Bring Me the Head of the Buddha

by Bloom, A. D.

  They all sat silent as the Monkey orated. “Victory promises far more than driving the G.S.A. out of one city and taking the G.S.A.'s Ziggurat as a fortress of faith. Victory is an opportunity to bring inspiration to those who wage war against the G.S.A. across the globe. The Ziggurats are in every major city, in every member nation. They are the symbols of G.S.A. dominance and permanence, and if just one falls, if the world sees the G.S.A. driven from one of their own pyramids, then everything changes.

  “Victory shows the world that the G.S.A. is not invulnerable. Victory demonstrates that the G.S.A. can be driven, city by city, from homelands across the globe. Victory makes it conceivable, for the first time since its formation, that the member nations might withdraw from the Global Secular Alliance. Imagine the neutered national governments turning their remaining military might to fight for freedom, at our sides. Victory offers hope that the people of many nations can return to nationalist freedom and once again enjoy the sovereign right to choose their own paths, including the path of faith.” The Monkey paused, and its tail swished left and right in the silence.

  “Victory offers Hope for the freedom we do not have, and it requires Faith in the unseen. The Battle for New Jerusalem is fought Today, and it will be fought with you or without you. The wheels are already in motion and they cannot be stopped. The battle has already begun. I hand you Hope; Faith turns it to Victory.”

  The three-foot-tall, gold-banded Monkey vanished in a puff of quickly fading, jade green smoke. In the Monkey's place floated slowly rotating coordinates in Place and Time, designating an early morning rendezvous, roughly in the center of the Bay.

  -32-

  They rode in Hi-5's Bentley Mod limousine, bathed in the rosy, early morning light that managed to find its way through the rising towers and down the East to West canyons of Baccha Bay City. Once again, the client was paying Big Bucks for a Big Job. After everyone had seen proof of both the Cayman Islands accounts that had been created for them, and the fantastic sums that had been placed in linked escrow transfer accounts, each of them had decided to take the job for their own reasons, and oddly enough the money wasn't the biggest deciding factor.

  Alvin was there because the client was willing to pay just to meet The Buddha. That seemed freakishly odd, but Alvin decided he didn't really care. He also suspected that if he'd refused, then the client was going to pay someone even more money to bring him along, whether he wanted to go or not. He remembered being carried around by the Penitent in a bulletproof case meant for golf clubs. He decided that he'd rather just accept the job and breathe fresh air.

  Alvin also decided to dress the part with a freshly shaved head, and he wore an orange synthetic sheet taken from Shelby's bed. It was wrapped around him like a monk's robes, and it smelled like Girl. Alvin wondered if maybe meeting The Buddha would put the mindfuck on the client like it had so many others. He thought, hearing bits of the plan, that it was beginning to sound like the client's mind was already truly fuct. The only thing Alvin was sure of was that he didn't care about the money because he really didn't care about anything anymore.

  The Wacky Gas, of which he'd gotten such a massive dose in the basement of the POP club, caused some temporary memory loss but now Alvin remembered fumbling with the trigger of the Morituri bodyguard's discarded pistol while he stared down the barrel, laughing at death. He was sorry he'd traded the gun for the joint. Like so many things, it seemed like a good idea at the time. Maybe, Alvin thought, I'll be lucky and get killed before we get there.

  Bonnie knew she had orders to infiltrate under RED BARON protocols, there was no need to put her on the High Priority Target Blacklist. Shoot On Sight. That was a mark of death. That was never part of RED BARON, never part of her mission. Delvaux, it seemed, wanted her dead. Was she suddenly an embarrassment like the six Operators who'd sided with Alvin? Whatever the reason, Bonnie needed to know why. One way or another this would come to some point of resolution. Either she'd bring Delvaux his prize and prove her loyalty or... The name of Kelly O'Toole, Angry Angel recruit, echoed in her head. Oh, Tool.

  Catherine didn't know why White Sunday wanted her dead, but she thought that being a hero in the Battle of the Zig was a good way to change that. If that failed, then at least she'd be paid enough to run. Maybe, she thought, I'll get killed and that will solve everything.

