by Kevin Gordon
The battle on I-78 was a short one, as only one side had the guns. The Grunts made a valiant effort, charging relentlessly against the Archetypes. A few even got through, and tried to overwhelm them, but without a gun they were no match for the hormone-enhanced bodies of the Archetypes. The Archetypes lived for violence, and within fifteen minutes, three hundred dead Grunts littered the highway.
The Deaconess though, was left standing. She stood silently with her arms crossed, utterly defiant. Charlie walked briskly over to her.
“Looks like you’ve lost.”
They stood facing each other, lone figures in the enormity of the highway, with the sun beaming down on them both.
“You should thank God for turning aside the rain, or you would’ve lost too.”
Charlie nodded. “I should kill you now.”
“You do, and no matter what excuse you and your kind comes up with, every worker in the Homestead will revolt. And eventually, you won’t have enough guns to stop us, for one way or another, we will bring your ‘Machine’ to a grinding halt.”
Charlie smiled at his mention of the Machine. “Who’s been feeding you information?”
The Deaconess shook her head. “I don’t think you’d like the answer. Now, I’m gonna get in one of those buses, and head back.”
“You know, you’re gonna die one day soon. Then, all my problems will be over.”
“You ever heard the old saying about the devil you know? Well, unlike you, my mortality has been on my mind. And I have prepared for my passing.” Suddenly, a wry smile graced her lips. “I wonder if the council has been preparing for their passing too? Makes one wonder . . .”
As she walked off and boarded a bus, a knot of fear gripped Charlie, at hearing her words.
What could she mean by that? He watched as the bus’ engine sputtered and started, and she slowly pulled away, with several dozen Archetypes forlornly pointing their guns in her direction. She’s just a damned stupid bitch anyway. What does she know?
While the council remained in the submarine just in case another Countdown should hit unexpectedly, Charlie felt no need for such extreme measures. When he first took over Scott, he took his own precautions by installing a massive pool put in the center of the base. Scientists determined the ‘wave of temporal displacement’ didn’t permeate more than the first few inches of water, but he made the pool a consistent 20 foot deep. Then he converted a storage building into a series of suites for him and other Homestead officials, and timed that it would take him exactly eight seconds to run from his bed to the pool, and dive in.
And it was in that bed he lay now, his arm around Dawn, satisfied, gazing up into the ceiling.
“Lot on your mind?” she asked delicately.
“Damned right—damned right!” He had just plowed the crap out of her, acting as if he was doing the Deaconess instead of the young prototype. He had taken a liking to Dawn when she was thirteen, and it took him a full year to get over his persistent morality about child abuse. It’s a new age, he told himself, over and over. This is it. Either I stick it to one of the old hags or I get over it and sleep with one of the children. If I don’t get with one soon, then they’re gonna think I’m some damned queer, and not even all my bravado will help me then.
The first time he slept with her, she cried, and it almost tore his soul apart. How can I feel this pain with her, he thought to himself, after he was done, and yet know I will blow up the sub with the entire council on board, and start a civil war if necessary to get what I want? Each time he lay with her he felt a little easier, pretended it was someone else, someone older. The few times he tried to enjoy her for herself, take delight in her body, he almost vomited, and decided never to do it again.
But she was good at listening. It was like speaking to a little sister, when they were done. She would put her arm around his wide chest, lay her head in the crook of his arm, and just listen. She never judged, never tried to take advantage of him, or press him for a deeper commitment. She just ‘was,’ and he greatly appreciated her for that.
He let out a long sigh, and turned to look in her eyes. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. I mean, stirring up the grunts? All she can do is lose! We have the guns, we have the training! We have access to the weapons of war, and the will to use them. Every single Archetype is waiting, begging to fight something! And if she keeps on pressing, that’s just what she’ll get.”
She rubbed his chest with her hand, and he moaned in pleasure, as she lay her head back down on his chest.
“How’d you know I like that?”
She smiled coyly. “I don’t know. I just . . . know you.”
“Yeah. Guess you do.”
“So . . . now that you’ve got Eve, when’s the launch?”
“Three weeks.” He gazed absently at the ceiling, enjoying her hand on his chest. “I need to get a few more things, in preparation for what comes after the launch. I’m leaving day after tomorrow, to bring in some . . . heavy machinery.”
She grinned wildly. “Isn’t the ‘Machine’ big enough?”
“Not quite, not quite. One can never be too careful. The second you let down your guard, the second you trust too much, is the second the knife is plunged into your back.”
She kissed along his cheek. “How did you get like this?”
“Like what?”
“All . . . suspicious.”
“You don’t wanna know.”
She pouted, and sighed a little. “If not me, then who?”
The one thing he did hate was how she pressed him to learn more about himself. She never asked for details about the Machine, or who would be killed when, or how he would affect the coup. But she did press for him to speak about himself. And the part he hated most is that she always won, and he always spoke.
“I don’t know . . . I wish I could tell you some story about some childhood thing, some trauma, but that just isn’t the case. I had a good childhood, with a good mother and father who both loved me. My father was always taking apart stuff, and one time he even invented something, that got the money so I could go to college.”
“So, I guess everything went along fine, until the day before Countdown. I was a lot for some people to handle, but my mind always got me out of whatever jam my body got me into. Then, it hit, and the instant it did, I knew. I could almost feel all those people die. They all rolled over, and took it, lying down, not fighting back. Well, I just couldn’t! I had enough of following the orders of lesser men, and I wasn’t about to give my life for someone who didn’t know any better. In that minute, I decided. I took control of my own destiny, and I was determined never again to let anyone else decide where I would be, what I would do, or when I would die. This world will never exist being governed by committee. It needs a dictator, someone absolutely unshakable in his convictions, to drag along everyone else into the future.”
