There is something off about this man. Sprocket continues to stare at him and the man angrily stares back.
"Why are you staring at me?" the man yells.
"I'm walking this way. You didn't plant some kind of bomb or something down here, did you?"
"That is outrageous slander against me! Muslims are not terrorists! You are the terrorist!"
Terrorism still happens—Trog-land Anarchists and still the occasional "rogue" Muslim.
"I just don't want anything to blow up in my face, because that will be a big, big red light in my book."
"You are the terrorist!"
"Then why were you staring at me like you did something you weren't supposed to do?"
"You were staring at me."
"No, I wasn't."
"Yes, you were."
"You were staring at me, Johnnie-o."
"I was staring at you because you were in my way and trying to walk through the wall."
Sprocket slaps himself hard in the face and forcibly shakes his head. He opens his eyes and sees a silver wall inches from his nose. He looks to the left and the man he was talking to is no longer there, only the normal crowds of people, each going about their business. He looks to the right and at the end of the street the Goth is still there with his back facing him.
"We've been followed by the best operators in the business, but you are truly the most pathetic we've seen," a voice says.
Sprocket turns around to see four large Goth surrounding him.
"It took you one hour just to cross the street," a Goth says. "And then you tried walking through a wall."
A skinny, grinning, and half-naked kid appears next to them. "Suck in those fumes," he says and points up. Plumes are four-foot high poles of various styles, weighted to the ground, that release a steady flow of psychogenic, hallucinogenic, or stimulagenic drug vapors for the public to "sample."
One of the Goths kicks the kid in the stomach.
"Oww!" the kid yells as he doubles over. He is only wearing shiny, silver briefs and slippers. "What did you do that for?"
"Were we talking to you?" a Goth asks.
"I was talking to you," the kid says.
Sprocket starts to laugh, a little at first, then uncontrollably. He looks up to notice a swarm of drones above him, watching with human eyes.
"He's dream-trancing again." Sprocket hears the voice. It is the voice of one the Goths surrounding him, but none of them are talking to him. The voice sounds like it's from someplace else. He feels funny.
"Hello," Sprocket says. "Who's talking to me?"
"You know who's talking to you."
"I'm standing on the street with four Goths around me and they're talking to this kid—"
"You're not on the street. You're not even in the tek-city anymore. You're in a van. Can't you see my face?" the voice says.
Sprocket starts to panic. "Help me. I can't tell what's real. This isn't supposed to happen for another week, before the bad side-effects start. I was going to stop days before that happened."
"Who told you that? How many of these zombies have you taken? How many days? You're in psychosis now, you Drug Zombie."
"I'm not a Drug Zombie."
"Says the man overdosing in front of us. We don't know who you are, but we're going to dump you on the side of the road. No one would be dumb enough to hire the likes of you for any surveillance and tailing job."
"No, don't dump me. I need to find someone. Her name is Goth Lila."
There is silence. Or there is silence in the world he can't see.
Sprocket's fear grows as he watches the dream-world in front of him. Hallucinations can't hurt him, no matter how strange or disturbing. But is that true?
"Are you still there?" Sprocket yells.
"How do you know her?" the voice says.
The Goths, the kid, the crowds of people are all androids with glowing eyes and start breaking apart.
"I know Goths. I know of her."
The buildings around him start to disintegrate and collapse to dust.
"How would any Pagan know that?"
He jumps, startled as the moon itself crashes to the ground with unimaginable force. The entire ground starts to burst apart in front of him.
"I got skills. I don't care religious or not. I travel in whatever circles I need to for my business. I'm a businessman. She's the one I know can help me find some people. I've been tracking her for three years, and I'm not stopping until I get those answers. The only chance I had to catch up to you this time was to do something that you wouldn't do—not sleep. I'm going to get those answers, even if it kills me."
"What day is it?"
"Why?"
"How many days have you been taking zombies?"
"I've been up for four days, but only using them for two days."
"What date did you start taking them? What day do you think it is?"
"I know what day it is." The earth starts to break up and he is floating in space. Other planets converge to crash into the sun. "It's the afternoon. It's 8 January 2093."
"Well Mr. Sprocket, you may have done just that."
"What? Did what?"
"Killed yourself. You've been taking the zombies for two weeks!"
Science Division, Washington DC
7:57 a.m., 3 January, 2093
The underground offices are spacious white rooms, spotless white like all other areas of the facilities. The scientist in his white lab coat leads the two men wearing black office-suits to the lounge area. They sit in empty bubble chairs and the scientist touches a button on the arm of his chair to activate the privacy screen—a blue light turns on above them, no external sounds in and their conversation cannot be heard.
"Sorry, but my normal office is doing some highly confidential work," the scientist says.
"We understand," says one of the men. "We did come unannounced. May I ask you something very simple?"
"Yes, please do."
"Do wormholes really exist?"