  Technically, Casper hadn't taken the job for the money. Technically, he'd taken the job just to have someone say he was worth something. In this case, a whole lot of something in a numbered Cayman Islands account. Though he didn't realize it himself, and he'd never admit it if he did, he'd have taken the job even if the client had only transferred a hundred Amero into the account. I'm a mercenary, he thought, fuckin' A! Everybody else he saw in the world seemed to be one. Lawyers, corporates, sex-workers. They were all professionals. They all got paid for services rendered. Yeah, well, now I'm a professional too, fuckin A! Casper felt like he was worth something.

  Hi-5 was there for three simple reasons: she liked sticking it to the man, she wanted a chance to put a bullet in Padre Pedro, and she thought shooting a PornoPop video on the top of the G.S.A.'s Ziggurat in the middle of a battle was a pretty dope idea.

  Carlos couldn't say no to the insistent client, or to that much money. He was afraid of the client and he wanted the money. That was a stick and a carrot pointing his ass in the same direction, and he'd given in even though he had plenty of doubts.

  Otis couldn't say no to a fat account, and as he'd put it, “If Casper's going, then I don't want to have to hear his freakin' war stories for the next decade.” The rest of the Dark didn't seem so hot on major military action, and after Carlos nodded approvingly, shrugged, and said, “Gotta be alive to spend it,” they looked relieved. Shelby, Wujay, Singh, and Cheese decided to stay home, get stoned, and count the money they'd already made.

  Carlos thought that was pretty smart. Gotta be alive to spend it, Carlos told himself. Then he told himself to Shut the Fuck Up. Carlos wished he was smart enough to stay home and risk the client's wrath or dumb enough to enjoy what was undoubtedly going to be the sort of Exciting Time for which one should never, ever wish.

  -33-

  They waited in Hi-5's limousine, parked on the eastern edge of the Hobo Jungle. It was a piece of the city nobody wanted, filled with people in similarly low demand. The limousine was sealed to the outside air, recirculating and filtering the air inside because the smell just outside the tinted windows had been known to kill. The Hobo Jungle was a mix of abandoned buildings that crumbled amidst shanties built from decomposing bits of the city. Some squatted inside and took their chances with the building collapses. Sifting through rubble for the lost possessions of the crushed dead was a common pastime for those who lived in the shanties and the other varied ad-hoc constructions that were by and large too primitive to be classified as lean-to shelters.

  The entire district had been abandoned by developers and even the property owners themselves after a shift in legislation that made current property owners responsible for a clean-up that was well-nigh impossible. The high levels of toxins present actually imparted a massively negative value to the properties, and they were better off abandoning them.

  The district had been constructed on only mildly contaminated ground, but the real danger blew in daily in the form of toxic dust from the sand dunes that bordered the Hobo Jungle to the East, on the shore of the Bay. The chromium levels there were fifty times higher, and since this was known to be a heavy-metal filled wasteland, where not even mutated weeds or genetically modified flora would grow, all manner of contaminants had been dumped there over the last century. Much of the dumping had been done by the military and military contractors, but the mob had also made its share of profits by poisoning the area with the byproducts of corporate industrial production for a suspiciously low fee and the discretion to not ask any questions about how such low disposal bids were possible.

  The toxic sand dune's only inhabitants were packs of wild
dogs. Diseased and riddled with birth defects and cancers, they roamed the dunes in competing packs of predators with alarmingly little prey. All they had to eat were each other and the residents of the Hobo Jungle. When people went missing from the Eastern, dune-side of the Jungle, everyone blamed the dogs. The murder rate was astonishingly high in there, and stabbings were commonplace, but the chances were just as good that one would get dragged off screaming in the night by predatory packs of feral, mutant canines.

  Hi-5's limousine was parked on a hill on the border between the Jungle and the toxic sand dunes, overlooking both, but most importantly, overlooking Baccha Bay. The Ziggurat was off in the distance, across the sand dunes that bordered its South side. The verdant, genetically modified kudzu grass known as Grazzu-B surrounded the Zig, but it thinned with alarming abruptness and ceased to grow a few hundred yards South of the dusky-pink walls where the toxic dunes began.

  Casper stared out the window, while he pulled on a conical wonder from Hi-5's cabinet of neuromance. He saw a puff of sand rise into the air far away, near the edge of the Zig's Grazzu-B lawn. There was a wind blowing West off the bay, and it blew the tiny puff of dust across the dunes like a ghost. A second puff of sand appeared and became another ghost blown in the wind. “What's that, there,” Casper asked nobody in particular, “those little poofs of dust 'n sand over by the Zig?”

