by Taylor Kole
Emergency load-outs meant physically dragging a client outside the fifteen feet connectivity range of the Marker, or liquefying its receptor, instantly thrusting a client back into their body.
Since they lacked sufficient data about any possible long-term effects (the short ones seemed non-existent), those extreme measures were reserved for fires, bomb threats, or a confirmed shooter on the loose.
When thinking about it, he could see some nut hating Eridu enough to shoot the place up. With all the armed staff, he didn’t imagine they’d make it too far.
“What’s that about?” Rosa said.
“I’m not sure, but, c’mon. We have to go.”
“Give me a minute,” she said without moving.
Sometimes clients needed time to adjust when exiting. Especially after a first trip. With this current fiasco, however, he needed to talk to Victor. His earpiece was in his desk, one floor down.
“They’re evacuating the Atrium. Let’s go”
“A fire drill?” She furrowed her brow.
The loudspeakers kicked on close enough to make Alex flinch. “Attention guests and employees of Eridu: please return to your quarters. This is not a test. For the safety and security of all residents, guests and employees must proceed to their quarters, immediately. Attention guests and employees...”
The blaring volume left a ringing in Alex’s ear and a knot in his chest.
“What could that be about?” Rosa said as she climbed out of her chair and followed Alex toward the elevator.
His heart thumped loud enough to strum in his ears. It was nothing good. He tried to stay collected and said, “Maybe it’s some new type of scheduled drill?”
The words fell flat as they left his mouth. Rosa had lived on site longer than him. And in his brief time there, he’d never heard of a compound-wide emergency drill, or any scenario serious enough to invoke a procedure like this. They ran fire drills department by department. Those were plodding boredom, people casually getting up, chatting as they shuffled outside.
This was flashing red lights, compound-wide announcements, and big ass security officers pushing our honored guests.
Earthquakes, tornados, tsunamis—none of those affected Montana. Mountains and a cooler climate negated most of Nature’s wrath.
But endless manmade dramas existed.
Many of Eridu’s clients were dignitaries, billionaires, or government officials from around the world. Powerful people often had powerful enemies.
In their everyday life, the average billionaire staffed around sixty highly-trained security agents. Yet Broumgard insisted these important people arrive with no more than two. In essence, asking them to rely on Eridu’s top-notch security teams.
Broumgard serviced the world’s elite, and with a slew of high-value targets, Alex imagined a flurry of situations where a universal lockdown of Eridu would be implemented. All of the possible scenarios scared him.
The arriving elevator ding, followed by a series of clicking sounds, alerted Alex that he’d been repeatedly pressing the call button.
“It has to be some kind of threat against a client?” Rosa said as they boarded. “Some insane terrorist?”
“Victor will know.”
The elevator opened on the main level to a tumult of sound. Bass-filled voices echoed in all directions. Security officers swarmed the lobby.
Despite his best efforts, Alex felt long-forgotten pangs of panic settling in.
Rosa intertwined her arm in his, and they crept toward the busy foyer.
Combat boots connected with polished tiles and created a rhythmic drumline. Security officers, dressed in full gear carried automatic rifles. The sight of guns was so out of place, Alex suppressed an urge to approach each man and ask him to put it away.
He knew security had weapons. In the mornings, he sometimes heard pops coming from the distant gun range. Also, many hunters populated Eridu, employees and guests alike, but he’d never seen an actual rifle. He never considered the possibility Broumgard security had top-of-the-line armaments with scopes, extended clips, and shoulder straps.
“I’m assuming this isn’t a normal day at the office?” Rosa said.
He shook his head, but kept his eyes on the commotion.
He needed to get the earpiece. He headed toward his office.
Moments before they arrived, the door to the work area opened, and Dalton exited.
“Mr. Cutler. Excellent,” Dalton said casually, as if madness wasn’t all around them. He handed Alex the plastic case that held his earpiece. “Adisah tasked me with getting you safely to your condo.”
