Chess Players: Atlantis and the Mockingbird

by DeVaughn, A. P.

  “Aaaaand here we are,” says Keebo. “This is where aaaaallll of the magic happens, ladies and germs.”

  The room is filled with beakers and flasks, with tanks of liquids and gases anchored to the walls being fed into valves and levers. Unknown experiments are being conducted by other men in lab coats with computers sounding beeps and flashing multicolored lights.

  “All right, before we start, can I see it?” he says to us.

  “See what, you toad?” Ron says.

  “Obviously I wasn’t talking to you, Scotsman.”

  “I’m English, you worm,” Ron says.

  “I was talking to you,” Keebo says as he points at me. “Pull it out. Come on, I’ve heard so much about it.”

  “This guy is a fag, man,” says Ron.

  “The thing on your wrist,” he says. I take it off and give it to him.

  “Remarkable. I wonder how they got it so small. Ours is the size of a toaster. Now, to show you some cool stuff.”

  He prances about on his tiptoes from one table to the next, snatching off large white sheets with gadgets hiding underneath.

  “This, my friends, is state-of-the-art armor. A viscous gel that’s fluid when undisturbed, but when a great kinetic force is put to it, it hardens like steel instantly. Can take a fifty-caliber projectile at point-blank range, and you’ll keep on ticking.” He loads a bullet into a huge rifle that he can barely lift, places his goggles over his beady eyes, and points down range.

  “Now, stand back, please. A master is at work.” He pulls the trigger, falls on his ass, and the dummy flies twenty feet from where it was hit.

  “Well,” he says as he pushes the riffle off his body and gets up, looking dumbfounded. “You may get the wind knocked out of you a bit, but it’s better than being dead,” he says with a laugh to cover up his blunder as we stare at him unimpressed.

  “Moving on, and this is the homing bullet. Top-secret stuff,” he says, leaning in.

  “Why are you whispering, you idiot?” says Ron.

  “Outside of the bullet there are tiny fins for stabilization, and on the inside are microcomputers for targeting and guidance and super-strong filaments that tug on whatever side the bullet needs to go to hit its target. Look through the scope here and it designates the targets. The bullet can correct itself up to twenty degrees and can also follow targets that move. Here, marksman,” he says to Kim, “give it a try.”

  Kim stands in front of the rifle, which is on a stand, yet the rifle is pointing substantially left of the target. Keebo stands next to the target in front of the rifle’s sights. He pulls the trigger three times and all three bullets find their mark.

  “There, you see, it does work, Rokie,” Keebo says, sweating. “I did almost piss my pants, though. Oh, and remember the disgusting serum, Dwight? Well, I’ve gotten it to taste better. Try this.”

  He hands me a cup. “Well, it smells better,” I say as I take a sip and spit it out. “It still tastes like shit.”

  “Well, this is still under development. That was supposed to be cherry flavor. Also, my brew has a special property. It totally masks your scent from the Chimera. Oh, and take a look at this.” He picks up a device. “This is also a beauty. I call it, Sleight of Hand. Now you see me.” He turns on the device, which is about a foot long and cylindrical with various buttons along the ends. “Now you don’t.” He disappears, right before us.

  “You can still hear me, can you not?” he says.

  “Unbelievable,” says Kim as he feels around the space where Keebo once stood.

  “Hey!” Keebo giggles, “that tickles.”

  “See,” Ron says nudging me with his elbow. “Fag.”

  “Oh, shut up,” says Keebo. “But you cannot see me. I think that I’ve worked out all of the kinks as well.” He turns it off and reappears. “Cool, huh? It uses the same unified field properties as the Rainbow project. It bends light around the energy field it projects. A portable cloaking device. Took me years to perfect it, and this is the only example thus far. Up to three people, or two really fat people,” nudging his elbow into Rokie’s side, “can hide behind its light-bending aura, and it also hides your heat signature as well, since heat emits light. But you can still be detected by scent if you don’t drink my wonderful brew, of course. The only drawback is that it can only be used for about fifteen seconds, and it also gives you diarrhea after prolonged use. Just kidding. Now, this wonderful device over here is my pride and joy.”

  He pulls back a sheet on the table and unveils a large device with three separate parts.

