by David Berko
That’s when Damion leapt from cover, hoping to surprise the intruder. But there was no one else in the room. A startled cat scampered off a pile of papers by his desk and sent them flying. Damion moved in to clean the mess up.
“Humphrey, what are you doin’ down here old boy?”
The cat meowed and gave its tail a swish.
“Did you see any,” Damion did a quick scan around the room, “any…virtual assistants lurking about?” he asked the ball of fur that was now purring at its master’s feet. “Nevermind.” Damion smiled and patted his cat on the head a couple of times. The papers he was still holding in his hand were mockups for his designs on what he presumed the future to be. Everything from faucets, personal fitness machines, to the microwave—the one in your kitchen— Damion sketched his take on how they could evolve.
He wondered why they were left out for snoopers to come by instead of being put away in their own filing cabinets. That was the least of his worries though. He looked at one of the monitors and noticed it was recently awake: A little LED notification light went from blue to yellow, indicating it had been on only a couple of minutes ago. Damion’s heart skipped a beat. No one had access to this area accept himself and a few others which he could count on one hand. Getting an idea, he grabbed the back of the nearby chair and twirled it around, hopping on. His finger clicked the power on and his desktop background confronted him. Nothing looked suspicious, yet.
--
Chapter 13
Area 51, Nevada
Desmond’s legs kicked freely in the air. He felt like he was on one of those rides at the amusement park where they take you up and drop you at free-fall speeds. Riding on a giant electromagnet, Desmond gripped his jetpack handlebars even harder for added security even though he was in no real danger. He looked out into the deep void and what he saw was stunning. Built into the rock was a cylindrical-shaped skyscraper made of glass and concrete. As he dropped it seemed like this would go on forever. The supertall’s floors whizzed by: the building’s lights appeared like a blue blur to him. Desmond got dizzy from peering down below between his kicking feet into the dark abyss. And then the ride was over. The magnet slowed its descent and came to a complete stop at a station.
The MP guard operating the lift looked out from his glass bubble and noticed the arrival wasn’t like the others he had transported into the Purple Zone in recent memory, yet Desmond radiated a signal that was good for a Delta IV level security clearance, good enough for passage. Good enough, in fact, to speak to the Big Man himself.
Just then the guard received a transmission over his radio that said, “Let him by, Alfred. I am to see him shortly for our appointment.”
“Copy that,” Alfred radioed back.
Desmond began to adjust to the new scenery, but never quite fully. It was like something out of a fiction novel. He stared up above him and realized the tower stood only 20 floors, perhaps. But still, plenty large enough to command respect. Who ever heard of underground high-rises anyway? Astonishing. His next thought was where did he go? He was referring to Howard, that is. One minute he saw him, the next…he didn’t.
What he didn’t expect was the arrival of a tall blonde woman. He was still dangling in his harness when he saw her approach across a narrow overpass that connected the station and the tower. The current powering the magnet still wasn’t shut off and the programmer began to wonder how he would ever escape the jetpack that stuck to him like glue. A man’s voice suddenly carried over a speaker in the terminal and reached his ears.
“Press the release button on your chest strap, sir.”
Desmond saw it, but hesitated for a moment. He knew he would plummet a good distance before his feet would hit anything. Then he saw stairs rising, reaching out to support the newcomer. That’s when he decided to comply. He landed on the top step, quickly regaining his balance before the woman coming to meet him would ever notice. Desmond stood erect with a runaway heartbeat. The thump, thump of the cardiovascular muscle pumping the blood throughout his closed circulatory system rang in his ears.
“Good afternoon,” the lady said in a beautiful British accent.
“Uh, hi!” the programmer awkwardly returned the greeting with an airy hand wave.
The woman smiled and introduced herself as Heather. “You’re probably wondering where the Old Man scooted off to,” she said while turning slightly to look back at the tower. “He had a meeting to attend, but he wanted you to feel comfortable and so he sent me his secretary to fetch you,” Heather finished explaining.
“Where’s the frisbee?” Desmond joked, making fun of her choice of words.
“Sorry?”
Now it was Desmond’s turn to feel chafed again. He decided changing topics was his best bet to take a little of the heat off and hopefully get Heather not to stare at him so intently. So much for making me feel ‘comfortable’ he thought. “So where are we going?” he asked the obvious.
“To my office,” Heather facetiously replied.
Desmond stared, mouth open.
Heather giggled and crossed one leg in front of the other. Her silver stilettos glinted under the bright lights of the platform they were standing on. She parted her bangs and combed a loose strand out of her field of vision. “It was a joke?” she said, trying to capture Desmond’s averted gaze.
Desmond nervously chuckled before asking, “What’s your story?”
She avoided a quick answer and said, “Can you walk and talk?”
“Certainly.”
“Compliments to your barber, by the way,” Heather added--attempting small talk.
