Two Girls Book 2: One Nation

by Justin Sirois

  Prince set down his bourbon and lifted one of Sam’s t-shirts out of the box. He walked over to Penny’s things and found one of her dresses. Bringing both to his face, he smelled them individually, switching back and forth, convinced he could tell the difference between the two. He was tempted to do the same with their bras and underwear and anything he could get his hands on, but he restrained himself as the video played on.

  Sam’s voice, “Yeah, I cut my hair right before we left. I was just mad at Penny for no good reason. I regret it now. It was stupid.”

  Prince dropped Penny’s dress back in the box. Sam’s too. This possibility, that the two girls could be pure, only confused him. These were his enemies, two people he tried to kill, but that was when he assumed they were normal abominations—just two more Sets propelling the world into an unrecognizable quagmire.

  Prince slid his helmet back on and circled the room with his bourbon in hand. This was the first time he had been drunk since his coma. The feeling was familiar, but the aged liquor was rushing to his head faster than he wanted.

  Prince jumped when someone knocked at the door. “Sir?” a gruff voice said, “Commander Merrick is asking if you’re going to join him for dinner.”

  Prince cleared his throat and coughed, sending a mist of bourbon into the shell of his helmet. He took it off and yelled at the door, “No.”

  “Okay,” the voice said. “He wanted to remind you that your father is arriving tonight. Within the hour.”

  Prince grunted. “How in the world would I forget that?”

  There was a pause. “Just relaying the commander’s…”

  “Got it!” Prince said. “Christ!”

  Whoever was at the door disappeared.

  Prince tried to remember the last time he saw his father.

  Christmas? Yes. And only for the evening. That was the old man’s favorite time of year and the only occasion where he allowed the sappy cloak of sentimentality to soften his mood.

  He wondered what he would say to the man that he failed. There was no doubt that his father was coming primarily to oversee the mission, not to tend to a son overcoming a near-fatal injury. There wasn’t a need to be dramatic. Gray Altar’s advanced medicine had made it as if his injury had never happened.

  He motioned at the wall to stop the video from playing.

  Sam’s face froze mid-sentence.

  He stared at her weirdly cut hair, her still lips, her quizzical brow, and the memory of Penny’s wet hair snapped to the surface of his brain. It rattled him. That girl, drawn out of the summer night to face death. Whose idea had it been to confront him? To shoot him? And why hadn’t One Nation revealed Penny in either of the two episodes, he thought.

  Those were things he knew he could know if he found them. With persistence, there was no secret in the world he couldn’t find.

  Prince picked his nose and inspected the grit wedged under his nail. Dried blood and mucus. He flicked it at the wall.

  Prince hadn’t put on his uniform since he awoke from his coma. He wore the same pair of jeans and cowboy boots as yesterday. Nobody had said anything because no one ever said anything negative to him besides Merrick and fuck him. Sliding on his kevlar vest felt like a chore. It felt less snug than before. At the end of his bed was a long table where his StiffArm and pistol laid, a short belt of bullets dangling from it. Prince lifted the contraption and strapped it onto the vest, locking it in and adjusting the shoulder, elbow joints, and wrist. A right-handed glove with reinforced knuckles completed the robotic enhancement. It was an expert rig costing more than most cars. He flexed his fingers and joints, saying, “Now this… this is nice.”

  A flick of the wrist released the retractable bayonet, sliding out from under his palm by eight inches. The force snapped his arm back. Prince turned it over, inspecting the razor-sharp edge and the lengths of jagged serration. Not only could Gray Altar manufacture perfect implements of death, they knew how to make them fun. He’d used pieces like this in the past, but this one was milled by hand. Crafted by one of their best. Prince tightened his fist and jerked his wrist, slipping the blade back into the metal forearm, hidden.

  With his left hand he picked up his empty glass and flipped it up. The thick glass spun over his head and back down. The StiffArm’s pneumatics hissed as the assisted reflexes snapped and made Prince punch the glass, shattering it in midair. A million tiny stars exploded across the room. Prince stepped over them like sand.

