The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination

by Bright,R. F.

  “Trooper MacIan.”

  “Oh, I’ve heard about you, young man.” He handed MacIan a fat cigar. “One of my many bad habits that pays for itself. Just trying to stay even, at my age. Always someone willing to trade for smokables, or beer. Always will be, and we got plenty of both.” He panned his hands around the shed, which was hung with drying plant material of every description. “You’ve met my daughter, Molly.”

  MacIan took the tightly rolled stub, out of courtesy, but couldn’t hide his unease. “Your name was mentioned, sir. Engineer? Molly. Nice girl.”

  “That she is,” said Mendelssohn. “And I know what you’re thinking. I was in my fifties before we had Molly. Truth is, I was invisible until the collapse. But when I joined up with Replogle . . . I became a rock star.”

  Mendelssohn’s prurient boy-meets-girl story made MacIan blush as Camille flooded his thoughts.

  “Women are far more practical than us,” said Mendelssohn. “We’re the romantic fools, and they know it. They’re smarter than us. Play us like a drum. You and I, we’re just walking sperm banks.” Mendelssohn’s voice had a soft, creaky timbre that made everything he said sound like a folksy yarn. “We built this place for Molly and the other kids. Guess you’ve seen most of it by now. What’d you think?”

  “Amazing. I’ve seen lots of jerry-rigged communities. Really productive ones. Just saw a great one, up in Lily. But this is amazing.”

  “Thank you. Thank you. It does work rather well. Compact. Efficient. Produces in excess. Any problem, any practical problem, any physical problem, can be solved with a lot of engineering and a little prudence.” He snapped open an old Zippo lighter and tiny sparks ignited a long blue flame, which he held out to MacIan.

  A trembling grin crossed MacIan’s mouth, but he was a guest and ever reverent of age and expertise. He puffed until it was lit and even more blue smoke choked the greenhouse.

  “Simple pleasures. Sufficient abundance. That’s the key,” said Mendelssohn, raising a questioning eyebrow at MacIan. “How you like that? Delicious, huh?”

  MacIan made an appreciative face, but his mouth tasted like a donkey’s ass.

  “Everything to scale,” said Mendelssohn, his hands weighing up and down. “Balance and scale are the critical factors.” He paused to laugh at himself. “Yeah, I know. Nobody knows nothin’. . .”

  “But everybody thinks they’re right,” answered MacIan, as was the custom, and they both laughed.

  “Look around here,” said Mendelssohn. “You’ll see how it all works on a human scale. We produce more than we consume and we don’t drive ourselves crazy doing it. We have, by definition, plenty. Unfortunately! Plenty is the mortal enemy of a supply-side economy wholly dependent on scarcity and debt. Sorry, I’m an old man and I repeat myself; you’ve heard this all before.”

  MacIan hadn’t.

  “Well it’s all coming to a head now anyway, isn’t it? It was inevitable.”

  “Inevitable?”

  “More like — unsustainable.” Mendelssohn blew a thick smoke ring, then puffed a smaller one straight through its center. “There’s a fatal contradiction in free market theory, the seed of its destruction. Price. As soon as you put a price on a thing, your competitor undercuts you. Which encourages ever increasing consumption. That’s the rationale for competition. Lower prices. But it pencils out over time to a very predictable, mathematical conclusion — zero margin. Sooner or later there’s nothing above the margin; it all zeroes out. That’s where we are right now, bouncing around inside an empty economic model.”

  MacIan couldn’t think, since that damn cigar was coating his tongue with an oily film. And he was still reeling from the sight of that train. “Do you know about those railroad tracks? The Chinese?”

  Mendelssohn chortled like the Goblin King. “This is the Chinese century. We sold it to them. I remember when communism and capitalism were opposites. We gave them our industry and our jobs, yet ended up owing them a trillion dollars?” He tipped his hat. “Thank you, thank you very much . . . America’s best, the brightest. Fuckin’ lizards.”

  Both men grew sullen, and Mendelssohn said, “There is no system humans won’t corrupt. No matter the underlying ideology. No matter the culture. We are the problem. If humans are in charge, corruption is sure to follow. That’s the main point of the work we’re doing with Tuke.”