Desmond suddenly worried he had hair sticking up at obtuse angles every which way. “Is it that bad?” he asked with genuine concern.
“Let’s just say a jetpack tour would do things to anyone’s hair they wouldn’t necessarily appreciate.” She smiled as if a mental image had popped in her head.
“Is that the common mode of transportation around here?”
Heather stopped at the entrance to the tower. A big glass door was held open for her by a man with generous proportions who could easily fill a blue suit. He winked at her but she didn’t notice. She ignored the extra attention the males gave her around campus. It was how she survived.
“Thanks,” Desmond mumbled to the man as he stepped into the lobby trailing Heather by a few paces.
She turned and gave him a sideways glance and nonchalantly confirmed Desmond’s question: “We get around on those a fair amount. Some of us prefer walkin’ it though…whenever we’re able to.”
The programmer’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “But the size of this place…” His arms were spread wide like a plane’s wings to indicate the vastness of Dreamland.
“There is a subway,” she said at length, but she was distracted by another conversation she was having with the security officer on watch behind the marble front desk.
A phone rang repeatedly before the security guard had to apologize and ask Heather if they could talk later which she agreed to.
“A friend?” Desmond demurred about the officer now on the phone.
“My husband, actually,” Heather replied modestly.
Desmond couldn’t help but feel slightly disappointed and he didn’t even know why.
“They’re expecting us on the eighteenth floor.”
“I saw a bank of elevators down the west wing in a corridor to the left from the front desk,” he admitted.
“You’re very observant,” Heather complimented him. She briskly took off in that direction without further talk.
Desmond followed closely. He noticed there wasn’t a lot of foot traffic. The occasional MP would pass them and nod, but that was the extent of it. “Does this place get many—visitors?”
“What do you think?”
Desmond eyed her and couldn’t tell if she was miffed or simply rushed for time. He shrugged and followed it up with, “Than that would make me your distinguished guest of honor, am I right?” He gave her a toot
hy grin.
She spoke, “You flatter yourself.” Again, without much intonation in her voice so as to give her subject a hard time getting a read on what she really meant.
The elevator dinged and the doors spread wide. Desmond noticed an intricate diamond pattern on the floor with an odd looking masonic symbol in the center. Besides that, everything else looked like it should. They were the only ones going up, alone, in an elevator. The back of the box had a slit of glass that looked out onto a seven story atrium. The views were great.
Heather pointed her toes and stood with her feet close together. She looked collected with not a thing out of place.
“You look very beautiful today,” Desmond broke the silence. He quickly wished he could retract those words and replace them with silence; so he did the next best thing. Cover up. “I mean, I’m sure this is how you always look.”
Heather cleared her throat and forced a tight smile. “Thanks.”
The elevator slowed and the doors retracted into the side.
“Floor eighteen, if you can believe it,” she said.
Desmond didn’t really pay attention to what she had said. There he was again. The Old Man. “Howard, so good to see you!” he hailed the man.
Heather looked embarrassed. She turned a few shades of pink.
“Yes, very good Mr. Alakart. We will speak shortly,” Howard said from across the room. He looked busy and didn’t want to be bothered.
“What was that all about?” Heather demanded to know when the dust had settled.
“What? Can’t a guy be friendly around here?” Desmond defended himself.
“It’s not a question of friendliness so much as it is a breach of protocol. You have a lot to learn,” Heather sighed.
Desmond was confused. He thought he was just being cordial.
Heather looked at her watch and frowned. She knew there was still time to kill before their appointment with the Big Man. “You wanna get a bite to eat?” she asked.
“I’d love that! What’s good around here?”
“Come on. I’ll show you around.”
--
Anchorage, Alaska
He had nerves of steel.
Less than twenty-four hours after the attack on Little Bear Lodge in Alaska and he was already enjoying a hot dinner and smiling with colleagues. Being president of the Free Republic of North America was harder than he had even imagined it would be. Just in the past week, Alexander faced two death threats and most recently—the attack.
A bite of the halibut burger and a gulp of Coca-Cola relaxed the taxed man though. He was really enjoying the local eats. The president forgot his manners and talked with food in his mouth. “This is good!” he praised the burger, meanwhile lettuce from it sprouted out of the corners of his mouth.
Sitting across from President Toporvsky was Leanord Palmer, his chief of staff.
Alexander held a fry up with ketchup dripping onto his platter. “Whatcha got there, Leanard?” he said while licking the grease off one of his fingers.
“Smoked Salmon salad, Mr. President,” the man replied with a smile in his eyes.
“Affirmative.”
The president took one last gulp of soda then abruptly stood up. “Dirk,” he pointed at the lead agent in his protectorate, “I’m ready.”
“Going somewhere Mr. President?” the agent questioned.
“Take me somewhere secure. That’s an order.”
Dirk got on the radio and asked how the roads were looking. He pressed against his earpiece to hear. “Let’s go boys,” he communicated to the rest of the detail.
