"Are you done trying to scare me? Work with me here. I did allow you to live, so I can be kind. Not sure about you though. Something seems to be wrong with you."
How was she doing this? He relaxed; his heart slowed. Time to engage with the Odin Consciousness. Gungnir brought Sunna to mind and verbalized her name. A force like a wind penetrated his heart and soul, and he flung his eyes open gawking at her. "I'm looking for a certain location in St. George."
"Why? By yourself? You'd die without at least a small unit."
He didn't answer at first, deciding on which language to use and chose Informal Roman. "I hate answering questions, and you can't seem to stop asking them. The place I'm going has unburied tech. It's going to be worth a fortune to bring back, even a little. Only problem is its location. Labor's Park."
"Discounts!" She answered in Demonic Fast-Food American. Her face lit up when she started talking. She switched to East Berlin Saxon. "Labor's Park is huge though."
She moved to the blank wall and put her hand on it. Like shimmering water, the wall faded and a wall safe materialized. A green light flickered across her face from a small hole in the wall, and she unlocked the safe. "I would bet from talking to you and seeing this weapon, you are part of the Úlfheðnar program." She brought up her left hand and made a fist as if to hurl down thunderbolts from the sky like the Roman god Jupiter. The bonds holding Gungnir melted away and turned to Planks, disintegrating into the floor.
He brought his hands around and rubbed his wrists and stood, stretching out his legs and longingly staring across the room at Asger. He needed his spear back, and he had never seen anyone do anything to Plasstien like that without a verbal command.
"Well, Gungnir, my name is Katherine Dueva." She propped his weapon against her desk. "I was CEO of American Enterprises."
Gungnir furled his eyebrows upon hearing her name. "So? Give me what is mine." He eyed it again, needing it to be right in his hand at that moment to slay this thrall neo-sow. She would hang from the nearest tree if he could find any rope. And if no rope could be found, well then fuck it. He would use his belt. She needed to die.
"They specialized in genetic testing."
"You know no one has done any genetic research in decades," he lied. "It's been a scientific dead end for decades, and every nation has outlawed it, even the Romans." His adrenaline surged. "Give back my spear, you cunt! Now!" Gungnir brought forth the war runes and spun them in his mind in a fervor of anger and torment. But again, they fell to pieces, crashing like a wave on the Dead Ocean.
"Soon, Gungnir! Don't worry. Let me put you at ease. I'm not your enemy. And don't cuss at me. It makes you sound like a spoiled brat. If you are who I think you are, then you and I will be spending time together."
"Sounds like you'll have a lot of problems, if true." He marched to his spear. "Sounds to me..."
The spear was in her hand and with a thought, thrust to within a centimeter of his head. "Do not do that again, Saxon! I am much faster than you. Now, sit the fuck down." He stepped back slowly, and as he did, she guided Asger down, just centimeters from his left eye, until his hands met his side. Who was this creature?
Something shined under the light. Beyond her, an Arkhe book perched on her shelf, stuffed between molded books and yellowed out used Plasstien. He stared back up at her, not moving. If she was going to kill him, then be done with it! She pulled back and walked to the corner of the room. She ate some of his sunflower seeds, spitting them into an old American bio-recycler.
Gungnir pointed to the shelf. "The book over on your shelf. Is yours legible?" He recalled her name from his first Arkhe book. CEO Katherine Dueva had been in his Arkhe, and now he was sitting across from her. And she had his sacred spear bequeathed to him by his god, destined to kill his enemies! Oh, she must die.
39 Apache Vick
Domain of King Edward
Pilly's Peak
Day 236
A buzzing sound filled his ear overpowering the rushing static noise. It was more of a drone than a low buzz, something inorganic that became louder with each moment. John tried to tune it out so he could try and somehow force himself out of this state of being.
His mind separated bias from perception and the sound faded away. He scratched his pen on the desk. A deafening silence. It slipped out of his fingers, and he stared down at the all-white page. What had he just signed? It was blank. He turned the page over. There as well. All of the pages were bare.