The scientist thinks how odd a question. "I'll assume you mean the ones in theoretical space physics and not the ones you find in the dirt outside made by the common earthworm. Yes, they do."
"Could someone...theoretically...travel through one?"
The scientist smiles. "Are you being serious?"
"Yes, we are."
"No, that is science fiction, sir. Everything people think they know about them is not real. You can't create a spaceship to fly through one to another point in the universe, or another dimension, or another time. The only thing science fiction has gotten right about them is that they are unstable. A wormhole could be the size of a pinhole and no one has proven that they can even exist in a planetary atmosphere."
"Are you sure?"
"Well, yes. Until some scientist comes along and proves us all wrong like Galileo came along and proved to the scientific community that the Earth was not flat at all."
"Would you be interested in being part of a special team that the President's science director is putting together?"
"For what exactly?"
"Please be advised what we're talking about now is highly classified top-secret and cannot be disclosed to anyone outside this room."
The other man in the black takes a portable privacy screen device from his jacket, sets it on the arm of his chair, and activates it.
"Sir, I've held the highest security clearances for a better part of thirty years."
The lead man continues. "Yes, we know, sir."
"This special team would be to do what exactly?"
"To determine if there is any possibility that a secret...a terrorist organization may have located a terrestrial wormhole and are planning to use it as a weapon against the United States of America or another nation."
"Sir, that's not possible. A wormhole can't be a...weapon."
"Would you join our special science team then? The science director wants to ensure that it isn't a possibility."
Secret Underground Location
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7:52 p.m., 8 January 2093
The hallway of the secret headquarters is filled with armed Goths. The freight elevator opens and more exit. The arriving group greets the others with handshakes and hugs. Mikel, of the Goth Jews, is led to the main rooms.
The room looks like an oversized hotel suite, very multi-colored, in direct contrast to the singular appearance and dress of the Goths of nothing but black. Goths collectively aren't a religious Order, but are made up of separate and distinct groups—some friendly to each other, some hostile to each other, and others completely indifferent to each other. Only a small percentage of them are religious, and they are very much aligned.
There are many kinds of Goths: Hedonists, Nihilists, Anarchists, Vampires, Wiccans, Witches, and Faithers. Gothism is more than black hair, black makeup, and black leather clothes; it is an attitude. However, for the non-Goth, no one knows what that means. A Goth Christian can instantly spot a Goth Hedonist, and a Goth Anarchist could recognize a Goth Jew on sight. For those outside Gothism, all Goths look alike. Both Goth Jews and Goth Christians are the main human intelligence gatherers in Tek World for Faithers.
Mikel continues his briefing. "The Mormons have moved out their last city-ship to the Russian-Asiatic territory."
Five Goths sit at the conference table. Goth Christian Lila sits across from him; she also has three ear piercings in each ear lobe, black eyeliner, and three ring necklaces. On the ceiling, the yellow light of their privacy screen is on.
"All your people will be gone too soon," she says.
Mikel nods. "Yes. Your people will be the Continuum's last eyes and ears on the ground here."
"How is it over there?"
"The Russian Bloc and Asian Consortium are okay. We've always maintained ties there."
"You have Russian ancestry, don't you?"
"On my grandmother's side." He thinks. "We'll have to become new Goths. Black is a minority color over there, especially in the Russian Bloc. It's bright reds, yellows, blues, greens, purples, or silver-whites for hair color over there."
Goth Lila laughs. "You'll be the new Rainbow Goth Order then."
"We will. I'm a natural red-head, you know."
"Oh Mikel, why didn't you tell me all this before I got married."
They laugh.
"Where will you be based?" she asks.
"Africa." Mikel taps his palm tablet; the image of Sprocket appears on the screen. "What about him?"
"He will come in handy."
"Who is he?"
"A low-level, independent grifter. His name is Sprocket, and his father was the one who Goli was helping back in '89 on an investigation. The Continuum got a ton of intel from it."
Goli is one of the best teks in the Continuum, a giant of man, and a member of the Conservative Jewish Order. His specialty is hacking into Grids of countries (especially America) without the government's ability to track him.
"The President's contract killing of his own national campaign manager."
"A campaign manager aptly named Lucifer, but who cares. One killed the other before the other could strike first. It's always nice to see our enemies destroying each other—less work for us. We actually know this Sprocket. He's moved in some of the same circles as my people for many years. They killed his father too. His name was Logan. Goli flagged the case because the death was unusual and undetermined."
"You know full well that this Sprocket has been undoubtedly tagged by the government."
Lila smiles and says, "He wouldn't be any use to us if he weren't."
Chapter Two: Goth Lila
Executive Branch, Non-Public Off-Site Offices, Washington DC
8:00 a.m., 9 January 2093
Mahogany benches line dimly-lit, underground hallways of marble floors and antique stucco walls and ceilings. This may be one of the most powerful tek-cities in the world, but it's still the District and here, historical preservation and construction reminiscent of the past is the norm—by law. People stream through these offices around the clock.