  “It’s worn on the back and head, and these controls and antenna are strapped to the arms. It weighs a ton, but the upside is that you can actually see a few tenths of a second into the future. Kind of giving you super senses and reaction speed. It also gives you telepathy and extra sensory perception powers. I called it the proton reverberating emission diode and ion calibrating transmission refractor. Or Predictr for short. Try it.”

  He helps me put the device on, and the incredible weight of it buckles my legs. I can barely stand.

  “There you go, such a strapping young fellow you are. Just think about one of these small items over here, and if you do it right, they will respond to your will.”

  There are some books on a shelf in the corner of the room. I picture them flying off of the shelf and into the air. The books shake and then move slightly out of the bookcase and one falls.

  “Wow, you’re a natural,” Keebo says with glee. “The boss did say you were a special guy.”

  “Yeah, a real Jedi,” Ron says.

  “What’s this Jedi? Is it a Chariot soldier or something?” Keebo asks in ignorance as we stare on. “However, the power is only at a half percent. Any higher and it will put you in a coma or certainly kill you. It uses a gram of plutonium for the power source. The higher the energy output, the larger an object you can control. I think if it were at one hundred percent you could pick up a tank or something even heavier.

  “All right, boys and girls, here is a syringe gun. Inside this syringe gun is a booster to the serum that you’ve never taken, so your bodies are filled with primers from the Trident, and this little injection will clean you out nicely.”

  Everyone looks at me, and I give a head nod for the okay. He injects us with the syringes.

  “There, that wasn’t bad, now was it?” he says as we’re rubbing our necks. “All right now, five, four, three, two.” My stomach rumbles and I keel over.

  “Yup, it happens to us all. Told you, Rokie.” Rokie just looks on with his arms folded, shaking his head as we all puke out our guts. “A little side effect from the concentrated dose. That’s strange,” Keebo says, turning to Lara. “It doesn’t affect you.”

  “It must be my birth control pill or something,” she says.

  “Hmmm, peculiar. Well, don’t worry, guys. It will all be over in a second.”

  “You troll!” Ron says, bent over coughing with his hands on his knees.

  “Sticks and stones, my good man, sticks and stones,” says Keebo, waiving his finger at Ron.

  “Anything else we should know?” I say.

  “Yes, there is. The bathroom is around the corner on the left,” he says, rocking back on his heels.

  “What are you talking about?” Steve says.

  Keebo looks at his watch and then at Rokie. “You’ll soon have explosive diarrhea in five, four, three.” Everyone grabs their stomachs and runs toward the toilets. “You’ll thank me later!” he shouts.

  A few hours later, after our bodies have calmed down to the reaction to the booster and we’ve eaten and cleaned up, I get a knock on my door.

  “Excuse me.” It’s Rokie. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude,” he says as he sees Lara and me lying with each other. “But, we have important matters to attend to, Dwight. Be at the bridge in twenty minutes, please.” I get dressed and pay my farewells to my beauty.

  I make my way to the bridge and sit at the one available seat at the tabl
e in the room. Rokie closes the door behind me.

  “Dwight,” Rokie says, “this is Pairon, our technician. This is Neiala, third in command. And this is Rotiart, lieutenant of the resistance and second in command. You’ve already met Keebo, and our leader, Shundai.”

  “We are honored that you have joined us, Dwight,” Rotiart says. His eyes are piercing.

  “The honor is all mine,” I say.

  “Now, Neiala, what of the Spiders’ movements?” asks Shundai.

  “Spiders?” I whisper to Rokie.

  “They are the top assassins of the Chariots,” he whispers back.

  “I’ve lost track of three of them. They have fallen off of the radar for the past ten years,” Neiala says. “Either they are dead or have changed their identity completely. The other two have been busy bees. Pairon, pull up the map. One has been spotted in the Middle East, in Pakistan, Afghanistan, Kuwait, and Iraq. She seems to be building an army of some kind and supplying the rebels in those regions with weapons. The other has been in plain sight. You know her as The First Lady of the United States. But to us she’s known as the Recluse. She and Orb have been working together on something big for the past twenty years. It appears the President of the United States is merely a pawn. It’s unknown yet if he’s part of the Cabal.”

