by Greg Dragon
The chair responded by shutting off its vibrator and lifting Dr. Graves to a standing position. “Perhaps you should take Bud to the casino’s hotel so he can rest.” He winked at Tim. “He appears to be overwrought. Without the real Elani here to act the role of gracious hostess I can’t have you stay here. Oh, that reminds me. Bud, do you have any idea where Elani might have run off to? You two were so close I thought you might know her whereabouts.”
Bud shuffled to the front door where Tim waited for him. “She used to talk a lot about her sister in Atlanta.”
“Really?” Dr. Graves opened the door and waved goodbye as his visitors stepped onto the porch. “Perhaps it was not a wasted trip after all. I’ve called her sister twice and she says Elani is not there. Now I know she is. Excuse me, I have to try and contact her.”
The door shut.
After collecting their electronic devices from the hoverbot, Tim and Bud followed it to the road to wait for the taxi it summoned for them. The hoverbot then sped back to its master’s side.
“Is Bud still talking about The Club?” Dr. Graves asked.
“Yes, he is. He kept trying to convince Tim Beheard of its continued existence. He said you want to rule the world by using Mr. Africa, Mr. Americas, Ms. Asia, Ms. Europe, Ms. India, and Mr. Pacific Islander as your puppets.”
“What was Mr. Beheard’s response?”
“He kept glancing at me and changed the subject.”
Dr. Graves patted his hoverbot on its back. “Good work. Mr. Beheards is smart, the brains of that pair of clowns. He knew you were monitoring their conversation for me.”
“Is there anything else you need? I have to recharge soon. Twenty minutes of power remain in my batteries.”
“Make me a tonic before you plug yourself in.”
“Yes, sir.” The hoverbot glided to the kitchen.
“Computer, what is the occupation of Tim Beheard?”
“He is a writer.”
“Put Plan B into operation.”
“Yes, sir. Initiating Plan B. Anything else?”
“Call Elani’s sister in Atlanta for me.”
A moment later, his sister-in-law’s face appeared on the screen covering a wall of the den.
“I have no time to listen to any more of your denials of knowing where Elani is. Tell her she can meet me at the lodge after she finally comes to her senses.”
“You’ll be there on vacation?”
“No. It’s to be our new home. I’m selling this one. As usual, her lover boy Bud is causing too many problems, so many that we have to move. Bud is just a love starved, naïve little worm, but I don’t like that writer friend of his one bit. He reminds me of the writer whose lies made my father kill himself.”
12
During his unexpected five hour layover at Phoenix Central Station, Brent Fulsome fretted for the first four hours. Then he broke protocol and sent a coded message by email:
Hi:
We are stuck waiting for replacement train. Very high temps here. Well, see you later.
The unsigned email would alert its recipient to use Code 7: Underline the first letter of the first word of the first sentence; the first letter of the second word of the second sentence, the first letter of the third word of the third sentence. Doing so would spell out the hidden message and Brent’s concerns: w, h, y.
Why?
Why was he being summoned home? Maybe Tim Beheard’s and Bud Lee’s big mouths had compromised Brent’s mission of training dissidents on how to survive the densest urban jungle of the Americas, Central, North, and South – SLD?
Maybe…
Brent tapped his foot while he waited. Protocol required such coded messages to receive a reply within a half hour. He kept checking the hologram screen beamed from the frame of his glasses. Finally, a message appeared:
Brent Fulsome:
Our records indicate that you have reached the limit of your email credits for the month. We regret to inform you that no more outgoing or incoming messages will be available until…
He stopped reading and cursed. Now he would have to wait for an answer in person, which could be days, maybe a week away, depending on how far he would have to walk.
* * *
The rest of his train trip through Oklahoma City and Little Rock, Arkansas, proved uneventful, no jumpers or rebels attacking his train, nor anyone from Congress for him to try and gather intel. Brent disembarked in Mayfield, Kentucky, cleared Homeland Security’s checkpoint for interstate travelers, and spent the last of his transportation credits to take a Bluegrass Tour Bus as far as Bowling Green, Kentucky.