  Prince flexed his gloved fingers again before scooping up his pistol. He opened the door as an analyst ran over.

  “What was that? Are you okay?” she asked.

  “Yeah. Have someone clean that up,” he said, passing her. He pointed back at the room with his pistol’s and drew a few circles with the barrel. “Make sure they get all of it.”

  She gripped the doorway and peered into the room. “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t touch my fucking helmet.”

  She nearly bowed. “…sir.”

  In the old museum’s main foyer, Prince’s wooden heels clopped and echoed. He was feeling great from all the Pappy V. A few hearty slaps on the chest and he was almost ready to confront his father.

  Through a series of columns, he descended the marble stairs to the first floor foyer. He held a brass railing with his one bare hand, pistol in the other. Patrols were out so each soldier’s cot was made, sheets and blankets tucked stiff like hard slabs. Forty men slept in that big, pallid room. He was told there once was a treasure of Christian artifacts inside the space—gilded crucifixes and ornate stations of the cross, illuminated manuscripts penned by hand, Medieval bibles owned by long-dead kings—men he had more in common with than the ex-marines that were now under his command.

  A floor below him, sat Gray Altar’s weapons cache. A vault of munitions and experimental equipment. Curators and archivists had lambasted his organization for swapping art for bombs. They were right. It was a tragedy, but a necessary one.

  Prince steadied himself on the railing. Tapped his right thigh with his pistol’s barrel. The room blurred for second and returned.

  “Out of uniform, I see,” Merrick called from below. “Except for that new Stiffy. She’s a beauty.”

  Prince said nothing, taking the stairs slowly.

  “You try the bayonet?” Merrick called.

  Now Prince saw his father stepping out from the shadowed archway. White, trimmed beard. White shirt. The man never changed his branding. The bastard was early, as always. He extended a hand to Prince, beckoning, “Emmett.”

  Prince’s first impulse was to smile. Those soft feelings were shameful in light of what was happening. He did not smile. The wooden heels of his boots snapped on every step, down to the marble floor.

  His father squinted as he approached. “You see what One Nation just released?”

  “Yes,” Prince said, squeezing the handle of his pistol.

  “Right… well…,” his father said, turning briefly to Merrick and back to Prince with the same skeptical squint. “What do you think?”

  Prince scoffed. “Does it matter? The whole country. The world. They’re going to think I’m a butcher.” Pistol in hand, the irony was obvious. But at least a butcher selectively cuts and trims like a sculptor, the thought, dividing the dead, abstract whole into more profitable chunks. He had bludgeoned the one opportunity they had to collect and carve the Van Bests into a priceless commodity.

  His father laughed. “The hell they will.”

  And his father walked to him and embraced him with both arms. A tight hug. Unusual for his father.

  “We control the media, right?” His father pulled away, but held onto Prince’s shoulders. “And you reek of bourbon.”

  His father released him and slid a stainless tube from out of his front pocket. He twisted the cap off and allowed two cigars to exit out the opening. Prince took the one his father offered. Merrick shimmied closer.

  His father recapped the tube. “Fresh. I only brought two, Merrick. S
orry, old friend.”

  “Got a stash of my own, sir,” Merrick said.

  Prince squeezed the veiny tobacco, gently rolling it between his thumb and index finger.

  Now his father made it obvious he was checking his wound out. As he clipped the end of his cigar, he craned forward and around Prince’s head. “Those bitches really got ya, huh?”

  “I rely too much on those drones,” Prince admitted, taking the cigar cutter as his father offered it.

  “Agreed,” his father said.

  Merrick looked like he might object to lighting up in the old museum, but the founder of Gray Altar wasn’t someone he was going to question. Prince’s father struck a match as he held his cigar between his teeth and began puffing. Great plumes billowed. When the end was glowing hot, he struck another match and lit his son’s. Prince twisted and puffed, but couldn’t look his father in the eyes even as they stood so close.