“What’s going on?” Alex asked as he allowed himself to be guided by the elbow toward the main entrance.
Dalton stared out the front glass wall as he spoke. “There’s no concrete information I can share beyond ‘there’s a potential threat to Eridu.’ For maximum safety, we’re returning everyone to their residences.”
“What’s the threat?” Rosa asked.
“I’m not one to speculate, ma’am. The important thing is that we have the situation well in hand. All that’s left is getting you and Mr. Cutler in a vehicle and on the move. Victor will update you quicker than I can.”
The normally holistic reception area was an example of organized pandemonium. The intensity of the men and the amount of firepower present made it feel like a staging area for an invasion, or the preparations to repel one.
Men gathered in groups, loaded weapons, strapped on body armor, attached further gun components: tripods, 12 gauge mounts for close combat, barrel grips.
Alex stopped in place and watched an armed group of men enter an awaiting Humvee and speed off.
Dalton led the couple to the main door and held it open as a second Hummer appeared.
He opened the rear door as it slowed and ushered them inside.
Alex compacted himself. He scooted across the leather in three shuffles. He appreciated Dalton’s guidance. Alex wouldn’t want to make important decisions under this type of pressure.
Give him a scheduled day, and he could squeeze more out of it than the next guy. Toss in a problem, and he’d treat it as a catastrophe until it was solved. But pile on another problem, and things got sketchy. Add more, and he’d feel himself shutting down, his thoughts would start to blur as if inside a blender set to pulsate.
Dalton smacked the back quarter panel in rapid succession. Off they went.
From the rear passenger window, Alex saw security officers running pell-mell, piling sandbags outside of the Atrium, establishing fire positions.
Further down the parking lot, even more troops climbed atop the tram and the Atrium’s roof.
Alex covered his mouth to stifle a whimper.
“What could cause this sort of reaction?” Rosa asked as she pushed her body closer, and shared his view.
An alien invasion, thought Alex, a security officer coup, an LSD experiment gone awry? “Odds are it’s precautionary.” His voice sounded confident, as if a second him controlled their shared speech.
Remembering the plastic case in his hand, he placed the earpiece in his ear. The Hummer sped past La Berce, which was being fortified with sandbags and a large gun.
A deafening thump-thump-thump passed overhead. He pressed his face against the window, and saw a brown and mustard-colored helicopter fly toward the Atrium. The armored aircraft resembled a shrunken version of the Russian HIND, the attack copter made famous in the 1980s megahit Rambo II.
“Victor, are you there?” Alex asked.
“Yes, Alex,” Victor replied.
Real-world AIs like Victor lacked the ability to interpret tone and expressions—the most important aspects of communication. Inside the Lobby, however, NPCs had algorithms that read tone, facial expressions, and body language. NPCs occasionally mimicked emotions they observed, something he found both exhilarating and terrifying.
To his personal AI, he said, “What the hell’s going on?”
The Hummer’s driver—a
fit youth with a mop of dark, curly hair, wearing the gray and black uniform—leaned back. While keeping his eyes on the road, he said, “Whoever they are, they’re in for one hell of a surprise.”
“Whoever who is?” Alex asked.
The young soldier looked over his soldier at Alex, then at Rosa. Instead of replying, he shrugged, returned his eyes to the road, and increased their speed.
“Talk to me, Victor.”
“Eleven unidentified craft are converging on our location.” Alex repeated what he heard to Rosa. “Eight vehicles preceded by three helicopters. Possibly law enforcement. Lack of radio contact makes that less likely, though not impossible. Security is treating the approaching vessels as hostile.”
Hostile? Possibly FBI, which meant what, possibly Iranian special forces? Alex thought about getting home, packing a bug-out bag, and rushing to the mountains. He and Rosa could see how long two city dwellers could survive in the wild. He’d probably die. A possible preference to looking out his window and finding bodies spinning and dropping from bullets as an invading horde overran his home.
“What else is he saying?” Rosa asked.