  “Good work, Neiala,” Rotiart says.

  “Father, the team is ready to move out,” Rotiart says.

  “Excellent,” Shundai says. “Take Dwight with you. This would be a perfect situation for him to see the truth as it is, and I think he’d be very beneficial to your mission. Don’t you think?”

  “Yes, father,” Rotiart says.

  I can feel Rotiart’s disapproval of his father’s command to take me with them.

  “Good,” says Shundai. “Seems that we have a spider to kill.”

  “Gear up!” Rotiart says. “And if any of you newcomers get in my way, you’ll have more than the Chimera to worry about.”

  “I think he likes you,” Neiala says to me. “You’ll fit in just fine. Don’t worry about him. Anyone that his father likes, he hates immediately. Stay close to me and follow my moves.” She walks by and rubs my chest, leading me to the weapon room with her sexy stroll as I watch her hips sway to and fro.

  Neiala seems to not fit here. I don’t know her story, but I don’t think it’s of the same caliber as our hardships. Her temperament seems too soft, and the same chip doesn’t weigh down her shoulders. She’s a very statuesque woman, tall, like Lara, but her shoulders are sculpted and strong. Her walk is like that of a man, confident and straight-lined. Yet her hips sway like she’s trying to seduce every eye in the room—man or woman. She wears a short haircut of a few inches of lovely dark and light-brown kinks parted right above her eyebrow. She has a doll-like nose, lips that belong on a model, a butted chin, and dark milk chocolate skin. Yet the scars on her arms and hands say that she is every bit of a warrior as any man in the room. She’s a deadly vixen.

  Inside the weapons room we stock up on a sidearm, a primary weapon, flashbangs, and grenades.

  “An M5?” Neiala says in her scratchy Caribbean accent, caressing the rifle in my hand from the muzzle to the butt and then up to my shoulder. “That’s a good choice. Easy to use, reliable. You served in the Marines, right? We call the US military drones because they have only three purposes, and that’s to kill, fuck, and die.” Her hand caresses my chin and is followed by a cold blade that appeared out of nowhere pressed against my neck. “Here, you and your guys will need these.” Her magic hands make the blade disappear and identity cards materialize in her palm.

  “Why do we need military identity cards? Where are we going?” I ask.

  “Into the belly of the beast,” she says. “North Africa, South Sudan. We’ll rendezvous with our other cell there. Ready for a ride, sweetie?” She winks and stuffs her sidearm in her hip holster.

  “Dwight, take this with you,” Keebo says. He runs up to me and hands me the Sleight of Hand, the disappearing device. “It’s in great working order. It may come in handy. Also, results of your blood work came in. I don’t know how you’re still alive with enough opiates in your body to kill three men. I know things are rough, so here, take this. It will keep you leveled off for now.” He hands me a pill I say thanks and head off to the elevators with the rest of the group.

  Ron, Steve, and Kim come along, and, just before we leave, I say goodbye to Lara and reassure her that I’ll be back in one piece. She doesn’t say anything, yet I can feel her displeasure with how Neiala acts toward me.

  Everyone is geared up and in jungle camo, checking and rechecking their weapons on the elevator. We’re orphans and some renegade rebels in over their heads: Rokie, Neiala, Rotiart, Kim, Steve, and Ron.

  “As soon as we get to where we need to be, the place will be crawling with Chimera,” Neiala says, speaking over the loud clanging of the elevator. “Stay ready. I heard that if they kill you, they feed off of your corpse.”

  “I can’t wait to test these new armor-piercing bullets on their hard skulls,” says Rokie, patting the stock of his assault rifle. “Have you ever killed a Chimera?” he asks, turning to Ron.

  Ron’s face crumples up in confusion. “What the hell is a Chimera?”

  Chapter 28: Spider on the Wall

  From thirty below freezing to 100 degrees in the shade, welcome to South Sudan.

  The war-torn country of this fractured continent hasn’t seen a good day in years, and we’re here to find a needle in a haystack.