  “Landmines,” Bonnie answered without looking, “sometimes the dogs smell 'em and avoid 'em. Sometimes they don't and... Poof.” Casper thought about all the dog parts lying down there in the sand, disassociated from their dog bodies forever. He wondered how many people would wind up like that by the end of the day.

  Catherine slept. Alvin slept. Bonnie did a good imitation. Casper wondered how the fuck they did that. How can they relax enough to sleep? Aren't they worried about becoming one of those little puffs blowing across the dunes?

  Carlos had a pair of long binoculars with him, and he was scanning the bay, watching the massive cargo container ships come and go in their invisible lanes as Harbor Dog unmanned nautical drones buzzed around them like five-meter, hydrofoil sheepdogs. From miles away the nautical drones themselves were barely visible, but a fine spray came off the Harbor Dog's fins so they appeared, from a great distance, to be tiny white lines constantly being drawn on the surface of the bay to quickly vanish as the mist settled to the surface of the water again.

  “What are you watching for?” Casper asked. Carlos looked at his watch, then through the binoculars again.

  “That,” Carlos said, as he pointed to one of the cargo ships that looked strangely empty from bow to stern, “Our ride is here.”

  Carlos nodded to Hi-5's driver, Coco, who looked back at Hi-5 and waited for her to give a nod before going anywhere. She drove forward slowly and pulled away from the Hobo Jungle's hilltop. Casper took one more look at the tiny figures to the West, cooking unopened cans on tea candles set inside colored plastic tumblers in their shanty Jungle, before the limousine turned and headed towards the barren, open space of the chromium, cadmium, and lead-laced sand dunes.

  The feral dogs were there in packs and they chased the limousine, barking with territorial rage at the incursion. Casper stared out the window at them as they closed from the side, charging as fast as they could to intercept the limousine. The Bentley was doing well over sixty miles per hour, and they always fell behind before they could sink their teeth in, but not before Casper saw enough to scare him. They were mangy and covered in patches that were devoid of fur but covered with something that looked crusty and tough. There were no whites to their eyes; the space from lid to lid burned red. “Fuckin' hell hounds,” Casper muttered to himself, staring in astonishment and fascination.

  As one pack of wild dogs gave up, another would close from the front or the sides, and a new chase would begin. Casper thought they must be moving across the invisible borders that marked the end of one canine empire and the beginning of the next. By the time they crossed the toxic dunes, and arrived at the gently lapping shore of the bay, Casper had counted at least eight separate packs of feral dogs chasing Hi-5's limousine. He thought the ones closest to the Hobo Jungle looked better fed than all the others, and he hoped there were no dogs down by the water.

  -34-

  Four muscled Koreans wearing red watch caps and golf outfits guarded the main road to the launch area. There were plenty of dogs down by the water, but they were learning to keep their distance from the Korean Christian Militiamen who hooted with delight as they got some warm-up target practice. Bonnie could see that the Koreans were packing explosive rounds from the way the dogs turned to chunky mist and parts. When they weren't enjoying a quiet morning of medium range shooting practice they unloaded rafts from trailers. There were a dozen SUVs parked there, and only two didn't have a trailer and a raft.

  As the Bentley approached, covered in a layer of fine toxic dust, the armed Korean golfers motioned for it to stop. Carlos stepped out of the vehicle with outstretched arms and open palms to show he was unarmed. A man wearing plaid pants, white shoes, and a bright yellow, short-sleeved golf shirt covered by a kevlar vest and tactical gear challenged, “Jelicho.” He waited for a response with his weapon shouldered.

  “Whirlwind, whirlwind,” Carlos replied.

  The golfer hesitated, but then corrected Carlos's pronunciation, saying “Whilrwind,” and lowered his short-barreled sub-machine gun. The men behind him, wearing an improbable combination of day-glo plaid Bermuda shorts and body armor, didn't follow suit immediately. Plaid Pants barked at them sharply in Korean, and the rest of the foursome lowered their guns, turned their attention back to the dunes, and let the limo drive down to the rafts.