Half of his fellow passengers on the solar powered bus were veterans. Because the sun was hidden by clouds, the bus’s batteries produced a forty-two mile per hour top speed. The veterans did not seem to mind the slow pace. Their rowdiness and drinking from bottles hidden in brown paper bags kept Brent awake.
“Where you headed to, buddy?” A grizzled man who looked at least eighty years old asked Brent. Curly sideburns and patches of white hair remained on his head. No way could any spy android look this authentic, Brent thought.
But what if the boys at NSA had cracked his code used in emails? If so, they would have at least one android tailing him. He glanced at the passengers closest to them and decided to only speak about what the TSA had probably already passed on to the NSA. “To do some cave exploration down at Big South Fork.”
“Well, you picked the right state for caves. Me and my buddies are just passing through. We’re going to the dedication.” He pointed at his baseball style cap. Proud Middle East War on Terror Veteran was embroidered across its front.
“Which war did you fight in? There were so many of them against terror.”
“The one in Israel. It was a real nasty one.”
“Before my time, but I read about it. About time they built a memorial for all the ones who fought and died in Afghanistan, Iraq, Israel, and…” The single tear running down the old veteran’s cheek shut Brent up. He reached over and patted the wrinkled hand, its joints twisted by arthritis. “…and for the ones who survived those wars, like you. Thank you.”
“Thanks, sonny.” He wiped the tear away. “You’re the first stranger that ever thanked me in person. I was just thinking about Danny and Glenda and Jason and Charlotte. They were in my company, but didn’t survive the war. One of them is buried at Arlington. After the memorial dedication I’m going to visit that grave. It was a bad war. If you got hit by one of the lasers anywhere on your body, you were a goner real quick. But why did they have to use chemical and biological agents against us? Dying that way is torture.”
The veteran grew silent, quiet enough that Brent slept the rest of the way to Bowling Green.
* * *
Brent walked from the Bowling Green, Kentucky, bus depot to the outskirts of the city before anyone offered him a ride. At first, he did not want to touch the car idling on the road’s shoulder.
“Get in before I change my mind,” its driver said.
Brent slid into the front seat and balanced his pack on his lap. “Thank you, officer.”
The uniformed deputy inspected him. “You weren’t hitchhiking, were you? If you were, I have to haul you back downtown and lock you up.”
“No, sir. I was just walking.”
“Good, because I’m headed home for supper and am in no mood for any more official business. You hungry?”
“I guess so.” Brent had eaten the last of his sugar-laced cracker sandwiches six hours earlier.
After spending the night at the sheriff deputy’s small farm and eating breakfast the next morning, Brent was dropped off by the highway headed east with a final admonition.
“Watch yourself, Brent. We got a report of someone who set off some alarm bells for Homeland Security back at SLD Central Station,” the deputy said. “He even looks like your twin.” He pointed at the monitor embedded in the car’s dashboard as a photo of Brent materialized.
“Afraid my vital s
igns were outside normal accepted limits that day, deputy.”
“Same thing happened to me once when I had to fly. Made me so mad that now I drive everywhere, no matter how far away it is I’m going. You should start doing the same. Damn feds are so busy harassing innocent people like you and me that the real bad guys get away with murder.” The deputy pulled a bag from the back seat. “Kathy packed you something for the road.”
“Thanks.”
So it went during the last leg of his trip. Some walking mixed with rides from a teen proud of his first driver’s license, a farmer hauling produce to market, and truck drivers.
A truck driver picked him up at a truck stop outside Somerset.
“You sure you only want to go as far as Big South Fork? I’m going all the way down to Atlanta to deliver my load.” The driver pointed his thumb at the ninety-foot trailer swaying behind them. “Let me know if you change your mind. You look too tense and worried to be going off cave exploring like you said you were. You ain’t a runner are you?”