“And you’re that man?”
“Honestly? No.” He clenched his fists and stared at the ceiling, feeling naked for the first time in his life. He always knew the answer to the question she asked, but this was the first time he admitted it to anyone. “As much as I’d like to be, I’m merely a transitional element. A bridge, between what was, and what will be. No, he or she who will follow in my footsteps will have learned my lessons, and will know how this world is to be handled. That’s why I spend so much time with you prototypes and archetypes. I’m waiting to see which of you will break out of the pack, show me something special.”
She held her breath, knowing what he shared was something he never shared with anyone else.
“And . . . the Deaconess?”
“Threatens to take the teeth out of us, to make us in some mirror image of the false morality in her soul. She covets power as much as I do, but she hides behind the words of the creator. The world she would create wouldn’t be a proud one, but one where everyone would be abased in front of her. She has no desire for progress. She wants stasis, for her will to keep us motionless and trap
ped in her thrall.”
Dawn mounted him again, and then leaned down to kiss him deeply, her hair spilling over his face.
“But you’ll show her.”
He grabbed her hips and started a slow, building rhythm with their bodies.
Damned right . . .
The next day, the council was positively livid when they called Charlie back. They heard about the slaughter of the Grunts, heard the furor from the Deaconess, and demanded answers. He thought about taking Frank along, but knew he would be too tempted to finish them all, and Frank would be too eager. Even now, as he walked past the archetypes guarding the subs, he could see the need to murder in their eyes, their absolute devotion to him.
Why do I wait? He often asked himself that question, more so now that almost all Archetypes and Prototypes had openly pledged their allegiance to him. I could give the word, and it would all be wiped clean. He paused, glancing up into the nighttime sky. High above, a faint glimmer could be seen—one of the Watchers. Is it them? Do I wait, because I don’t want them to think we’re all war and no peace? Part of me feels like we just went through the flood, and for whatever perverted reason, we few that survived are the modern day children of Noah. But while God promised there would be no other flood, we’ve never received such a promise from whatever did this to us. I feel like, sometimes, they’re waiting to see how we’ll do, if we’ll pick up the pieces and move on. And I feel like I’m back in the Navy, and I’ve gotta be a good boy, at least until I know what the real deal is.
“Are you to be all about war?!”
Davis yelled at Charlie, his face going red. He had been yelling at him for the past hour, and Charlie thought he should probably stop, or he’d burst a blood vessel or something. Finally, he had enough.
“Who else is going to be about war?” demanded Charlie angrily, pacing back and forth. “Do you know what’s going on around the world? Well I have some clue. I hear rumors of forces massing in China, of the resurrection of the planes and tanks and warships. This has been like a giant stalemate, with all the players knocked senseless to the floor. Well, whichever one rises first, whichever one can make a fist, will be the one to control the world from here on out.”
“We can’t be about war,” pleaded Sou-Lin. “Life is hard enough, without making it even harder on the souls of our people. You say everyone is knocked on the floor? Then why can’t it be the first person to extend a hand of help and forgiveness, will be the one to set the tone for the future? Why do you need to think on all that is perverted and sinful and violent, and not have hope?”
Charlie’s lips twisted into a sneer. “You say that, with full knowledge of what we have done to the archetypes? To the prototypes? To the entire year four of our civilization, locked away, breeding animals from where humans should be?”
“They are necessary evils, and—”
“And so is this!” shouted Charlie. “We need more soldiers than cleaners, for in times of peace, soldiers can clean just as well. We need to make a race of strength, not morally upright pillows fit only to be the bedding for those of greatness!”
Davis was about to speak, when he suddenly broke out in a peal of laughter, one that shocked Charlie in how uncharacteristic it was for him. “What kind of analogy is that? ‘Pillows fit only to be the bedding for those of greatness?’ Oh my . . .” The council slowly burst out in genial laughter, diffusing the tension, and even Charlie smiled, and let down his guard, suddenly feeling the time was right for some candor.
“You know your time is short right, Davis?”
“Yeah. I see it in your eyes.”
“Then let me tell you, I am waiting to see it in the eyes of the prototypes. I hunger for that soul who finally shows a spark of independence and leadership! I need to know that there will be someone to carry on, to push hard, to give up the pleasantries of life, and commit to the resurrection of America!”
“You mean, the resurrection of the human race,” asked Davis.
“No, I mean America!” snapped Charlie angrily. “The human race be damned—I am a patriot, through and through! We have a greatness within us that transcends our species; a knowledge of our place in the history of this world that cannot, will not be denied.”
He stood before them, a frenetic fire in his eyes that struck a chord of fear in all those seated to witness.
“You worry me, Charlie. More than even the prospect of another Countdown, you worry me.”
“Do I? With me, you know that the Homestead will never die. No matter what, it will go on and on, and will thrive, and grow, and even if there is another damned Countdown, we of the Homestead will press on, undaunted by the damned Watchers, unperturbed by the stinking Deaconesses of this world! I think it’s time you decided how you will die, and what you will be remembered for.”
Charlie stormed out of the room, leaving the council in a shattered silence. Davis leaned over to Sou-Lin.
“What of the Actuals? Are they close to being ready?”
“Not close enough.”
Chapter 13