  Weapons were being checked, grenades distributed, and gear loaded into ten bullet-resistant Hondo inflatables, descendants of last century's Zodiac. With the notable exception of the sub-machine guns, body armor, grenades, and red watch caps, half of this Christian militia assault team appeared to have just finished eighteen holes of golf before deciding to engage in piracy and paramilitary action on the waters of Baccha Bay. The other half possessed a decidedly gangsta flavor, but their clothes were neat, tidy, and pressed. Their eyes were clear and fierce, and they scared Casper. These were hardened men, getting geared up for major action, and he suddenly wished he spoke Korean.

  As Bonnie was trying to figure out which raft they were supposed to ride in, she heard more angry Korean being shouted at someone behind them.

  Hi-5 was, by her own design, the last one to leave the Bentley and the last one to arrive at the rafts. Her entrance caused a chorus of angry exclamations, punctuated by sliding bolts and chambered explosive rounds. She didn't need to speak Korean to tell who here wasn't a fan of her work. “Oh, say it ain't so,” she said, setting her hands on her hips above a low-slung cerulean belt and holstered pearl-handled six-shooters. “Is it because I'm black or because I'm beautiful, baby?”

  Carlos was off to the side, speaking in quiet tones to a Korean golfer with a grayed, military haircut. The Korean Commander shook his head in exaggerated motions meant to express a negative response that could be read by all of his assault team at a distance. He pointed at Catherine, too. The Commander had spoken, and the golfers relaxed, but still blocked Hi-5 and Catherine from approaching. Carlos explained what they already knew. “The General says he can't stop you from going, but there's no way, in his words, that a PornoPop harlot and a White Sunday traitor are riding with his militia. I tried. I even offered him a buttwad of money but he says it's not up to him. Carlos raised his eyebrows and kept his hand close to his chest as he pointed his index finger quietly upwards in the direction from which the Commander took his orders.

  “Fuck This,” Hi-5 said loudly, strutting back to her limousine with Catherine behind her, looking equally pissed.

  “We'll find another way,” Catherine said, with quiet-voiced determination.

  “Nobody but nobody bumps Hi-5 from the guest list.” Halfway to the limo, she turned to yell a
t the Koreans, “I'll see you There, Goddie Bitches!”

  -35-

  Alvin bent over the side of the raft and puked. Every time he thought he might recover, the raft hit another swell, and the side of the raft struck him in the stomach and made him puke again. It was a merciless torture. Bonnie held onto the four-foot-tall Buddha's orange, synthetic, bedsheet robe, making sure he didn't fall out of the raft and drown. If she showed up at Delvaux's office empty-handed, without the Buddha, she'd be fuct, so she held onto him tightly. His retching was disgusting her more than it should, and she didn't understand that it wasn't really the retching that upset her. It was the fact that to be loyal to Delvaux, she'd have to betray Alvin and everyone in the raft, and the very sight of Alvin reminded her of that fact.

  Casper was up near the bow of the tiny craft. The Koreans gave him a vintage MP-9 and showed him how to strap it to his chest. Despite the plastic bag they gave him, he wasn't having much luck keeping it dry. As they traveled East into the morning sun, the tiny waves and swells on the shining surface of the bay were only a foot away. They turned into a glittering, blinding blur of reflected sunlight. Casper looked around the Hondo inflatable at the others. Bonnie's face betrayed no feeling at all beyond fatigue, but her left side was to him, and he could never tell much from looking at her eye patch. Alvin looked like he wished he was dead. Carlos's concentration was focused on a ship that was far off but growing steadily closer.

  Their destination was a rendezvous point in the middle of the bay, and Carlos now told them the name of the ship they were going to meet there. “Lady Chatterley,” he shouted over the engine noise, pointing at a ship that appeared to be slowing down. And sinking.

  Lady Chatterley was over seven hundred feet from bow to stern, and as the raft closed the distance between them, even land lubber eyes perceived that she was no ordinary ship. Her decks were covered with none of the multi-colored, intermodal, steel shipping containers like every other ship in her lane carried. Lady Chatterley was not built to haul products in one direction and recyclable waste in the other, stacked with thousands of containers like children's building blocks. Lady Chatterley was built for a far grander task – to haul some of the most massive objects that man engineered and constructed – oil rigs, radar installations, even naval destroyers. To this end, she had been designed and built with some very special abilities.