…
Thirty minutes later Alexander was in front of a mirror feeling insecure and worrying about national security. He undid the collar of his white dress shirt and threw the blue tie onto the quartz vanity. He stared at his dark complexion for a spell, noticing the signs of wear and sleepless nights. He reached for the handle and let loose a stream of cold water into the basin. A few splashes of water to the face brought clarity.
His mind anticipated his schedule: the next day he would be on a plane to visit the capital of FRN in Honolulu. It would be a chance to raise morale and rally the troops. The Free Republic of North America needed their leader to give some reassurances and tell them there would be better days ahead.
Alexander thought this very thing over and didn’t want to be the bearer of false hope, nor did he wish the people to despair and question the rationale of continuing on.
These were very tenuous times for humankind. The world was looking to a new superpower to restore order, but no one knew who that would be. The world’s economy was in shambles after the Second American Civil War. The only hopes to offsetting that would be a stable currency, a new dollar that markets could trust in.
It was Alexander’s dream to be the George Washington of a new republic for the people of his time. But there lay a long road ahead filled with uncertainty. The leader would have to take each day as it came. He would also have to watch his back. There was an enemy forever watching and waiting to exploit the weaknesses of Toporvsky’s administration.
--
Chapter 14
Beverly Hills, California
Damion was flummoxed. He stared at process tables on the screen to see what the threads of execution were. What really had him worried though: if there was a black hat hacker tampering with files, a rootkit would be hard to detect. One program did jump out from the list however, so he decided to investigate further.
“What are you?” Damion said aloud between clicks and keystrokes. A few minutes later he came to the bottom of it. It was a packet sniffer that landed on his machine from a download from the internet. And what’s worse is whomever was behind it had valuable passwords to many of Damion’s secure files. This infuriated him. He had to get up and pace.
When things got in his way he gave them a kick…until he heard an unpleasant noise which came from one of his cats. It was Humphrey again.
“You again!” Damion cried. “Get outta my way feline. I need to think.”
For what it’s worth, the orange and white striped cat trotted away from its owner and watched him with a wary eye at a distance. Clearly, Humphrey knew when Damion needed space. Something had obviously put the poor man into a tizzy. The cat didn’t need the particulars. An unpleasant kick to the chops was more than enough to send the message.
It hadn’t occurred to him to check on the status of his very classified files he didn’t want anyone to have a look at. Being the inventor he was, of course Damion had a lot of files that fit this description. However, something lay in secret he hadn’t told anyone about. Not a soul.
Damion quickly got back in front of the computer to search through its directories until he got to the right one. His heart stopped. The first thing he noticed was the file had been accessed…today.
“That can’t be right!” Damion spurted. He looked into the time log and verified that indeed it had last been opened no more than fifteen minutes ago around the time he heard the strange noises. Damion swore and uttered an oath on his father’s grave to get answers. Someone had been snooping around the specs to a very sophisticated weapons design Damion desired to outfit his Mark 1 vehicle with.
Damion’s head hurt all of a sudden.
It was as if the recent stress had reminded him of his concussion and the need to take it easy. But how could he?
The billionaire crossed his arms and looked up at the ceiling. “Iris, I swear, if you had anything to do with this, I will personally end it for you.” There was no response from the virtual assistant to the man’s intimidation and threats.
“I need a vacation,” Damion moaned. The throbbing pain existing someplace in the cerebrum directed his steps over to a freezer to get an ice pack out. “Better,” he murmured when the bag touched his skin. For a moment he had forgotten what he knew he needed to do.
Ah, yes. “Call Christophe Gerard. Right away.”
--
Dreamland, Nevada
/> “They call this place Dreamland, but it isn’t all that when it comes to carryout. Especially on the eighteenth floor. We’re lucky to even get a snack bar. It isn’t much, but it keeps the munchies away, I guess.”
“That my little factoid for the day?” Desmond joked.
Heather grinned. “Not exactly. Actually, the fun really begins when you meet—well, I’ll let him introduce himself when the moment presents itself.”
Desmond nodded vigorously and acted like he understood. He had heard whispers of this guy they called--the Big Man. His mind looped through the names and faces of the important people he had met thus far. A for effort for naming these guys, he thought. Old Man and Big Man, very creative.
“Something the matter?” Heather looked concerned. “It’s nothing. Just a little thought,” Desmond said.
Heather made an exaggerated sweep with her arms to reveal the glorified kitchenette. “Here it is!” she said.
Between arches was a little recess that opened up into a dimly lit gathering space. Bulbous paper lanterns of all different colors hung from the ceiling. Tall tables and stools were scattered everywhere. A few people occupied the room, talking in hushed voices and sipping their coffees.
“How hungry are you?” Heather asked.
“It depends…what are we talking about?”
“This isn’t a four star restaurant, but the frozen food is tolerable. I’d recommend pizza rolls.”
