window opened on the screen itself. Ruppert removed the plastic card from his wallet and typed out the long string of numbers and letters. He took a breath. All of this—the shoddy café, the manual dialing—was a sham, intended to prevent Terror from monitoring a call that he was fairly certain they were waiting to monitor. The sham was aimed at Sully’s “close friend” who would answer the call. Ruppert was already lying to that person before ever speaking to him.
He touched the ENTER button.
The word “CONNECTING…” appeared inside the blank window. A second, smaller window opened inside it, displaying the same text, and then a third window opened, nested inside the other two. After a painfully long wait, text appeared in the smallest window:
WHO IS THIS?
Ruppert thought it over. How would he identify himself if he were trying to be discreet?
D RUPP, he typed.
After a few seconds, the reply came: SUNDAY NITE. NIXON STADIUM, 472. This had to refer to the early preseason game of the Los Angeles Archangels. The number referred to seats in the southeast nosebleed section.
OK, Ruppert answered.
The windows closed in reverse order, leaving him to face the page of ads. The conversation he’d been putting off for two months had lasted less than a minute, but left him with a new set of problems. How would he explain his night out to Madeline? He could hardly invite her to come with him. What if he was arrested by authorities while meeting with a dissident? Would Terror step in and protect him? He didn’t even know the name of the Captain who’d given him this assignment. At least he had George Baldwin from work.
He should report his plans to meet Sully’s friend to Baldwin, keep the Terror man updated on what he was doing, but part of him resisted the idea. Part of him wanted to operate as secretly as he could manage, maybe hold open the door to betraying the Department of Terror if he found an opportunity.
He thought of Hollis Westerly—the man was clearly dangerous, probably insane. As much as Ruppert had learned to loathe Terror, even he couldn’t argue with taking a man like Westerly off the streets. He would feel little guilt about turning Westerly over to Terror, and maybe that would settle things, and he could try to resume a normal life afterward.
The screen beeped and a new window appeared: TIME EXPIRED. PLEASE PURCHASE MORE TIME. Ruppert wished he could. Between Terror and the terrorist dissidents he’d been ordered to infiltrate, his chances of survival seemed miserably low.
FOURTEEN
“I know where you’re going,” Madeline said. She looked straight ahead at the car in front of them, avoiding his eyes. He was driving them home from Sunday church services.
“I’m telling you the truth, Madeline. You can call George Baldwin, the Terror man at GlobeNet. He said I have to help him with something tonight. He didn’t give any details, but—”
“Yes, Daniel. I’m sure your friend at work will cover for you.”
“He’s not my friend. He works for Terror.”
Madeline said. “I just hoped our vacation would put an end to it. I thought it would bring us closer together, like we used to be, but I guess nothing ever will.”
“What vacation?”
“St. Lucia.” Her face crinkled in anger. “I thought you’d forget about her.”
“Madeline, I was never seeing anyone else. And we sure as hell never went to St. Lucia. You know that.”
Madeline rolled her eyes and looked out the passenger window.
“We’re not in public, Madeline. You don’t have to do this.”
“Do what? Talk about your mistress?” She snorted. “Mistress. Almost sounds classy when you say it like that.”
“You never even thought I was having an affair until those Terror agents told you I was.”
“What does the Department of Terror have to do with anything?” Madeline snapped. “Just plan to stay home next weekend. I’m ovulating.”
Ruppert drove on in silence. The rift between them had widened into a gulf too wide to bridge. The most honest moments of their marriage had come just after Terror deposited them back at home. Now she’d cut him off, casting him in her mind as just another person to whom she had to prove her unquestioning faith and patriotism.
He could see their future from here, a continual retreat away from each other into their isolated, individual selves. Terror had severed whatever connection the two of them had shared. He wondered if it was a strategy, breaking people apart so that they stood alone and powerless, or if they’d done this to provide Ruppert an ongoing reminder that nothing in his life was safe from Terror. A smoldering hatred rose within him as he understood that both he and Madeline had been violated so deeply that they might never recover.
They didn’t speak again all afternoon.
The city of Los Angeles had never restored Malibu after the big mudslide of 2019, and neglected to repair any of the collapsed infrastructure of south L.A. after the earthquake of 2024, but somehow it had no trouble raising funds for Nixon Stadium, completed in 2027 with seventy thousand seats. At each of the four cardinal directions, a towering statue loomed at the upper lip of the stadium. The statues were identical: angels—or archangels, Ruppert supposed—their wings spread open like a canopy, their beatific faces bowed towards the playing field, their hands clasped in prayer.
Ruppert bought a ticket for section 469, then sat down in the middle row of 472. He had no competition for seating. The lowest levels were packed, but only scattered clusters of fans populated the top level. He had empty rows above and below him. Apparently there weren’t many Packers fans willing to travel all the way from Wisconsin to watch an insignificant June early preseason game.
He waited impatiently through the first two quarters of the game, eating popcorn that tasted like salted Styrofoam. He kept his cap, stamped with the Archangels logo from three seasons ago, pulled low over his eyes, though he doubted he would encounter anyone he knew up all the way up here when much better seats were available below.
As the clock ran out on the second quarter, the Archangels were ahead 12-7, and it had not been a particularly eventful game. When the halftime buzzer sounded, a voice spoke directly into Ruppert’s ear, making him jump:
“What did I miss?”
He turned to see a lean young man, maybe half a foot shorter than himself, with a mop of sandy hair. He wore a Green Bay Packers jersey. He had sat down
just behind Ruppert and leaned in close to talk.
“Not much,” Ruppert said. “We fumbled in the first quarter, a little bit of a scramble, but your guys didn’t take it. Other than that…” He shrugged.
“These early preseason games,” the Packers fan said, shaking his head. “I don’t even think the players care.”
“I don’t even think the coaches care,” Ruppert said, and the man laughed, then stepped over and dropped into the plastic seat next to Ruppert.
“You look taller on the screen,” he said.
“I’m always sitting down,” Ruppert replied.
“Maybe that’s why. I’m glad you finally decided to meet me. It took you one hell of a lot of courage.”
Ruppert cast a few nervous glances around him, but no one seemed to be paying them any attention. All eyes were riveted to the half-time show set-up as stages wheeled onto the field, along with the Tree of Justice, a five-story scaffolding with beams extending out in every direction. Most of the beams ended in a square platform, and on every platform stood a blindfolded man with his hands shackled behind him, more than a hundred men in all. Each man had a limp noose around his neck, anchored to a beam over his head.
“You’re Sully’s friend?” Ruppert asked.
“Yeah, we were…yeah.”
“Have you heard from him?”
“No. They have special places for people like me and Sully, you know. Personality modification. Behavior programming. Try to cut the sin out of us. If he’s lucky, they just killed him.”
“Jesus.”
“And I’d rather not talk about that anymore right now, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Ladies and gentlemen,” a voice boomed from every speaker in the stadium. “Please rise as the Ladies’ Choir of the Holy Kingdom Shopping Plaza Community Dominionist Church performs ‘The Battle Hymn of the Republic.’”