“Nothing.”
The silence in his ear seemed like a laser beam cutting through his brain.
Assessing the strength in Rosa’s visage, Alex knew she would be their only hope of surviving a snowy mountaintop.
Instead of pressing Victor for further information, Alex thought about federal agents versus teams of hitmen. Broumgard billed Eridu as a private resort, a retreat for the wealthy, a place with guarded secrets and protected information. Everyone except Tara occasionally voiced their concerns about withholding the Lobby from the world, could this be the world showing its contempt for being excluded?
Adisah had to know they couldn’t keep the United States in the dark forever. Having worked with them, he must know they infiltrated organizations simply because those groups sought privacy. Alex once read the only thing the government won’t allow its citizens to do is live outside societal norms. Once they learned what Broumgard did, how could they conclude anything other than nefarious activity was afoot?
Further problematic was the way the government dismantled organizations. When the FBI targeted companies, they punished the bosses. Alex held a high-level position. He could have blown a whistle a million times over the past year. A chance for criminal culpability in an as-yet undefined crime turned his stomach.
America excelled at finding ways to incarcerate its citizens. With only five percent of the world’s population, the United States confined twenty-five percent of the world’s prisoners and was near the top in both every crime imaginable and sentencing lengths for those times, proving that incarceration without rehabilitation exacerbated crime. Why should that matter, when those in power lived above risk and never faced any penalties for wrongdoing?
On the other hand, if a team of assassins approached, blood, mayhem, and death would litter these peaceful streets. As management, Alex might be dragged into the center of town, tied to a poll, and shot.
He closed his eyes and focused on breathing.
His eyes popped open as a more horrifying notion surfaced. What if Broumgard security knew the government approached, and planned to repel the government because of their authority? That hadn’t worked out good for those at WACO, and of course, there’d be innuendos and accusations of sexual impropriety. A baseless accusation seemed to permit any type of treatment to the accused. In WACOs case, it allowed the burning alive of children, and a hundred other civilians, all without criminal culpability.
Adisah embraced peace, but he, and particularly Roy Guillen, had talked about the evils of government intrusion.
If Broumgard planned to fight the government, Alex would try out his mountain living experiment, for real.
“Victor, give me immediate updates.”
“Yes, Alex.”
The vehicle braked forcefully in front of building A.
Alex and Rosa held hands as they rode the elevator up. Exiting, he slowed to take in the always mesmerizing globe. He imagined armed militants bursting out of the elevator, and being stunned by the beauty of Patterned Creation. Alex would be watching them through a slightly opened door, his suffocating fear would boil over into indignation at all the heathens had interrupted. At that point, he would pull the door open and race toward the invaders with a kitchen knife, determined to strike them from his land.
He shivered as he pictured them sharing a confused look, pointing their weapons at him in unison, and mowing him down with the ease of automatic gunfire.
Inside the condo, Rosa removed her shoes, donned slippers, and shuffled to the main floor bathroom.
To gain a view of the compound, maybe allay some of his fright, Alex planned to head onto the patio.
On the walk, Victor spoke, pausing him a step before the glass threshold.
“Alex, Ms. Capaldi is currently in communication with an Agent Andrews from the Federal Bureau of Investigation. He possesses court documents allowing them to secure these premises. Broumgard Group security forces are standing down.”
“Standing down, are you sure?”
“Yes. We will fully comply with their commands.”
Alex slid to the floor, his back against the glass, his hands on his head.
They would escape a violent showdown with terrorists, which was great. But what now?
Chapter Ten
A week of house arrest wasn’t so bad when you spent the time in a six-thousand-square-foot condominium with all types of table games, awesome tv and sound, an ultra-pimp aquarium, sweet view of a futuristic retreat, and the person you loved the most. Yet with the government being involved, the uncertainty of a stable tomorrow punctuated each of Alex’s breaths. He couldn’t help but identify areas that could be construed as wrongdoing? With no internet to conduct research, he only remembered corporate fraud carried a maximum sentence of thirty years in prison.