"You may progress. Both of you stand up and follow me." Nancy led them shocked and bewildered to four doors: 'Command,' 'Applicants,' 'Bar,' and one unmarked door with a chrome handle, a keypad, and scanner next to it. She glided over, letting the machine scan her bio and the door clicked. "After you," she said.
Anderson took a moment before opening the door. The circular room was dark save for a dim, ocean-foam colored glow illuminating two digi-interface terminals separated by translucent Plasstien-1.
She stood by the door and said, "Sit down and be prepared to receive my instruction. This is Trial Two. In front of you are a unique pair of Sinsii goggles and several controls. Put them on."
They were light and constructed out of a rubbery, cold Plasstien. He peeked inside the view port, seeing if he could glimpse anything before putting them on. The image was blank. With a sigh, he pulled them over his face and mashed the button to activate them.
John was in an Oracle White room. He looked at his translucent hands.
"This is our Combat Simulation System."
A sudden surge of electricity hit him, and he winced in pain as his body wracked with energy.
"If you are tagged in the sim, that is what you will feel. The sensation is intense but temporary. In just a moment, your goggles will relay information to you to allow you to optimize this experience. The controls will become second nature in a few moments while the CSS adjusts to your bio. Be ready in five seconds."
John didn't know what to expect other than another likely shock. The discomfort had faded. The Sinsii nulled out for a fraction of a second, just enough for him to notice, and flickered back on.
He was in an old-style Roman arena, with their usual high fences and fractalized lighted floor. In front of him was Anderson who kept looking down at his hands, turning them over. John tried to call out, but his voice wasn't being projected inside.
Nancy's voice boomed. "After reviewing your files, we determined both of you are equally matched with the edge going to Mr. Scope due to his experience. So, we can arrange you to fight one another, or you can engage our Warrior.3 protocols, although we are not sure of their lethality yet. Maybe not be the best option. My apologies. We are still working the kinks out."
A pixilated long sword, with a twisted crossguard, appeared in John's hand, and as he looked across at Anderson, a sword materialized in his too a moment later. Something felt so natural about having this weapon as if he were born to wield it. They considered each other, and this whole ordeal was beyond absurd. He slipped the Sinsii off and tossed in on the station. "Nope. I do not think so."
"Put them back on. This is part of a trial," she commanded with a hint of violence.
"I do not see myself getting into any sword fights while I work here," but a flash of insight prevailed into him like a remembered dream. "If you want to know my abilities at shooting or swordplay or anything else I am good at, I can have my military file sent here." Anderson took off his goggles, too.
"Both of you are refusing to take part in this?" Her voice betrayed a sense of disappointment as if she wanted to know which person would win in some secret bet.
Anderson stood. "Yup. So what else do you have for us today?"
"Well, I have to say, this is not according to our employment protocol." She ruined her face and folded her arms. "Then we will proceed. Follow me, please."
They relocated to the 'Applicants' room where several private digi-booths were spaced around the room and partitioned off by dusty brown, opaque P-1 plates. Without being t
old, John took a seat. Another set of Sinsii goggles sat on the booth, but these were lime green rather than the usual black and made out of a waxy Plasstien.
Nancy showed both of them how to strap and secure the unit to their head and said, "I am going to countdown from three to one, and when I reach one, you will feel yourself in a strange kind of ethereal state. Do not be alarmed by the experience. It will seem like you are watching a vid. So here we go. Three. Two. One."
The sensation crept up on him like the American Yellow Fever. He was high in the air, being fed information from somewhere else, somewhere outside of himself. But he was sure what he was sensing was below himself.
Old-style digi-data pixilated in front of John's view.
The Non-Grow Season
Dark Rain Cycle
Quadrant 16a.90
"Dearest, I love you." Apache Vick said in vulgar Demonic Common Fast-Food. A Tradesman by necessity, he lounged around the Burgerhouse with his family around a large Plasstien-12 barrel stolen from Birmingham three months ago. The winter had been brutal that year, and he'd traded most of their valuables for their dwindling foodstuffs.