A large meeting room is filled with men and women in dark office-suits, except for a man dressed in gray, who walks from the door to the front of the gathering. They are all employees of the Homeland Defense and Intelligence Agency, the most powerful agency in America.
"Good morning, ladies, gentlemen, and all genders." He glances at his e-pad. "It looks like everyone is here and on time. Thank you. I will skip introductions since we all have had the pleasure of knowing and working with each other for years. I am here to officially announce that all outer-tek-city counter-terrorism interdiction operations are suspended until further notice. The memo is already being circulated to your offices."
People look at each other, surprised. Many are not happy.
"Sir, may we ask who the new directive is from?" a woman asks.
"Straight from Homeland herself and the President."
"Sir," asks a blonde-haired man, "we are honestly going to suspend all interdiction operations? The President put them in place to protect the country. He did so before he was even President."
"Yes, I know. I was there too. And now he's issued a new directive for us to follow. Presidents can do that, you know."
"Yes sir, but may we have more detail?"
"The talks that have been ongoing in secret to hold a world summit of the superpowers may actually be happening."
Some are surprised again; others stifle laughs or shake their heads.
"So we're really going to have a Federation?" a man says, half-laughing.
"We're the humans," says another man. "The Muslims and CHINs are the aliens," says another.
"May we all get back to the meeting," the man in gray says. "The President wants Homeland to concentrate on de-escalating the tensions with the outer-tek-city territories—"
"Sir," the blonde man interrupts. "These are not outer-tek-city territories. These areas are hot-beds of terrorists, anarchists, and subversives."
"And how have we been doing in the last decade? Be honest. It's just us in the room."
"Sir, that is not a fair question because ever since the use of direct action was suspended, we've been operating with one hand behind our back. If the President allowed us to take off the gloves—"
The man in gray interrupts, "The Russian Bloc touts every day that they are the true planetary utopia, where its religious and normal people live in perfect harmony. Then it shows America on their media, of course using images from decades ago of riots, protests, and demonstrations. Since it looks like this summit will happen, the President doesn't want any of those images on the media anymore.
"This doesn't mean that Homeland will not be fighting terrorism and monitoring suspects. It simply means we will not be leaving the tek-city to go into their territory. People want to live outside the tek-cities, fine. We will be ceasing their immediate access. People will have to apply for visas and passes to enter the cities from the Outlands and the Trog territories."
The crowd nods in approval.
"They can't cause trouble if they can't get into the tek-city."
"Which means they will just fester outside our walls," the blonde man says.
"What would you do? What would 'taking the gloves off' mean?"
"Enable tactical drone strikes without the need for three-party confirmation."
"One-party only? That's been rejected by the Supreme Senate on more than one occasion. All strikes must be also approved by the Supreme Senate leader and the state's governor. It's a dead issue, so why keep bringing it up. What else you have?"
"We should completely end all access to the tek-cities from the outer regions."
"So it should be illegal to live outside a tek-city?"
"Yes."
"I don't think that would go anywhere politically or legally since we have more than a few governors, senators, and congress people who live in their own palatial mini-enclaves outside the tek-cities on both land and sea. So it's definitely not Trog civil rights lawyers that are the pr
oblem."
"Sir, all of us in this room know what the threat is, and pretending it's not there, for political reasons, doesn't make it go away. I say we make it go away before we have one or more serious attacks on the people, and they make our jobs go away."
The man in gray smirks. "I don't think we need to worry about the unemployment line yet. Thank you for the analysis though."
"You're welcome, sir."
"Ladies, gentlemen, and all genders, any other questions?"
"What about current interdiction operations, sir?" a man asks.
"How many do we have?"
The man looks at his secure palm-tablet. "Computer, current live Operation Pinprick numbers?" He looks up. "Sir, we have over two hundred thousand live."
"Cancel the ones that haven't launched yet and allow the others to proceed. After that, all teams will be re-tasked. Any other questions?"
"Media, sir?" a woman asks.
"As far as the outside media, nothing is different. This is internal, confidential—for us to know only." He holds up his hands. "Everyone, listen to me closely. This is not a retreat by the President for political optics. We haven't given up the strategy. Every one of us is as committed and dedicated to the safety of the American people as anyone, more than the American people themselves. We're only changing our tactics. The President believes that this issue is beneath human beings. People should be doing the bigger things. We have our old-style drone defense and newer sim-drones. He wants us to have a new robot police force directly tasked to deal with the outer-tek territories. Let the Jew-Christians and Anarchists kill as many as they can because they aren't human and all we have to do is make another one. We can make them faster than they can kill them."
Metal Flesh (After Eden Series: Tek-Fall, Episode I) Page 2