Brent tensed. Technically, he broke no laws back in SLD. He had never met with more than the legal limits allowed to congregate. And his survival training did not include any offensive tactics. “Me? A runner?”
“Yeah. You remind me of some runners I gave rides to before. They usually get caught if we cross any state lines, though. I figured maybe you might be planning on sneaking into Tennessee.”
Brent’s tenseness did not lessen until he exited the cab twenty minutes later. “Thanks.”
The driver gave him a thumb up and began to guide the transmission through its twenty-five gears. His luck for free rides ended, Brent walked two miles to the northern most entrance to the Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area as he counted thirty-nine cars that did not even slow down as they passed him.
Pine, oak, ash, and hickory trees on either side seemed to grow denser, while the sounds of the creatures they hid grew louder. His transition from the always dirty crowded concrete and asphalt canyons of SLD to a two-lane road meandering through forest seemed to him a baptism into freedom.
A ranger stepped from his small shed at the park’s entrance to greet him.
“You’re the first one I’ve ever seen hike into the park. Most folks wait until they’re inside before putting on their hiking shoes.” He studied his electronic clipboard. “You Brent Fulsome?”
“Yeah.” Brent tensed and wondered if Rep. Turner had turned his name in as a subversive or worse yet, an anarchist.
“Homeland Security alerted us after you failed the security check back at SLD. Afraid you have to step inside.” He tapped the microphone embedded in his uniform’s collar. “Smoky, I need you to cover the gate for me.”
Brent took a step back when a bear exited the office thirty yards from the gate. It wore blue jeans and the same style hat the human ranger wore. Sensing Brent’s alarm, the bear switched on its preprogrammed introduction mode.
“Greetings. My name is Smoky Bear. We hope that your stay here at Big South Fork National River and Recreation Area is a pleasant one. To ensure your safety and that of your fellow campers, please only use the automatic fire devices that are situated at each campsite. Doing so will protect your furry and feathered friends of the forest. Only you can prevent wildfires.” The bear walked to his post at the gate.
Thirty questions and answers later, the ranger turned into salesman. “You sure you don’t need any equipment, food, or protective gear, Brent?” he asked as they walked to the gate.
“No. It’s all right here.” Brent patted his bulging backpack, which held the last of the high calorie bars the deputy’s wife had packed for him.
“Okay. Here’s your GPS unit.” He handed the silver colored matchbook-sized device to Brent. “We can hone in on you above ground anywhere here in the park. The signal fades if you go deep enough underground, but we can read the computer record to find your last signal if you go missing. Might be a while before we can launch a search and rescue to come get you, though.” He shrugged. “Budget cuts.”
“Maybe you can send Smoky to save me.”
The bear tipped his hat. “If I can be of any further assistance, you may contact me by dialing Smoky Bear into your communication device followed by Big South Fork.” He returned to hibernation mode, waiting for the next guest to arrive.
“He’s looks exactly like the bears at SLD Zoo,” Brent said. “Except they only wear fur.”
“Yeah. Top of the line android. Cost us a small fortune. The calculator punchers up in Washington, D.C. even took it out of our budget. We laid off a human when Smoky showed up. If he works out, they’ll order some more for other parks.”
* * *
A shuttle bus dropped Brent near a cave entrance a mile from the Kentucky Tennessee border. The opening had been widened by dynamite after its discovery seventy years earlier by a Boy Scout earning his hiking merit badge. This was Brent’s third descent into the cavern.
It would require none of the ropes or climbing equipment used during his previous two expeditions.
He donned a thin body suit for protection from bat guano, mud, and dust, some it thousands of years old. His plastic helmet projected a laser beam illuminating a path fifty feet long and eight feet wide. Brent stopped in a chamber filled with stalagmites and stalactites. The oldest ones joined at their ends, creating gnarled hourglass shapes of fantastic colors.
