Another Force

by D. J. Rockland

The Guardsmen walked out of his office as Hunter turned down the hallway. He held up a hand, commanding them to stop.

  “I want two of you to wait outside, and the other two may be dismissed,” he said.

  He looked at the two who would remain, “Under no circumstances am I to be disturbed while I am with this prisoner - er...guest. Do you understand?” His voice was harsh as usual, but also belied a hint of fear.

  Surely it was not fear, maybe excitement or anticipation.

  Surely it was not fear. Was it fear?

  What did he need to be afraid of? Nothing! Nothing at all!

  Who is in control? I am, he thought. Who will be in total control in twenty-two weeks? I will. I will be in control, and then we will have safety and security like never before.

  The half-brother is elusive no more, he told himself as he refocused on the unconscious young man in his office. This young man is important, but he is not so important, the information could not be obtained in another way. Hunter was sure, however, this guy knew something, and Hunter wanted it.

  He turned, shutting the door, and walked to his desk. He touched a small icon in the desktop mounted heads-up display, which once activated, made the room soundproof and impervious to listening devices. He looked at the half-brother. The young man sat just five meters away, the black bag still on his head. Although in a sitting position, he was slumped and motionless on the couch. Slouched as he was, his lanky frame made him look weak, and Hunter knew how to exploit weakness.

  Hunter took out a small vial from his desk and walked to the couch. He removed the bag, waved the vial in front of the boy’s nose and waited. He repeated the process.

  Joniver’s eyelids fluttered as his head shot up, and then fell onto the back of the couch. He sputtered and coughed, and his eyes half-opened. Hunter offered him a bottle of water, which Joniver was still too incoherent to take. Hunter sat the bottle down on a small square table just to the right of the couch.

  His eyelids fluttered again, but with less rapidity. After two sneezes and a small coughing fit, he leaned back and sat up on the couch. He snatched the water and drank two long satisfying gulps.

  The good water again, Joniver thought.

  He surveyed the room and looked up at Hunter. “Am I at the station?” Joniver asked.

  “No,” Hunter said.

  “Then where am I, and who are you?” Joniver said. His voice was demanding.

  “My name is Hunter, and I am your new best friend.” He smiled.

  ***

  Emily stepped up into the Guard transport van, assisted by one of the Guardsman.

  Why did he look familiar?

  She dreaded the prospect of going to the Station, and the Guardsmen’s polite manner did little to assuage her anxiety. The horror of being raped was overwhelming and Emily’s thoughts terrorized her, spinning in different directions. Emily was a little girl who had been taught that the rape gangs were a fact of life, and the older women taught her how to defend herself against them. Emily had heard some women held high positions at the company, but practical evidence said there was little hope for a woman to hold any position of power anywhere.

  Her mind swung to thoughts of Joniver. Emily felt her mind ease and the tension leave her neck and back. She did not feel like she had power over him, at least not the kind of power now being exercised over her. She did know however, he was different around her, and it was a different she liked. Emily felt something pure and honest with him, and she gave up fighting the love she felt for Joniver. That made their argument earlier tonight all the more painful.

  What if she went into the Station and never saw him again? Tears formed in her eyes and ran down her cheeks in uncontrolled streams. She did not want tonight to be their last encounter. She wanted him to know how she felt, and she wanted him to know because he heard it from her.

  Emily’s concern for her own circumstance paled in the paralyzing feeling of helplessness she felt for Joniver. If only she could reach out and touch him, to say something to him.

  Emily yearned, in the worst possible way, to scream, “I love you, Joniver!” out loud at the top of her lungs, but there was no one to hear.

  The tears flowed, running down her cheeks like rain in a desert. She felt powerless, but not about her situation; she felt helpless to do anything to let Joniver know how much she loved him, and how much she wanted to hold him close.

  Emily’s isolation and memories gnawed at her, and she feared it was not over. She was alone in the back of the van, its whirring tires skimming over the pavement. With her tears flowing, Emily closed her eyes and let her head hang backwards on her neck. She sobbed with her face pointed at the ceiling and upper side walls of the van. She stood in that pose for several seconds until she briefly opened her eyes and suddenly stopped crying. Emily noticed something very surprising.

  There was a small window or slit in the upper sidewall of the van that allowed her to see out. The buildings she saw were not close, but many meters removed from the side of the street. The distance made no sense. Emily expected they would be traveling north from her new apartment building toward the Station. The buildings should be close on the street.

  The van was whirring, and there had been very few jolts or jumps from broken pavement. Where were they going? The thought brought increased fear, but she immediately jumped into problem-solving mode. Emily wiped her eyes and cheeks with her hands and put her brain to work. The darkness of evening enveloped the van and she could not see much, but what she could see told her the van was not heading north toward the Station.

  The van moved across smooth roads and she felt a sharp turn west.

  “We are traveling south!” she said. “What’s south from here?” Her eyes shifted back and forth across the floor of the vehicle. “The Old Airport? Why are we going to the Old Airport?”

  Then a frightening realization came to her. “A harvesting center…” she said. “Do they plan to harvest me?”

