Luumis turned his head slightly toward Wodan, but kept his eyes averted. He said, “Did you really... get to see... the wasteland?” His mouth turned up slightly. “ ‘The place where all forms fall apart’ ?”
“I did.” What is he quoting?
“Were the people out there...” Luumis gritted his teeth, searching for words.
“Different and same,” said Wodan. “I guess tonight was a wake-up call for me. Really, there are small and mean people all over. You just have to do what you can to avoid them. It’s like my dad always said, you have to focus on the important people, not the mean-spirited, frustrating people. You know?”
Luumis’s face contorted bitterly. He jerked a thumb at the ballroom, said, “Aren’t those the important people back there?”
“There’s not a hero among them.”
“Heroes?”
“Have you listened to what the men here talk about? They’re Haven’s official rulers - and they obsess constantly about forcing tax money from their little fiefdoms, wasting the people’s money and energy on programs that look good on their resumes but, beyond that, are completely worthless.”
Luumis shook his head awkwardly, said, “Some social programs work.”
“They work exactly as they’re supposed to. Not to make things better for individuals, but to put a halo around a politician’s name.”
“It’s mostly those damned red pins, man. The Stone Warren party. People are ready for a change. You know those guys are more afraid of change than anyone.”
“I see what you’re saying,” said Wodan, “but I listened to people from both parties, and they both seemed pretty closed-minded. I’m not so sure the differences between them are anything more than cosmetic.” Wodan craned his head to the stars, then said, “I wonder if the Founding Fathers would have fought to escape the wasteland if they’d known that our future rulers would be dreaming of funneling money away from a working class just to support programs that would exist only to protect us from one another’s freedom? And then have those programs and their subsidiary laws enforced by a militant gang of well-meaning goons! From my perspective, it doesn’t seem like the wasteland is really that far away.”
“You know,” said Luumis, turning to Wodan slowly, “I spent a little time outside of Haven’s city limits myself. Not too long ago, I-”
Just then the door shot open and Professor Korliss Matri stepped onto the balcony. He clacked his golden cigarette case shut and lit a ridiculously long cigarette in one smooth motion. Wodan noted that Luumis bent down quickly, grabbed up his bag, and held it close to his person.
“Gentlemen,” said Korliss, forcing the smoke out. He glanced at Luumis, then said, “Mister Lamsang, I would’ve thought you’d had enough of this gathering by now.”
Why is he so interested in Luumis? Wodan wondered.
“I...” said Luumis, staring ahead.
Wodan cleared his throat, then said, “Luumis was just about to tell about the time he left Haven.”
Luumis smiled crookedly and said, “I did! I went hiking out west.”
“I’ve done that, too,” said Wodan. “Go very far?”
“Pretty far, yeah,” said Luumis, tilting his head oddly. “Way out there, man.”
Korliss jerked slightly, then recovered himself. It seemed to Wodan that Korliss was trying to fake an aura of composure that he’d suddenly lost. Luumis did not seem to notice. “Oh. Is that so?” said Korliss. “Interesting. When was this?”
“’Bout a month ago,” said Luumis.
“About a month?”
“’Bout a month. Maybe a little more. And gone for three days.”
Wodan chuckled, then said, “Around the time I took my little vacation, eh? Hope you enjoyed your trip more than I did mine!”
The cigarette dropped from Korliss’s mouth and he turned away from the pair just as Luumis smiled and said, “Enjoyment isn’t the word for it.” The door shut behind them. Wodan watched Korliss’s back as he disappeared into the crowd.
The two sat in silence. Finally Luumis turned and shuffled towards the door. He turned back to Wodan and said, “It was... good... to meet you.” Wodan noted that the boy seemed warmer than before, his demeanor less chaotic. He smiled awkwardly. The bones in his face and shoulders jutted out at all angles, like a child forced through some unnatural adolescence. Wodan smiled, nodded, then Luumis left him.
Wodan looked to the stars again but, feeling that the moment had long since passed, he went back inside the ballroom.