Brent paused to soak in the beauty.
He pulled a miniature rover from his pack and programmed it to travel as far as possible into the cave. No bigger than his hand, the device could find passageways to take it miles into the silent darkness, and even journey through small fissures into connecting caves. After attaching the GPS unit to the rover, Brent set it down and watched its rubber treads propel it forward until it rolled beyond his helmet’s beam of light.
Brent retraced his route to the entrance of the cave and waited until the first stars and a half moon appeared. The tiny compass embedded in his ring directed him, and he followed the luminescent arrow marked S on its tip.
By dawn, he had traveled far enough into Tennessee to slow his pace. He wondered if the transponder worked well enough to ensure his pickup. A mile later it flashed a signal to halt, so he abandoned the dirt road and crouched behind a blackberry thicket. Twenty minutes later, a sweet voice roused him from his slumber.
“Brent, let’s go.” His sister-in-law shook him.
He stared at her with half-opened eyes, unsure if he was still dreaming. “Gretchen? Why did they send you?”
“It’s your wife, Brent.”
“Mary?”
“She’s sick, real sick. The doctor is afraid she might be dying. She caught that strange new disease.”
13
Chief Red Bear bore two titles: chief of his reservation and chief operating officer of the Cheyenne River Standing Rock Casino and instigator of any events he could dream up to draw customers. Thirty-three years earlier he became the driving force to unite the Standing Rock Indian Reservation and the Cheyenne River Indian Reservation into one large entity extending from western South Dakota into North Dakota.
His timing could not have been better.
In 2064, President Charleston had pushed her Native American Rehabilitation Act through Congress and signed it into law while representatives from 494 tribes watched behind her. In effect, the act removed all federal oversight of Native American lands and returned total control of them to tribal councils.
“We lost our lands for almost 200 years to the white man,” Red Bear had said to his tribal council after his election as chief. “The land given back to us is just principal; we are still owed a lot of interest, 200 years’ worth. We’re going to collect every penny of it.”
* * *
Chief Red Bear glanced up from last month’s income statement and balance sheets. Not bad. Keep that interest rolling in, kemosabe. This month would be even better.
Next week’s 2095 Old Time Motorcycle Rally would be the bi
ggest money maker for the reservation this year. Chief Red Bear thought back to the first informal rally he had organized thirty years ago when carbon emitting vehicles were banned from being ridden in states other than where they were licensed.
The bikers who showed up at the Sturgis, South Dakota rally that year either came without their beloved hogs or brought them on trailers towed by non-carbon emitting vehicles. But the bikes from out of state could only be displayed, not ridden.
The restriction caused a near riot until Chief Red Bear rode into Sturgis on his classic 1947 Harley Davidson FL Knucklehead. The cursing, beer bottle throwing mob of tens of thousands of bikers facing off against the outnumbered sheriff’s deputies and state police pointed when the chief roared up to a cop and asked to use his bullhorn.
The throng quieted as the chief climbed atop his parked bike and spoke.
“I don’t blame you for being bent out of shape because you can’t ride your bikes across state lines anymore unless they have electric motors.”
“You got that right, man. That new law sucks.” A biker’s reply brought forth thunderous cheers.
“Well, I can relate. The white man did not honor treaties made with my people, so I understand how you feel. But I’ve slowly learned to forgive whites like you for what your ancestors did to my people. That’s why I’m inviting you over to my reservation. You can ride your bikes there because we are a sovereign nation and are exempt from the law that is keeping you from riding your bikes because they have out of state tags.”
He handed the bullhorn back to the cop. As he slowly rolled through the narrow passageway between the sweating leather clad bodies, cop and biker alike patted him on the back and thanked him.
That summer, tales of fun on the reservation followed the bikers back home. Word also spread that after Chief Red Bear had been made an honorary member of seventeen motorcycle clubs, he had invited them to return again the following summer.