  MacIan’s confusion was every bit as suffocating as the cigar smoke.

  Mendelssohn said, “We got a fix for that. We’re going to take the politician out of politics.”

  Camille awoke on the couch, wondering how she’d gotten there. She wobbled to her feet, snuggled her afghan quilt around her shoulders, and staggered to the kitchen island. The mysterious computer called to her, but she couldn’t bear to open it. Not now. Not without some coffee. No! That heartbreaking video of MacIan was in there. For a split second, she drew a compete mental blank. There was a terrible beauty in that man, she could see it.

  She made coffee, her father’s dark blend, and combed her hair. She set the cup on the island with a sharp clink and perched on a stool. Was she ready for this, whatever the hell it was? The Massive. It was daunting. Too simple to grasp. And this MacIan thing! Poor MacIan. She backed away, snatching her cup. Time for a little pacing in front of the windows, a few figure eights, finish her coffee, then jump in.

  The Manhattan skyline pulled her out of herself. It had always been a part of her life, but she was discovering a larger world beyond this apartment. Its security had given her a lifetime of safety, but a sheltered existence. She knew much less of the world than a kid like Max, growing up in a small town. That was the curse of children raised in concrete cocoons far more insulated from the world than their small-town counterparts, who roamed freely.

  She bent over sideways, stretching her couch-beaten spine, and placed her cup on the hardwood floor. It felt good to flex. To steal her attention away from thoughts of . . .

  “What’s the use?” she muttered, and headed for the computer.

  Once she’d decided to play, an inexplicable excitement filled her. MISH had called her last move, her story, The Tuke Letters — Epic. An epic what? What is epic? She made a mental note to look it up. She flipped the computer open, eyes half-shut in case there was something about MacIan there.

  While the screen flicked on, she recalled one of her father’s big-spin tennis serves coming right at her. Returning one of those serves, although rare, was more rewarding than anything she could remember.

  She squared herself on the stool and transferred the afghan back to her shoulders. The dashboard that popped on screen didn’t look the same. It was far more active. Pulsating frantically. MISH popped up in a corner window. “Good morning, Camille. Our mission has clocked almost one and half million man-hours since last night.”

  “Is that good?”

  MISH made an are-you-kidding-me face. “But we have to get control over some things.”

  “Control?” Camille clenched her jaw. “I’ll let you decide that, MISH. You know this whole shebang better than me,” she said, but the specter of MacIan haunted every word. “OK MISH, let ’er rip.”

  Scrolling posts, feedback monitors, hit counters and progress bars arranged themselves in a manageable layout, then disappeared into a tab called MEASURING TOOLS. MISH sorted the posts into their own tabs by file type: text; spreadsheet; audio; photo; video.

  “MISH,” asked Camille, “can you put the photos of the twin spires into some kind of gallery?”

  “Sort out the duplicates?”

  “Sure.”

  A photo gallery popped up, and Camille saw immediately that virtually every picture of the spires had been taken from the same spot. Despite the panoramic location, there were only a few places a human could get to up there. But then something caught her eye. One of the photos was an aerial view. Just one. It must have been taken from a plane, or helicopter.

  “MISH, where did this photo come from?”

  The photo link
ed to an info window that showed its metadata, which was of no use.

  It was in Chinese.

  Max found MacIan at a desk next to his bed staring at a blank computer screen, nearly as frustrated as himself. He set his far larger computer down next to it. “Mine’s bigger than yours.”

  “So it is. You eat?”

  “What’s that smell?” said Max.

  “Oh, must be cigar smoke. You eat?”

  “Yeah. I went to the little mess hall with Molly. Staff only.”

  MacIan looked at Max with a puzzled face. “Did you know she’s the daughter of the guy who designed this place? Mendelssohn.”

  “Really? She is different from the other kids. I met a bunch of them. She’s in charge of something. Of what, I couldn’t say. Oh, I talked to my dad.”

  “Yeah. What’d he say?”