Over the past few days, and beyond all the previously listed amenities, which were great distractions, they mainly watched the action from the balcony. The landscape was captivating, the climate ideal, and the serenity helped Alex reflect on all he’d accomplished since arriving. That peace was shattered when a military C-141 Starlifter cargo plane flew overhead and vibrated the entire condo. When it landed, activity popped up all over Eridu.
Alex borrowed a pair of tactical binoculars from Brad. They’d been glued to his eyes since the plane arrived. The mammoth aircraft—which looked big enough for four school buses to drive out of its belly—was parked outside a hangar. He had expected the hatch to drop open and Marines to pour out, maybe a slew of Jeeps after. Instead, it remained closed.
The FBI arrived on day one, with maybe two dozen agents. More arrived the second day. Day three brought a military chopper, and since then, the daily arrivals predominantly wore uniforms, not suits. Being confined to his home and informed in bits by Victor. He could only guess as to what this new behemoth plane meant.
He focused the lens and inspected the lone motorhome by the Atrium. Since the starlifter arrived, military personnel had been bustling between their makeshift base and the Atrium.
“What do you think they are delivering?” Rosa asked. Her voice pulled him from a near out-of-body obsession. With the slider door open, he heard the music of Journey. Rosa often played classic rock loudly while she cooked. He smelled breadcrumbs atop a casserole and wondered how long he’d been out here, oblivious to his nearby surroundings. “They haven’t opened the back yet, but I don’t know. Maybe some vehicles.”
“Like more jeeps?”
“Yeah. What did you make?”
“Chicken green bean casserole. It needs another ten minutes to cool down.” She stepped past him, motioned for the binoculars, and turned back to the Starlifter. “They’re doing something around the back of that plane.”
Alex resisted a strong urge to wrestle the binoculars from her and look himself.
As if sensing his desire
, she passed them over. “Let me know what’s new, and I’ll let you know when the table is set.”
Alex nodded as he found the plane. Three men were standing near the back at a distance as if they expected the hatch to yawn open. A minute later, it did. The men entered, exited driving hi-los, and drove them into the nearby hangar. They soon returned with large wooden crates on the skids.
They loaded up four crates each, exited on foot, and puffed on a pair of vaporizers.
Alex worried he knew what was in the crates. He’d seen those crates exit the Atrium the night before.
He knew, instinctively, the unmarked crates held servers and access chairs. Over the past week, he imagined the entire apparatus previously known as the Lobby had been dissected more thoroughly than a downed alien spacecraft.
He studied every vapor cloud exhaled by the hi-lo drivers as if a message could be decoded from the smoke. He willed them to drive back into the Starlifter’s belly and remove those crates. They never went back inside. They just watched the hatch seal. He heard the Starlifter’s engines kick on, and knew its destination would be as accessible as a distant subsector of Area 51.
A personal truth startled him. He would choose prison for himself with the promise of the Lobby’s continued existence over freedom and its demise.
Rosa placed her hand on his back. Her touch acted like a vortex, pulling him out of his sea of despair.
“It’s time to eat.”
He bobbed his head ever-so slightly, and then followed her to the table.
The casserole tasted amazing, but the food entered his mouth on auto-pilot. Initially, he thought about the many negative outcomes. Once he realized he was being all negative, he chose to think of different topics. His mind returned to the steps needed to finalize the Battle of Gettysburg’s code. Completing that world should increase the Lobby’s chances of survival.
Pennsylvania in 1863 was a strange period for the English language. Men used thirty seconds of speech to ask about your day. A conversation between aristocrats, or in this case, educated commanders, could last five times the necessary length and be as colorful as a peacock streaking through a paint booth. To maintain authenticity, yet restrain the verbiage from steering the Gettysburg world to the farcical, they employed an Old English style of talk more suited for Shakespeare than Colonel Chamberlain.
