The Fourth Guardian

by Geoff Geauterre

  "Well, now, what are you grinning at, eh?” This one opened his mouth and laughed at him. Then he slid aside and swam around, playing with the others as they bobbed up, splashing water over the circular veratite walls and onto the concrete floor, where water ran down an incline into the drains.

  There was a ringing sound as one nosed a panel, and a door bounced open releasing a dozen tuna. A rush followed, and the snacks were scooped up.

  Roger's guts twisted. He couldn't do it. Every time he got close to them, or to anything else that was as big and swam, a wriggling nexus of fear slipped its way to his sphincter, and all he could think about was where else he would rather be.

  Humans, he argued fruitlessly, could not communicate with nor be friendly to sea life, be they whales, dolphins, or seals. How did he know this? His sphincter told him so.

  "Having problems?"

  He swung around and found Elizabeth Drew, super-bitch, leaning against the steel door, observing him.

  "Go away,” he answered politely.

  "Come on,” she urged, coming forward, dressed in a glistening wet suit. “It's easy. I've done it a dozen times already."

  "Fat chance."

  He edged away from wall, his eyes taking in the steps that led to the exit Elizabeth fumed. “I was warned about you."

  He stopped.

  "I've been told,” she said, a trace of contempt dripping from the sides of her lips like froth, “that when it comes to water, Roger Tate has a creature that leaps up and snaps at his private parts, and he goes all soprano."

  It wasn't the shock of her words that mortified him, it was just having bitten his tongue that did, and the pain that engulfed his head made his eyes dance in agony. He wasn't about to show her what he was experiencing. Damn her.

  "What would you prefer?” he elucidated carefully. “Showing that I can be goaded into doing something I'm simply not prepared for? Allowing myself to be urged to slip into that pool with those delightful fellows, and yes, you don't have to tell me, they're really fine people at heart, no malice in them at all, and with enough curiosity to pack an express train. I know all that, but it still doesn't help. As far as I'm concerned, they could eat me if they wanted, and I'd be a fool to give them a chance."

  He marched towards the door.

  "And to think,” she said behind him “If something happened to me, I'd have no one I could trust who would help."

  An invisible wall shot up in front of him, and red with embarrassment and guilt, he stopped.

  "Here I was hoping the great Roger Tate, ex-mercenary, ex-con, ex-hero, would be there were I to slip up, but no-o,” she exclaimed. “Roger Tate, ex-exemplar, can't be bothered with a little thing like that, not him. Too damn busy preening his feathers, he is.” She snorted. “Boy, what a fake!"

  That did it.

  "Right!” he snapped. “Stay right there. I'm going to suit up, and if you jump in with those fellows, and they decide to play with you like a piece of fish before I'm back, I'll still be in time to laugh my bleeding head off!"

  Elizabeth hummed softly and sang a melody of a lady in the heather, spinning a thread of hay, plotting how to do a man who didn't want...

  Ieeircocs turned over in a rushing swirl and blew at her, delighted when she waved back. He wanted to play with the human. His parents understood that. He was only a young Orca, after all.

  * * * *

  Forty-four miles away, in a rather remarkable futuristic cabin, built on a small islet of the outer periphery of Taggart Industries’ holdings, the man once known as Professor Omi Negochi looked up from the blueprints.

  "Regis?"

  "Hmm?” Regis turned from what he'd been doing across the room, which seemed as if he were attempting to ... the professor decided not to ask. Talking with a seal wasn't in his line anyway.

  "Regis, these blueprints I've been going over, they look as if they were drawn to the scale of a battle cruiser. That can't be right, can it?"

  "I'm afraid it is, professor. Is there a problem with material? Don't we have enough?"

  "We have enough for a dozen fleets from what we're able to extract from the sea bed, but that's not the point."

  "Well?"

  "Regis! These are warships! I thought there was an understanding that you were not to interfere in other cultures!"

  "Professor, let me give you a for instance, and you tell me what we'll need, okay?"

  He nodded hesitantly. “All right. Go ahead."

  "You find out that a near genius is held in a prison on an island. He has skills you need, and we have the freedom he needs, but he can't escape. Perhaps even his family is imprisoned with him. There are guards, of course, but they can't be bribed for fear of what may happen to their own families, and then there are sentries at every point, soldiers, machine guns, artillery, tanks. So what are you going to need if you want that guy out of there?"

  The professor sighed. “Warships."

  "You got it."

  "But that sort of procedure takes specialized training. Special crews who have combat experience in air, sea and land. We don't have those people."

  "Working on it."

  Then he went back to making lip movements and clucking his tongue up and down, making odd sounds. The seal was attentive.

  * * * *

  "Jason Prochnow?"

  The old man in a worn suit two decades out of style looked up and spied the civilian in the doorway. He hadn't heard the door open, so maybe he forgot to close it. He shrugged and waved the stranger off.

  "This section,” he said wearily, “is closed at twelve, and besides, it's bad for your health. There is dust in the ventilators and asbestos from the ceilings."

  "Perhaps a Jason Prochnow would be concerned, but not a Commander Riekhert."