  Prince nodded in appreciation and stepped back. The sudden blast of nicotine mixed with the settling bourbon rushed to his head. “Cuban?”

  His father grinned with teeth clamping his cigar tight. “Only the best contraband.” Walking to the stairs, he waved the men on. “C’mon. Let’s go over this plan.”

  Prince looked to Merrick before saying, “What plan?”

  “C’mon,” his father said, his mouth streaming gray smoke.

  Merrick followed, gesturing with his hand for Prince to do the same. “We met with the Secretary of Defense today. Went well.”

  Prince took his cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at them. “Without me?”

  His father didn’t bother turning around. “You’re still recovering, son. It was a last minute briefing.”

  “In D.C.?” Prince said, walking up the stairs. “Without me. I feel perfectly fine.” He stretched out his arms and dangled his pistol from the trigger guard, making it swing. “Look at me!”

  They didn’t.

  Merrick led them into more intimate room with a dark wood ceiling. A moose head hung over the doorway. Much of the exhibits had been removed, but ornate cabinets remained, shelves empty. A long meeting table had been moved to the center of the room. His father stopped and stared at the moose. “When was the last time we went hunting together?”

  Merrick looked to Prince to answer.

  “Animals?” Prince asked, looking around for an ash tray. “Years.”

  “Years,” his father agreed. “You can ash on the floor. I’ll ash on the floor. Then you can.” His father tapped a thick disk of ash onto the tile. “There.”

  Prince smirked. “Why are you here?”

  Merrick opened a pack attached to his hip and took out a large datasheet that he spread out on the table. It as a big as a bath towel. As he smoothed it down, the surface lit.

  “I’m here,” his father turned, “because One Nation is humiliating us.”

  Prince laid his pistol on the table. Cradled the doughy dampness of his cigar in his teeth, wanting to bite.

  His father’s chest puffed outward. The middle button of his shirt strained. “One Nation, using our own fucking technology, is about to sink our stocks to shit once they reveal who you are. Who we are.”

  Merrick tapped on the datasheet. “I’m surprised they haven’t already.”

  “Because they’re smart,” his father said. “They’re teasing the public who, not surprisingly, is eating their propaganda up.”

  “Very compelling stuff,” Merrick said as he pulled up a live news feed of a press conference.

  “We’ve tried to have it taken down, but YouTube sees nothing wrong with it.” His father stepped to the edge of the table to stare down at the video. Merrick had the news anchors on mute. “They know the first amendment is their most valuable weapon.”

  “What are we watching?” Prince asked.

  Merrick chuckled. “Our first counter attack.”

  A moment later, the screen cut to a podium where the Secretary of Defense was about to speak. He thanked everyone and got straight to the point. “I wouldn’t be up here, speaking about this, if it weren’t of absolute importance to the security of our nation. As many of you know, the militant group One Nation has been releasing a series of videos. Although they seem factual and an unfiltered version of the truth, we have come to learn that these videos are a well-crafted attempt at covering their covert operations as a terrorist organization. It is our understanding that they want to reveal the existence of a single child—that a woman named Miss Jill Van Best has given birth to one infant girl.”

  None of this was a surprise to Prince. He casually puffed on his cigar, watching the Secretary’s flabby jowls.

  “Jill Van Best’s daughters, Sam and Penny Van Best, have been trained and militarized and now One Nation is using them in a series of lies to deceive the American public. Much of the material they’re showing is stolen surveillance footage from a private military firm’s drones. They are twisting the story to suit their anti-government agenda. It was One Nation that attacked first. That’s how they operate. That’s how they always have.”

  His father pulled a long draw on his cigar and released. “Thank god they didn’t name us.”

  “Are we on the same page here, with him?” Prince asked.

  Merrick nodded. “This is all us, really. We fed this to him… them.”

  “Effective immediately, One Nation will be classified as a terrorist network and any and all people or organizations aiding their efforts will be punished to the highest extent of the law.”