  “He’s OK. But he’s got a pile of computers, all of a sudden. Hundreds of them. I don’t know what that’s about. And Molly gave me this one.”

  “That’s a beauty,” said MacIan, pointing at Max’s new mobile.

  But suddenly MacIan’s screen blinked on and there was Camille. Max flipped his computer open and there she was, also, but much larger. He was delighted by the media chic effect.

  “MacIan? Max? I got a split screen of the both of you. You together?” she asked, struggling to conceal her knowledge of MacIan’s ordeal.

  “Yes. We’re in my room at the Brewery, both of us,” said MacIan, wondering why she looked so different.

  “I’ve been playing the game, The Tuke Massive, and I have all kinds of information. Looks like the Chinese have something to do with my father’s death.”

  “The Chinese?” they said.

  “They’re the only ones up there with a helicopter.”

  “A helicopter?”

  “What is this, an echo-chamber?” she said, but with a big smile and warm laugh. “I got hundreds of posts with photos of those spires on the mountain, but only one was from an aerial view. So I posted it, and I got a response from this woman > poconopeach@tuke.net.

  The post popped up, showing a blurry cell phone picture of the spires, with the giant zucchini shape hovering in the distance. The text read: Received - Mechanicsburg VFD. Taken from same POV as your Chinese Helicopter shot, but large object in background is Chinese air cargo ship #2 — where it does not belong. They have only helicopter in area.

  Camille filled the screen. “That photo was sent from my dad’s cell phone. He was up in that helicopter. And he saw something he shouldn’t.”

  “So he didn’t fall off the mountain, “said MacIan. “He fell from a helicopter.”

  “I bounced this photo back into the game,” she said, “and I got this post back.”

  A new page replaced her with a close-up of just the air cargo ship hovering above a small steel arched bridge. Twelve cables hung from the ship and men in uniforms were hooking them to the bridge. Sparks were flying out from the pylons.

  Camille’s words were pure acid. “The bastards are stealing an entire bridge. And I think they killed my father when he found out.”

  “I think you’re right,” said MacIan.

  “I think so, too,” she said, resisting a smile. “He would have fought the pilot. He’d rather die than walk away from a fight,” she said, sadly proud. “I’m still trying to figure it out. I’ll get back to you.” The screen went black, but not before MacIan spotted a soft grin.

  Max and MacIan sat contemplating this news, until a clamor at the other end of the atrium shook them.

  They moved to the edge of the partition just in time to hear a group a female voices laughing and heading away from them. Max knew there was nowhere to go down there but Lily’s room. He couldn’t see her, but was sure she was right there, with them. Every cell in his body was in torment.

  MacIan, fresh from an emotionally ambiguous call from Camille, was confronted by a distraught Max staring far too longingly at the girls’ disappearing shadows. He grabbed his mobile. “Come on, kid,” he said, in a sporting tone. “I got an idea.”

  Camille sagged onto her kitchen stool. What was that? What did I just do? She’d been entirely professional. She’d kept to the point: who killed Arthur Gager? But damn it, there was something else, something lurid, in that exchange. She’d been courteous . . . what the hell? She slid off the stool, a troubling thought dawning. The only thing she’d added was a little courtesy. How awful! Being nice was something she had to — add.

  She staggered to the window, braced herself with both hands on the glass and pressed her forehead against it. MacIan would haunt her, if only as a question, until this thing between them was resolved. Resolved? She stretched her neck side to side, questioning herself; no, worse, interrogating herself; no, worse, interviewing herself in MacIan’s stead. She was sizing herself up, for him. Was she worthy of him? She thought about that for a split second, then started to laugh. Hell no. That’s not the question. Is he worthy of me? Hmmm?

  Game on. She might as well admit it, she was engaged. Somewhere along the rippling line of the past few days she’d — committed.

  That man. That video. That call. That display. Whatever it was, it was her move. It was natural, spontaneous and sincere. She couldn’t have played it better. She’d simply returned his big serve, with one gesture, one look, one message — I care.

  Does he?