A block of cellular heat extracted from a St. George RJ-16 grav tank shell kept them warm, warmth not everyone had and warmth some would kill for. The cold was the constant enemy amongst the Americans, but some had constructed vast Underworld networks insulating them from the harsh ruins. When the temperature dropped to below freezing, many of the smaller tribes took to raiding.
Apache Vick and his family had taken up in a dilapidated burnt out Burgerhouse Fast-Food restaurant on Virginia Avenue about a half-day's walk from the Vanity Team Mall. Although it was warm inside, they still wore their outside battle armor: a mishmash of dyed animal pelts and bits of Plasstien scrap they had glued and stitched together.
He smiled at his wife, 11th Police Station and their three children. They had two girls: the inquisitive, Three Non-Grow Season, Medium Rain Cycle, Burgerhouse, Terrace Street, her younger, more rebellious sister, Two Grow Season, Dark Drought, Burgerhouse, 4th Avenue, so named after the beautiful altar standing amongst the ruins. Both had scored in the 5th percentile range when they had their IQ tested, and the employment council had registered them to be Managers. The oldest of the three wanted to be a mechanic for Michael Sportspalast-Miese, but the tribe needed her elsewhere. Their only son, Apache Moon, was named after a Pre-Times pamphlet.
"He's late," his wife said, her curly purple hair obscuring most of her face. One of her eyes had been lost to the Radial Beta Roadway Virus and had turned an incandescent yellow. The other was a blazing red, a genetic gift from one of her ancestors.
"He'll be here. You always complain about everything."
His younger daughter pointed through a crack. "I think it's him coming up the road, daddy!"
"4th, make something to drink for STS when he gets here," 11th said.
Shaman Total Solution shuffled his way to the Burgerhouse on a rickety cane. Apache arched a brow watching him shuffled up the road, waiting for him. When the shaman stepped inside, 11th took his top hat, cap, and cane, and Solution adjusted his President's Brand tie.
STS took out a pack of Wasteland gum, offered a piece to everyone, and took one for himself. "The prefect courier paid me a few hours ago. I will get right to the point and reveal his last name. Your son has an unusual last name, as both of you know. His real last name is Moon-away Station 7@MoonQuads#6.9244.1221. According to the description in the pamphlet, you have found a sacred object, and I am going take it for the good of all. I am the shaman! I'm not without my mercies, and you'll be compensated. However, his full name cannot be shared to anyone else. You will memorize it before I leave. Hand me the object."
Vick handed over the pamphlet to Total Solution and he unfolded it. A rusted clip stapled on the top of the paper read:
[This is a sales receipt. MoonQuads#6.9244.1221. Your freedom awaits at Moon-away Station 7!]
He scanned the layout, his eyes taking in the map printed upon it. Most of the symbols next to it were small interavids used mainly in an E-Reader or similar tech. He spoke the ancient codes, and shapes moved on the page. Small holographic images indicating areas of interest flickered and pulsated red and green and blue and orange, all trying to get the user to click on them. Vast buildings dotted the moon along with a sea of solar panels. Some of the buildings were over 100-meters tall while others, only a few meters in height, stretched out like a salt water neo-pus in 16 different directions.
He nulled it and refolded the pamphlet. "Thank you, Vick. I hope you will feel secure in his last name."
"Here, Mr. Shaman," Drought said, handing him the mug of insta-choco.
"Thank you. And what is your name?" Shaman gave thanks to the gods of the wastelands before drinking it down.
Her eyes followed his face as he undressed her with his own eyes. "You can call me Drought."
"Well, how did you score on the IQ placement test?" he asked taking another drink. "Hmm, thank you again."
"Alpha three. We're both going to be managers!"
"Well, a congratulations is in order! You'll have many coupons to give out. Have they placed either of you?"
"No, not yet. But Daddy says they're going to place us soon."
"Good for you, Apache. You have some fine children here but... look at the time. I must be going. Thank you again for the drink." He downed the rest, put on his top hat, grabbed his cane, and bowed goodbye.