The dinner had broken up and people were milling in loud groups. Wodan sidestepped a group of smiling young men and reporters. He caught sight of a young woman among them and vaguely remembered he had passed such a group when he first entered the party. As he passed, the woman called out, “Wodi!”
He stopped. The group of admirers parted. The woman was radiantly beautiful, glowing, her smile and eyes shining with vitality. Her dress was flowing pink coiled with blue inlays, and there were jeweled ribbons about her neck, shoulders, and waist. Her hair was brown, highlighted in black and done up in a bun. Her lips were full, deep red, and curved in a wonderfully natural smile. And her teeth were - crooked.
“Rachek?!” Wodan shouted.
“My hero!” said Rachek, his friend from the wasteland. “I’ve been wanting to give you the biggest ‘hello’ all night long, Wodi.”
This woman, dressed in all manner of finery and worshiped by men all night long, was the same filthy freedom fighter that he’d trusted and cared for in the wasteland. Blinded by flashing cameras, the two embraced and crushed one another, overcome with joy and laughing uncontrollably.
As they parted, Rachek caught sight of something behind Wodan. She craned her neck. Wodan turned. Just then he saw Prime Minister Aegis Vachs in the distance, alone. Wodan noticed that he was pigeon-toed and his hands hung limp at his sides, completely immobile, ridiculously awkward, but his face radiated great power. Behind his huge glasses, one of his great black eyes shut, slowly, then stayed shut in caricature of a wink. Wodan started backwards, disgusted. He turned to Rachek. She caressed the man with her eyes, delighting in the wonders of a shared secret.
There was indeed a twinkle in her eye.
* * *
Korliss ran through the streets of Haven, huffing and wheezing. He found all his theories falling apart, shattered under the weight of reality. He had to talk to Didi, now, no matter what. The implications of what Lamsang had said...
If he was outside the range of the beacon, just as the other seven were, thought Korliss, then he could potentially be our Project! The superbeing!
His lungs burned and dragged him down, but still his feet tore down the avenues.
One such as Lamsang, to whom we gave no special teaching, no real direction. A bitter, angry boy beaten down his whole life, torn by ambition without talent, full of emotion without meaning... and then, in time, to inherit the power of a god!
The thought terrified Korliss. He had to speak to Didi. They must have the two boys brought into the DoR immediately, without pretense of any kind, and have them tested to find out once and for all if one of them was Project or if Project had died with those in the exile.
He saw the tall entrance of stone that led to Didi’s house, where he was imprisoned. He saw Guardians in full armor standing on either side the entrance. They jerked in alarm at his rapid approach. Korliss slowed but did not stop, throwing his long hair back and smoothing his robes angrily.
“I am Professor Korliss Matri,” he said, “and I present myself to see if I may visit.”
One masked Guardian swung his rifle to the side, then said to the other, “Check his ID.” Korliss could not see through the Guardian’s tinted visor whether or not he was looking at him or at some hidden Guardian posted nearby, gun in hand, ready to shoot.
Korliss extended his identification and swallowed heavily. Often the more powerful men in Haven, if awaiting trial, were kept within their homes rather than in jail. But the sting
ing condition that followed this custom was that the accused must remain alone in his home, completely without visitors, save for one person whose name they gave to their jailors; the name of the visitor was not broadcast, so each potential visitor had to visit and, more often than not, be turned away by the Guard. House arrest usually caused insult to much of the accused’s family and friends, so it was often said that this sort of plush internment was more harsh than sitting in a small concrete cell where one could be comforted by loved ones.
One Guardian held a flashlight to Korliss’s ID while another consulted a small computer hanging at his waist.
“Well?” said Korliss. “Am I the one who may visit Didi?”
“It checks out,” said one Guardian. “This is Korliss Matri.”
The lead Guardian turned to Korliss, then said, “I’m sorry, Professor Matri, you have not been named as visitor to the accused.”
Korliss turned away quickly and hunched up his shoulders like a child forcing down a good tantrum. Then he whirled on the lead Guardian and said, “Did he let Sevrik in? Did he choose him?!”