  The old man slipped a hand under the lip of the desk and drew the silenced Luger.

  "What name did you say? I'm afraid you're wrong."

  "I don't think so. I think you're Commander Riekhert. The same man who turned on his superiors at the battle of Jergensprow? The same man, who, alone, swam through the city sewers of Belgrade to rescue a group of Jews held by S.S. troops. The same man who—"

  Regis stopped when the Luger aimed at his head.

  "Now, be nice, commander. I'm not here to do you harm. I congratulate you for disappearing so well and then reappearing as an old records clerk. A clerk, by the way, who is in the business of supplying false papers for refugees."

  "You know a lot,” said the old man dryly, ears listening for the stamp of boots ... but there were none, and that was surprising.

  "All right, whoever you are, what do you want?"

  "I have need of a man with your background."

  Riekhert shook his head irritably. “I know of no one who can help you. Everyone is running, scared of being labeled ex-Nazi, or ex-Soviet, or a collaborator to either, and even someone with my skills might not be safe soon."

  "Yes, you're speaking of the comparative records section, aren't you?"

  The old man made a decision and put his gun back into the clip holster that held it. “No one can get in the place. I've searched for a way for months, and it's impossible. And once they begin a records comparison of everyone in the state, all my work will have been undone."

  "Wouldn't you say it's time to leave?"

  "You're insane. Getting out is more difficult than staying hidden."

  "I can get you out. I can get everyone out. All those you worked so hard to hide would be safe. All you have to do is work for me."

  The old man licked dry lips. “Doing what?"

  "Why, being what you are. A naval commander."

  "I have no legs."

  "Tish tosh."

  "I'm old. I can't train anyone to take my place."

  "No problem."

  "How do you know you can depend on me?"

  "Ah, now, I can read minds, don't you know? Now perhaps you'll tell me about that curious group you've joined. A good number are cashiered sailors, deserters fr
om the army, and even some engineers. I'd like to offer everyone a proposition."

  Riekhert stared at the man. “Haven't you been listening? I have no legs. I'm old and about to be arrested as soon as those bastards figure out how I've hidden from them.” He paused. “You really have need of me?"

  "You got it."

  The old navy man reached down and pulled out of a lower drawer where he kept the vodka ... along with two glasses.

  "I always drink to crazy people. They have a refreshing viewpoint."

  Three days later the little records section was crowded with heavily booted old men, standing at attention as their old commander told them of an offer too good to refuse.

  A giant of a man with muscles still rippling down his shoulders asked, “Is this a joke?"

  "It's no joke, Ibrov."

  "We will be treated with respect?"

  "We'll be paid in gold for what we do."

  Ibrov blinked. “Gold?"

  Riekhert lifted a box and opened it to pour its contents on the table. A rain of one-ounce gold coins spilled forth, and a hush came over them all.

  Ibrov walked over and fingered a few, but it was to his credit that he was skeptical.

  "You know, commander, after having gotten me out of that damn prison, I'm not ashamed to admit it, my family adores you. And then I owe you my life. But gold, by itself, isn't enough. You're asking us to leave our homes."

  There were grunts, and many nodded grimly. Their homes were all they had.

  Riekhert nodded. “I understand. But its necessary that you believe me.” He rolled up a sleeve and bared his arm. Ibrov leaned over, and his eyes widened in disbelief. The terrible scar once there, from elbow to wrist, was now healthy, pink tissue.

  Then Riekhert took off his cap, and the black streaks in his white hair stood out. A man cursed. He looked younger.

  Ibrov drew in a breath, leaping to the same conclusion as everyone else. “Commander! Your—"

  Riekhert smiled broadly. “In a year, Ibrov, I will have my legs again. If you care to look at the stumps, you'll see them growing. Now, old friend, are you with me?"

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter Eight

  An excited murmur rose as the director took his seat at the council table and nodded for the proceedings to begin. Hologram cameras had been set up, and what transpired was observed throughout the complex.

  This day's meeting was to conclude whether the Taggart Group would implement a larger theatre of activity based on a referendum to interfere in the political affairs of other nations.

  The highly controversial debate that arose six weeks earlier concerning this idea was a direct result of several international acts that suggested the eastern and western hemispheres were close to an economic and political collapse. The chaos that would ensue might engulf everyone. To protect themselves, they would be forced to act soon.

  Some felt that this would open a Pandora's box and might only trigger the collapse that much sooner.

  It was a thorny issue. The world looked as if it were coming apart, and if something wasn't done, it might be too late to stop it.

  Regis Taggart gestured for order, the octagonal chamber became silent, and the powerful image, as well as his words, carried to everyone on seventeen levels, along with those areas undergoing construction in the underwater habitats.

  His garb of midnight black flowed around the man as he looked upon his elite, his first cabinet.

  "Before we take on further business it is our pleasure to congratulate Admiral Riekhert and Commander Ibrov for having been unanimously chosen for their posts."

  The two beamed as close friends, family and many others applauded. The running had been neck and neck in places. There were others as experienced, but the analysis computers put their live molecule neurons together and came to the realization that these two, with all they had gone through, with all they learned in such a short period, made them more than equal to the tasks ahead. They were chosen because they were the best.