His youngest watched him walk out the same way he walked in.
"Is he gone?"
"Yes, Daddy. He's about halfway down the road now."
Apache snuck over to a tortoise shell set against the cooler, slid it sideways, and bent down to pick up a key. "Okay. Is he still walking straight?"
"Not really. He's wobbly. Uh, oh. I think he's going to fall down, daddy. Dad... He's looking back here. He has something in his hand. I think it's a gun."
"Don't worry, dear. The poison will hit him before he's able to make use of it."
The shaman teetered left and right, barely standing up. He was aiming the pistol at the Burgerhouse, a look of hateful revenge in his eye.
"Girls, be ready to go out the back door if he gets too close. Even if he were in the room with us, I doubt he could hit us with that gun, but anything is possible."
A missed shot rang out, hitting a signpost whose paint had long since been eaten away by the acid rain. He fired twice again in frustration, his face turning blue from the poison. He tried to drop down to his knees so he wouldn't bust open his face on the concrete, but he fell face first on the pavement anyway, the pistol rolling out from his grip and scattering an arm's length away.
"Okay Daddy, he's down."
"You know what to do, little one."
She cried out in joy and gave her father a long hug. Smiling, she turned and went to the kitchen, retrieving their ritual 35-centimeter blade. He was so proud to see his youngest ready to undergo her trial. He had been training her for months but was worried about the blade's weight. But she lifted it from its resting place and spoke out the magic word in American Democracy Fast-Food.
A sense of pride overcame him as she held the weapon. It had been in their family since the Pre-Times, had its origins somewhere in myth, and was said to have been the sword of Apache Times, a famous hero of the Amero-Democracy wars.
"I'll be right back, Daddy."
She snatched a tray of moldy protein paste reeking of garlic and ran out the front door while the rest of her family cheered her on. "Go, 4th Avenue! You can do it! Hurry!"
As soon as she left the safety of the Burgerhouse building, he wanted to bring her back. Was she ready? There was no way he could help her if something were to happen this far away from the Burgerhouse. She moved with all the speed of a neo-cheet, stabbing the Pre-Times sword into his chest, right through his breastbone, and twisted it, hearing his bone crack apart. Then she dumped the food next to his body. Just enough for the dogs to start on, but not enough to sa
tiate their hunger. Shaman would be their main course. She discarded the tray, bent over, and picked up the pistol. It dwarfed her small hand.
The shaman's face turned completely blue, and she raised it up off the ground with a grunt. With an practiced slash, she scalped him, blood pouring out of his head. She raised the fleshy scalp in the air, showing her family her trophy. Come back now! Apache waved her. Barking and gunfire noise was getting close now.
4th Avenue continued patting him down. On one side of his jacket, she withdrew a Plasstien comb which she pocketed, and a package of red prophylactics which she threw to the side. Too bad. If she had known, she would have picked those up and ran. He could trade them for just about anything in the wastes.
The barking closed in, sounding like it was almost around the burnt out building up the street. A stray bullet whizzed by and hit his home. She wasn't listening to his pleas. It was likely she couldn't hear them over the sounds of the barking and gun play.
"I'm going to go grab her. She can't hear us," Apache said to his wife, grabbing his Slaughter Gun.
"She's got to do this on her own, Vick."
His daughter held up the pamphlet to the window, and jumped up and down, waving the paper in the air like a winning lottery ticket.
Five men rounded the corner, each carrying an antique American BA-9 assault rifle. They howled in joy, their food unprotected. They let loose their hounds, ten black and gray mastiffs, their leather leashes dragging in tow behind them.
"I can't let her die." Apache Vick gripped his weapon in his left hand, said a prayer to the city wights, and leapt out of the Burgerhouse to save his youngest daughter.
The Sinsii nulled out and John slid the apparatus off his face. "What the hell was that?"
40 Coincidences don’t exist
The Arkhe Principle (Book Book 1) Page 26