  We travel through sand dunes to arid, dry flats. The sandstorms have no conscious, and vultures have learned to follow the caravans of cattle ranchers and traders. We take small boats from the northern shores of the Red Sea through the river Nile, all the way through the dry and harsh environment of Sudan, and on to a small humid and dense jungle area near the border of Congo and Uganda. We ride in two jeeps in the evening dusk with a guide who is an old friend of Rotiart, named Ndjunda.

  “All right. The checkpoint is up ahead,” Rotiart says. “Let Ndjunda do the talking. These soldiers are from a rebel army, and they shoot first and ask questions later. Just follow my lead, and if things go south, no one do anything until I do it first.”

  Rokie pulls up to the checkpoint, and the flashlights from the men at the post illuminate the faces of our team. Ndjunda speaks to the soldier in the native tongue, and from the inflection in their voices things don’t seem to be right. My hand eases to my rifle’s grip and my finger rests on the trigger. Ndjunda steps out of the vehicle and continues talking to the soldier as their voices intensify in tone.

  “What’s wrong?” Steve whispers.

  “Quiet,” Rotiart whispers back.

  “There seems to be a problem,” Ndjunda says as he steps back into the vehicle.

  “The soldiers on post now were just switched out unexpectedly and were not informed of us coming.”

  “Nonsense,” says Rotiart. “They just want something. Neiala.” Neiala throws Rotiart a small black bag. “Here,” Rotiart says as he hands the black bag to Ndjunda. “Give this to him. If he doesn’t accept it, then he and the rest of his guys are dead.”

  Ndjunda heads back out and talks with the soldier again and hands him the black bag. “Get ready,” Rotiart says to us, slowly clicking off the safety of his rifle. The soldier opens the black bag, looks at his partner next to the checkpoint booth and nods his head. He then signals the guy in the booth, and the pole rises. My hand relaxes from my rifle grip and I sit back into the jeep’s seat with a long exhale. Ndjunda rejoins us as we pull through the checkpoint.

  “What did he give him?” I ask Rokie.

  “The lifeblood of Africa, my friend,” Rokie says with a smirk.

  “And what’s that?” I reply.

  “Diamonds,” he tells me, placing a small rough-cut gem in my hand. “It’s the only currency around here. We gave him enough that he’ll never have to work a day in his life again.”

  “The town is just ahead,”
says Ndjunda. “We’ll meet our contact there, and he’ll show us where the target is.”

  “So, who is this insider?” I ask Neiala.

  “He’s a defector from the Chariot. There are a few that we have who tip us off every now and again to certain things that spark our interest. He’s been hiding from the Chariot for years, and we keep him safe and well taken care of. In exchange, he gives us information.”

  “And you trust this man?” I ask.

  “In these desperate times, we are running out of options.”

  “Here’s the town,” Ndjunda says. “Park here. The building is just over there.”

  We all exit the jeeps and begin walking toward the area where the informant is staying.

  “Keebo. Keebo, answer, dammit,” Rotiart whispers into his earpiece. “What’s the status on the perimeter?”

  “Sorry,” Keebo answers with a yawn. “I was asleep. The perimeter is clean. No signs of Chimeys,” he relays to the team.

  Ndjunda points to the building and we all pace up to the front entrance, keeping a low profile. We hear loud disco music, and smoke comes from the seams of the door. As we take defensive positions manning the perimeter of the structure, Rokie knocks on the door. We hear laughing and a lot of bumping around through the disco music. Rokie pauses and knocks again, much harder this time, and then starts to kick at the door angrily. The door opens to a plume of smoke, lights, and loud electro funk music.

  “Ahh! Here he is!” a pink-faced curly haired man says in slurred speech as he falls all over Rokie and hugs him. Shirtless and wearing a feathered scarf around his neck and rainbow-colored pants that look like they belong on a court jester, he stumbles about, sweating so profusely from his forehead that it trickles down his rosy red bulbous nose.

  “Wha’ thook you guys so long?” he garbles.

  “He’s drunk,” Rokie says, looking at us.

  “I am,” letting out a loud belch, “not drunk. Well, maybe a little. Please, please, come inside. Make yourselves at home,” he says as we walk in and see half-dressed women lying on a large red velvet couch, drinking, and smoking from a hookah. The flashes of a strobe light and disco ball hang from the ceiling, illuminating the room.