  Merrick opened another window on his datasheet and accessed One Nation’s YouTube channel to show them it was taken down. “That was fast.”

  The Secretary continued. “We have the highest faith in the branches of our private military who handle domestic issues such as these with swift justice. Every member of One Nation will be caught and punished for treason.”

  “They’re giving us a second chance,” his father said, but Prince understood this news was meant for him.

  “Let me finish this,” Prince said, setting his cigar on the edge of the table so that it wouldn’t burn the wood.

  “I intend to,” his father said. “Once we know where they are.”

  Merrick tapped on the datasheet, opening chat boxes. “We’ve pinpointed one of the hackers One Nation has been using to encrypt and upload their videos. We’ll start there.”

  Prince leaned over the table. “Where?”

  Merrick pulled up a map and highlighted Richmond. “They’re a mix of black hats and hactivists working in Virginia. None of them are violent. We’d like you to go alone. As quietly as possible.”

  His father leaned over the table in sort of a huddle with his son and locked eyes with him. “A ghost, understand? Do what you do best. Make him talk.”

  “Yes,” Prince said. Going in alone meant they wanted him to be as creative as possible and extract as much information as he could, without restraint and free of local law. There would be no evidence of what he would do and therefore he acted between this world and the fictional one that both One Nation and Gray Alter were collectively creating. As a phantom, the violence he inflicted was in the service to the nation and, in principle, not violence at all—it was a creative act that strengthened the homeland. He would gnaw through someone’s throat to make the mouth attached to it speak. “Give me the coordinates. I’ll need the usual gear.”

  Volume low, the datasheet showed cable news hosts and experts squabbling about One Nation’s status as a terrorist network: I mean, what are they thinking? Who is going to believe their messaging? It’s like an indie film shot on hand cameras. A man chimed in, That’s part of the authenticity, I think. It’s relatable because it’s part voyeurism and part confession. We’re seeing into their lives. The host, But it’s fabricated.

  Is it? Prince thought, astounded that, with one stroke, Gray Altar had ruined the credibility of One Nation’s voice.

  The host’s hair appeared to be combed into a solid cap not unlike a bike helmet. If
the baby were really the first Singular child to be born in twenty years, Jill Van Best would have come forth months ago. She would have been a national hero, not a fugitive and collaborator.

  Another expert added, And that’s the real tragedy. Lying like this to shield yourself from the law. It’s despicable, really.

  And the girls? the host asked.

  I, personally, and I probably speak for a lot of people out there, the majority probably, have no sympathy for terrorists of any age. They’re old enough to understand right from wrong.

  Prince couldn’t have written their dialogue better himself.

  The host interrupted to patch in two special guests. We’re lucky to have the Alexander twins, Kimberly and Krystal here. They’re two sophomores from Atlas High School where Sam and Penny attend. Girls, we only have a few minutes. Can you tell us what Sam and Penny were like?

  Prince’s attention was entirely on them.

  The Alexander twins smiled and turned to each other to agree on who would speak first. Well, they were always different from everytwo. Like, they never fit in. Sam was always alone or, like, being really judgmental.

  Combative, would you say? the host asked.

  Yes, very, the other twins said.

  And a little bitchy, the other said. Can I say that?

  Merrick was busy typing on the datasheet when he stopped and looked up. “We need you to find out where One Nation is before they post their next video.”

  “Believe me, I understand,” Prince said, scooping up his pistol and pulling back the slide to see if a round was in the chamber.

  “One more thing,” his father said, straightening with a slight look of anguish on his face. He savored his cigar as he walked around the table, circling slowly.

  “Yes?” Prince said.

  Merrick muted the datasheet.

  “The DNA tests came back positive,” his father said.

  Suppressing his physical response, Prince felt something scamper in his stomach. An unexpected twinge of excitement. The girls were, in fact, the most special people he had encountered in twenty years. And their failed attempt to kill each other had bonded them in a way that he had never felt before. Hiding his elation, Prince turned away from his father and Merrick and waited for more information.