  Targeting a single individual for harvesting was unusual. Four troops had come for her. It did not make sense.

  She could not, however come up with another reason, and so she sat thinking on the van floor, legs crossed. Emily did not know what it meant to be harvested, but she had been told it was the worst fate a human being could ever endure. Few lived to tell about it, and those who did were never the same.

  She thought again of Joniver. “I love you,” she said to the empty van. Her words were directed at the long, lanky young man, who was now in the office of Stephen Oliver Hunter.

  ***

  Everything is happening too fast, Olinar thought as he made his way to the first floor of the building. He could not move as quickly as he wanted, but he had to find a way to move fast enough to get the message out.

  In the event something like this happens - Olinar had a strong suspicion the electronic communication was compromised - there is a backup plan. There are street signs at certain locations throughout the city that resistance spotters monitor. If the sign is turned a certain way, a chain of communication is initiated, which once it starts Olinar can not stop. The rotated sign would say two things:

  1. He is in trouble and the communication link is corrupt;

  2. The objective is lost and radical measures are necessary.

  In the case of number two, Olinar was not sure what would happen, but he knew Joniver’s capture was not going to sit well with his captain. He also knew a group of resistance commandos were staged and ready for this eventuality. He did not know who they were or where they were, but he did know they were ready at a moment’s notice. He also knew some of their number had penetrated the company organization.

  Joniver’s importance was a mystery as well, but Olinar’s assignment and the ready status of the commandos, told him there was more to this young man than speed reading and stealing apples.

  Olinar made it outside without incident, and seeing he had the cover of darkness, risked running. A running man at night was suspicious, but many of
the lots along Baker were bombed out, and now trees and shrubs grew as a sign of life where death had once reigned. Olinar used the cover of the foliage to move with both quickness and stealth. He had to get to the Baker and Marietta Street intersection. The sign was there, and he would turn it about 45 degrees so the Marietta Street sign could be seen from the North.

  As he moved down the street, his pace quickened. He thought about tonight’s events, unsure of what it all meant. The fact Joniver and Emily were taken on the same night could not be coincidence. Why had they taken Emily? Joniver was his priority, despite what Emily knew and what she thought she knew.

  He ran the north side of what had been Centennial Park. This route made it easier for him to be seen, but he had to risk it. Time was of the essence. He turned southwest and ran toward Marietta, jumped a barrier, which had been erected by the company to prevent traffic, and came to the intersection.

  His breath came in heavy blows, and despite the cool night air of autumn, he was sweating like a horse who has been run too hard. His shirt, as well as his back pack, was soaked with perspiration.

  He stopped in the shadow of a bush tree growing from an empty lot and knelt. He risked the run to this point, but jumping out and turning the sign post could be dangerous if he was not careful.

  He controlled his breathing as best he could. Beads of sweat, the size of large rain droplets fell from his face and pooled beneath him. He glanced down, and in the darkness, the sweat looked like blood. He returned his attention to the street corner, knowing if he did not fulfill his task, the sweat of many would be replaced with blood.

  He sat for almost fifteen minutes, but it seemed the time crawled by on the backs of snails. He pulled a bottle of water from his pack and took a long slow sip.

  He made no noise.

  He watched.

  He listened.

  Nothing.

  There were no sirens, no footsteps, no voices, and no lights. This could be good or bad. If there were lights on in the windows, it was not easy to see anything going on outside. However if a light was not on, it could mean someone was watching. Olinar debated his next move.

  He assumed by this time Joniver was at the airport - had he read the signal right? Yes, it was the Old Airport, and Emily was probably at the Station, but he could not be sure about her.

  Olinar waited. Nothing...no, wait...movement out of the corner of his eye. He peered through the darkness; it was just a cat.

  He stood up, his knees and legs straining from the long run, and extended crouch. He still saw nothing. His breathing was regular, and his sweat less noticeable.

  He waited for what seemed eons until all the feeling returned to his legs and feet, then with a casual gait, strolled to the opposite corner of the intersection. Once there, he paused.

  Did he hear something? No.

  Olinar leaned against the old and rusty street sign. The words identifying the thoroughfares were barely legible even from close inspection. As casually as possible, he reached up and rotated the sign. The ring holding the signs creaked and scratched as it rubbed metal on metal with the rusted pole.

  To complete his message, Olinar walked south. This took him nowhere and would confirm to the watcher that the message was legitimate. The signal combined with his earlier broadcast would tell the captain action was required and it was required immediately.

  This was, no doubt, a stupid way to pass messages, Olinar thought.

  ***

  Joniver eased himself forward on the couch, sitting a little more upright. He looked at the man in front of him who had just declared himself a new best friend. In Joniver’s experience, if you had to tell someone you were their friend, it meant you weren’t.

  Joniver was not so much afraid as curious at all this. The earlier trip he had taken to the Station had unnerved him, but this time he felt much more relaxed, maybe even confident. He was prepared for this. The trip to the Station had prepared him. In the moment, he was grateful for the previous encounter.

  Joniver studied Hunter. His name meant nothing to Joniver. Hunter looked to be a man in his late forties or early fifties. He was tall, but not as tall as Joniver, and he was compactly built. He did not appear to be at all strong, but he was not skinny either.