Am I out of the loop?
“As per the custom,” said the Guardian, “I cannot say yes or no. However, the Head of the Guardians has not chosen to present himself to the accused.” He waited for a moment, then said, “But those detained under house arrest can send and receive nearly unlimited electronic communication.”
Can’t trust that, thought Korliss. Not anymore. Not after what happened...
Korliss left the stone entrance, feeling more alone and lost and cut off from his old friends than ever before.
Will the boys both be killed, then? thought Korliss. To erase the work of our hubris?
Or is it too late even for that?
Chapter Four
Guns of the Just
what do you know??? Looks like THE DOVE has struck again! We think that Haven may decide its time to rethink its stance on such issues as wage slavery, destruction of the enviroment, and other such stances on such issues.
for so-called “civil”-ization has always had a THE DOVE hiding in its shadows, ready (and willing!!) to balance the equation between man and Nature. We hail the justice of Nature, which fools call the “wasteland”, because its there were the un-real State cannot survive for long. Nature, Wasteland, one and, the same, the place where all forms fall apart......
if the people don’t rise up, if the politicians don’t do something to change things, then more people are going to die.
Love!,
the DOVE
- Excerpt from a letter sent to several newspapers in Haven on the same day that the Telarius Chemical Company was bombed - 6/1/589.
* * *
Night fell on the southern stretches of Haven. Old apartment buildings in a sorry gray neighborhood sat atop a hill cut in angular patches. They were not hundreds of years old like the stately manors of Central Haven, but were old by decades; decrepit hovels built for laborers working the quarries and then later abandoned by the more mobile workers. Places of decay inhabited by those just barely alive.
Two white vans, each labeled MASBY BROS. PAINTS AND MORE, drove by an apartment building called 312 Housing. The lead van turned across the street and parked opposite the building. Its driver rolled down his window, lit a cigarette, and watched as the second van turned its lights off and rolled into the alley beside 312. The man sucked on his cigarette, then thumbed a tiny radio cupped in the same hand. “Unit Two, in position,” he said quietly. He heard men checking equipment behind him.
The second van rolled into the shadows behind 312 Housing, then came to a stop.
Across the street, atop another apartment complex, two men in black, form-fitting armor lay beside a pile of debris. One cradled a long, sleek rifle. He fixed a scope to the top of it while the other spoke into his helmet radio. “Unit Three, in position,” he said. If they moved, they could see the front entrance to 312 Housing as well as Unit Two’s van. They remained immobile, listening to the engines of the vans humming in the valley below.
On another rooftop, overlooking the alley, two more men, also dressed in black armor, crouched in the shadow of a utility shed. One carried a rifle identical to the sniper across the street. This sniper and spotter had been there since the day before, waiting, watching. The sniper cracked open the faceplate of his helmet and swallowed a pill that would sharpen his senses. His spotter said, “Unit Four, still in position.”
Several blocks away, in the north-east, two men walked together and passed a bottle back and forth. They passed under open windows where they heard screeching televisions, arguments, children running.
“Nothing’ll be better than the X5, in terms of customization,” said one.
“Who gives a shit about customizing?” said the other, a younger man in rough laborer’s coveralls. “I just want a machine that’s dependable. None of that customized shit ever lasts for long.”
“Sure, if the user doesn’t know how to handle his programs,” said the first, chuckling. He scratched his beard, passed his watch near his mouth, and said, “Unit Six, in position and moving, no walkers.”
Blocks away, in the south-east, three men stood on a corner near a busy grocery store, just outside a lantern’s ring of light. Customers going in and out eyed them warily, but the three were large and imposing hard-faced men. One spoke into his watch. “Unit Seven, in position, crawlers but no walkers.”
Not so far away, in the south-west, two men in laborer’s clothes sat on a stoop playing tarot. A young man passed by them, eyed them, then continued on. When there was distance between them, the two nodded, rose, and followed. “Unit Eight, in position and moving,” said one. “Tailing a walker approaching Unit Two.”
In the first van, the smoking man at the wheel said, “Let’s have some readings.”