  38

  Admiral Carson tended to every aspect of bivouacking his troop at the Bradford Barracks for the night — probably longer. At each opportunity where he might involve Commander Konopasek, he did so with extreme deference. Each favor he asked further invested the Commander in his agenda. Admiral Carson’s intentions were honorable, but their realization would take a little sleight-of-hand and some military protocol. A protocol he was establishing with each question, each request, each thank-you.

  Once encampment was complete, Admiral Carson asked if he might confide something of grave importance. Commander Konopasek was transfixed by the very idea and immediately led the way to his office. The Commander took his seat as Admiral Carson hoisted a plastic bottle of New Jersey’s finest Irish whiskey from his briefcase. The Commander’s eyes brightened. Admiral Carson raised two chrome double-header glasses for his approval and placed them on the desk. He stood with the bottle poised over the glasses. “This has become a sort of ritual, and why not?” he said soberly. “What I’m about to say to you are the sacred words few men have ever heard in earnest.”

  He poured, but left the glasses sitting and looked the Commander square in the eye. “We are going to overthrow the government. Our reasons are obvious.”

  The Commander rose to his feet, speechless.

  “This government was supposed to be temporary, but it’s been fourteen years. In that time, they’ve grabbed what little was left of the greatest civilization ever known.”

  The Commander stared in utter disbelief.

  “They have to go. But they’re not going to go, if we simply ask them to go.”

  He picked up the glasses and handed one to the Commander, who could only gaze at it bug-eyed.

  “This is the moment, Commander. The very moment that visited Washington and Jefferson and Lincoln . . . the moment that will define you forever. Patriot or traitor, only our result will tell that tale.”

  The Commander blinked twice and cleared his throat.

  Admiral Carson lifted his glass to the stunned old man. “Are you with us?”

  Outside the hospital, the usual gawkers and watchers surrounded the Peregrine. News of Max and MacIan’s approach rippled through the crowd, which parted to let them through. Max found the celebrity embarrassing; he was a Junior Sidekick at best. MacIan had actually done something. Knew things. Could make things happen. Max had done nothing, been nowhere, until yesterday.

  MacIan aimed his palm at the Peregrine. The dome rose, and the crowd gasped. He turned to Max. “You drive,” he said shoving Max toward the driver’s side.

  Max stumbled and began t
o stammer, nearly tripping over two boys he recognized from the Brewery making detailed drawings of the wheel assembly. “Can they do that?” he said suspiciously.

  “Why not? Their grandparents paid for it. Just drive.”

  Fellowship with MacIan precluded the feigning of good fortune. “OK,” said Max, about to burst.

  “Once you put your ass in that seat, you have thirty seconds to sign in.” He pressed his finger to the dashboard’s fingerprint-scanner and the Peregrine immediately came to life. Max’s eyes reflected a baffling assortment of strobing colors. MacIan poked the screen and when a certain window appeared, he said, “Second User.”

  Max was flattered. It was just him and MacIan.

  “Put your finger there, don’t move, and say whatever name you want to use to sign in.”

  Max put his finger on the screen, thought for a split-second, and said, “Max . . . oh, Maximillian.”

  MacIan chuckled. “OK. Max . . . oh, Maximillian. That’s how you’re going to have to say that from now on. ‘Max . . . oh, Maximillian.’”

  Max frowned stupidly. “That’s OK, isn’t it?”

  “Yes it is. In fact, it’s good. It’s unique. Like one of those nerd-names. Maxomaxomillian.” MacIan pointed to the dashboard. “Tap here until the Previous Destinations list comes up. Go ahead, tap it.”

  Max tapped, and the Previous Destinations list came up.

  “You see every place where this craft has landed, time order. We’re here, so it lists South Side Hospital, then Lily, Bradford Barracks, Camille Gager’s, and so on. If you want to go to any of those places, you tap on it and the Peregrine will take you there as fast it can.”

  Max got it. That was easy.

  “But you have to learn to fly this manually, and that’s what we’re going to do right now.”

  Max grinned ear to ear.

  Tap > Manual Mode.

  The glorious ship floated up and away, and Max flew off for the night of his life.