  He had dark skin, a bit darker than Joniver’s, and he had dark straight hair, which was thick and parted over his left eye. The razor edge profile and perfectly coiffed look meant Hunter used some kind of gel to keep his hair in place, and Joniver thought this looked hilarious.

  No one on the street would care if they even had hair, much less where it was hanging or combed. People on the street needed food, and survival took a much higher priority over hair and fashion. Joniver wondered if Hunter knew or even cared about this disparity in their life situations.

  Joniver noticed the trim fit of Hunter’s suit. He is proud of himself, this one, Joniver thought.

  The odd thing was his eyes. He seemed to look at you and at the same time, not look at you. Hunter made Joniver feel like he was looking through Joniver, like the time he had seen a Crazy. This was a bit chilling, but again, Joniver found it more a curiosity than anything.

  What grabbed Joniver’s attention was the color of Hunter’s irises. Although his skin was dark, Hunter had crystal clear blue eyes. Other than himself, Joniver knew of no one with blue eyes. He was not sure he knew what it meant, but he dismissed any genetic connection. He had seen pictures of his father, and this was not the guy. The thought that he might share a gene pool with this idiot sickened him.

  “Jon, may I call you, Jon?” Hunter said.

  “No, you can call me Joniver. So what do you mean, you’re my best friend?”

  “Ah, Joniver, yes, of course,” Hunter said at first, then continued, “It means what it means, Joniver."

  “Hey Dude, I don’t enjoy games. Where am I and when can I go? My Nana and others will miss me soon.”

  “Others like Emily?” Hunter said with a slight grin. He looked and sounded evil.

  Joniver froze. He was afraid now. His hands trembled and his eyes narrowed. He cocked his head but caught himself. Joniver would not give in to this guy’s head games. He just hoped Emily was not tied up in this somehow, and he wanted to believe she was somewhere safe.

  “I know about Emily, and I now know your name, Joniver,” Hunter said, pulling a tablet from behind him on the desk. He moved around in front of the desk to face Joniver sitting on the couch.

  Joniver said nothing.

  “You and I have a great deal to discuss,” Hunter said.

  “Oh yeah…like what?”

  “Your future and the opportunity we have to help people here. You see, Joniver, too many people are being neglected and only a few are able to benefit from the great things the company has done. The great things the company has to offer.”

  “You seem to be doing ok.” Joniver looked around the room in disgust. “Most everybody I know would trade their flat for just this room in a heartbeat.”

  “In a heartbeat,” Hunter said. “What a curious phrase, and what a curious time to use it.”

  The room was not ornate but it was elegant. The walls were a soft earth-tone with noteworthy paintings hung around the room in proportion to their size and the wall. Behind the large, mahogany colored desk, floor to ceiling windows looked out on an immaculately landscaped lawn. Accent lamps lit the lawn and ground floodlights threw swathes of illumination up the building.

  “The company has done nothing for people on the street,” Joniver said. “We dig for scraps and hope one day we can get a company job. You don’t know anything about what’s real and the benefits, or lack thereof, from the company.” Joniver thought this a very appropriate, if not witty reply.

  Hunter’s expression remained unchanged. He reached back behind him and picked up something from under the desk. When he turned around he had in his hands the sword that was confiscated the night of the fire.

  “Well, aren’t you just full of surprises,” Joniver
said. “I don’t guess you pulled that out to give it back to me, did you?"

  “Actually, I did.” Hunter rose from the desk where he had been leaning and walked toward the couch.

  Joniver jolted up and looked hard at the man. Hunter continued to move toward him but with more measured steps.

  “Easy, Joniver,” Hunter said, holding out the sword sideways with two hands extended. “No one is going to hurt you here.”

  Joniver snatched the weapon, and Hunter stepped back to the desk, turning his back on Joniver. Joniver stood frozen holding the scabbard in his left hand and the sword hilt in his right.

  Hunter returned to his half leaning, half sitting position on the desk. “Joniver, safety and security are the highest priorities for the company. Active maintenance of these priorities is the reason the Americas are safe from the terrorist threat and safe for our citizens to walk the streets as they please.”

  Joniver’s eyes widened at this last statement. People were not free to move about as they pleased! A gathering of more than three had to be approved, because according to the company, it represented a potential terrorist uprising.

  All gatherings, whether for a ball game, a speech, a concert, or even a simple family gathering were forbidden and had been for over 20 years. Joniver could not figure out where this was going, but Hunter made him nervous. He looked for an opportunity to do something - to act - but there was no clear course at the moment. He needed to keep his head clear, but he was scared.

  Hunter continued, “We have provided security for the Americas for almost 60 years now. You are too young to remember the chaos that had been created through failed government policies and the failure of weak politicians to first recognize then act against the terror threat.

  “Had it not been for the Company and others like us, the world would have fallen in to complete confusion and been ruled - no, dominated - by radical fundamentalists who would have suppressed the rights of children and devalued women specifically, and human life generally. We would have literally returned to something akin to the stone ages.” Hunter shook his head, taking a breath.