In the back, three men in sleek black armor, without helmets, pored over sets of computers. Two men sitting shoulder to shoulder watched a display that showed the innards of 312 Housing; most of the building looked blue and black, while moving bodies showed in warm reds and yellows. They both held microphones to their ears. “First floor, hallway is clear,” said one. “Second floor, I’m seeing someone in the hallway... moving back and forth. Third floor, all targets clustered in one room. Fourth floor... uh, fourth and everything above, no occupants.”
“All I’m getting is television chatter,” said the second. “Uh, music playing on third floor is turned way up, I can’t make out any voices at all. Not a damn thing.”
The third turned a dial, listened with a headset on one ear, said, “There’s a Guardian unit patrolling Third and Q... Third and P, heading away from us. Just chattering. We’re in the clear.”
Behind 312 Housing, in the second van, Yarek Clash, armored but without helmet, sat with nine other black-clad men. He stood and said, “Listen. According to our intel, the third floor of this building is the Dove’s headquarters. His men occupy the whole floor. We don’t know what he looks like or what he sounds like. We do know that he’s the biggest name in terrorism in Haven. Even if he’s not up there, everyone associated with him deserves to die. We’re going to ghost through the first and second floor, and then bake every shit-heel we see on the third. Does anyone have any problems?”
The Reavers adjusted their equipment, loaded their weapons, and fastened their helmets.
“You killers ready to rock?” he said, fastening his mouth open into a wide snarl.
The Reavers slapped fists to chests in silent salute.
Yarek nodded to a man nearby. This man glanced at his team: four men, including the driver, each armed with large automatic rifles, silencers fixed to their ends. The man glanced back, said, “Unit Five, back-up assault, ready to move anytime you need.”
Yarek nodded, glancing at the four men on his team. They all carried wicked knives sheathed at their sides and cheap-looking firearms, the kind carried by laborers, all fixed with sleek Guardian silencers. Only one among them carried a high quali
ty automatic rifle strapped to his back. His Reavers nodded one after the other.
Unit Two signaled: No change, man on second floor still pacing the hallway.
“Unit One, moving out,” said Yarek, slapping his dark helmet into place.
The door of the van opened and five shadows slipped into darkness, soundless, crouching. They lined up against the rear wall of 312 Housing. One man stalked to the back door and sprayed oil from a small canister along the door’s hinges, while another man placed a small tool against the door knob, inserted it into the keyhole - then jerked hard, counterclockwise, and the door popped open. The door cracked open without a squeak. The five filed inside quickly.
The hallway was lit with sparse, dusty bulbs that cast a sickly sheen on the greasy yellow-tiled walls. The five stalked silently on padded boots, crouching, guns held slightly aloft. Yarek, in the lead, checked the sound-proofing on his neckpiece, then said into his helmet radio, “Check that stairwell, that body on the second floor.” A Reaver behind him slunk ahead and sprayed the hinges of the stairwell door with oil.
The Reavers stopped by the stairwell door and crouched. Their helmet ear-pieces clicked, hissed, then they heard, “Second floor, someone still pacing the hallway... slowing down. Standing beside doorway of... the apartment he came out of, I think. Stairway cleared. Third floor, still the same.”
Another voice came over the com-link, said, “Unit Eight. Walker approaching Unit Two, heads up.”
The driver of the van in front of the building shot his glance to the far window, saw nothing, said, “How fa-”
“Two blocks, around the bend, two seconds and you’ll see-”
“Stay chill,” said Yarek over the com-link. “We’re lucky there’s been this little disturbance.”
The driver saw a man walk around a well-lit corner. The driver adjusted his arm, feeling the bulge of his silenced automatic handgun resting along his midsection. He had never killed before. As Yarek’s second, he had the authority to call the operation off at any time. But he reminded himself that he had other powers as second-in-command, so he said, “Unit Three, keep your trigger on this fool wandering up H Street.” Far above, sniper and spotter crawled to the edge of their building.
Demonworld Book 2: The Pig Devils Page 6