  "Gentlemen, your excellent performance in these past three years have been an extraordinary achievement and a timely one. The situation developing because of skewed national and international policies promises to be chaotic. It demands swift and strong measures."

  Regis looked at his councilors left, right, and nodded.

  The Administrator for Internal Affairs took his cue. “The United States electoral process, and the political machinery that has allowed a constant choice of mediocre politicians to take control, has finally become too much a burden for their financial establishments and ecosystems to bear. The banks, their social programs, internal security, medical care, and even their taxing agencies, have all but ceased to work in any purposeful manner.

  "Their treasury, now having been turned down for an extension on their loans from the European and Japanese bank syndicates, has stated that taxes must increase to a flat sixty percent of everyone's earnings. This will not affect the corporations, which only pay fifteen.

  "My analysts predict that in two years, if not less, every major state will move to secede from their federal government. From there they will then erect free trade with other states, after changing their currency to one based more closely on the business world's model of credit backed by gold.

  "However, once that occurs, it is predicted the government of the United States, under the present administration, headed by a fundamentalist Catholic president, and a cabinet of advisors chosen for their parochial views, will declare a state of martial law and implement a shutdown of state governments, which will then be replaced with federal administrators."

  He turned then to Anthony Pembroke, their policies coordinator. Anthony Pembroke shook his head as he stared down at the fax sheets before beginning.

  "I'm afraid my news on the international front is little better, if not worse. There is an eighty-seven percent chance of a major civil war occurring in Russia, several minor wars along its borders with its ex-satellite states, and they're dismantling any democratic foundation.” He pursed his lips tightly. “An establishment of secret police has been formed throughout, and there are rumors of the torture of dissenters.

  "I know one of my tasks was to ensure a stabilization of these states into a commonwealth alignment, but unfortunately, try as I may, I could not stop a power-hungry clique from taking over key areas of influence, nor could I prevent the rebuilding of Gulag camps and detention centers."

  Regis frowned. “And mid-Europe?"

  "They're digging in for an all-out war with the east and west. They don't know when the first attack will take place, but the consensus is that it's coming no matter what they do."

  "England?"

  "Oddly enough, they're doing well. True, they're girding for an economic winter, and considering import prices from the continent have risen steadily, they've managed to hold everything together by changing their currency to one that is gold-based. The French danced in the street when they did that, and the President of France cried with relief. But in Italy we've got the beginnings of a real problem, and one that could swamp everyone else in the region."

  "What is it?"

  "The new Pope. He's feeling his oats and declares that those dabbling with abortion, or even discussing the topic, are to be condemned. He suggests that arrests are in order. He is calling for pre-criminal prevention...” Here even Anthony smiled. “Apparently, he doesn't realize the acronym PCP stands for a banned drug."

  "Now that,” said Regis heavily, “is an unfortunate position to take with a nation of over seventy million."

  "And climbing,” added Pembroke grimly. “When their Senate passed that resolution outlawing the use of temporary-effect sterilization drugs, there were so many riots, the army was called into the streets. Thousands were arrested, and seventy percent of them were women."

  "What is your evaluation?"

  Pembroke shrugged helplessly. “Except for Norway, Sweden, Switzerland, France and Germany, which makes up mid-Europe,
there isn't another stable area on the continent."

  "What about Australia? What's happening over there?"

  "I'm forced to admit they are as crazy as the Philippines. They're forcing people to carry passports. New Zealand is pressing against the trend, but it's a matter of time before they succumb."

  "In the Asian sector?"

  "You're going to laugh at this, but Japan, China, Taiwan, and even Mongolia are considering banding together and forming an isolationist cabinet."

  "Africa? India?"

  "Hopeless. There are so many brushfire wars in both places, it's impossible to understand where they're going or why."

  "Anything else?"

  "Yes. In three weeks, the United Nations will shut down. They can no longer influence or control the factors of chaos. Once one nation took unilateral action against another without U.N. oversight, no one thought they were important anymore ... and apparently, they were right. Nation states are no longer pledging troops for U.N. actions. No nation state is paying their dues. The U.N. is broke, and pretty soon it will be without teeth."

  "You're presenting an alarming picture."

  "We have Kurds turning into roving guerrillas. Government outposts are attacked by more people than they have troops. Kidnappings are up. Bombings are up. Tribes are forming everywhere. Anarchists are expressing themselves, and to be blunt ... considering the world around them, they're justified in doing whatever it takes to survive."

  Grim silence.

  "A few more questions."

  "Unfortunately, I have a lot of answers, but go on."

  "We have refugees. We have rebels. We have revolutionaries, bandits, and corrupt officials. Mid-Europe is preparing for an assault against its borders. Correct?"

  "Yes."

  "What about Canada?"

  "Now there is something decidedly different. They've banned immigration, closed off their borders, and armed their people. Everyone between the ages of sixteen and fifty have been called into national service."

  Regis frowned. “And that business of terrorists getting their hands on fissionable material?"

  "The authorities don't know who stopped them, but we try hard to remain in the shadows."