by M. L. Banner
He was beaming, feeling the warm glow of the happiness that could be his.
Then the burden of his thoughts crashed back on him, crushing his momentary joy. He would have to worry about one more person at a time and place where he had little control.
Like a reflection of his mood, the sun hid behind a giant cloud, and just as quickly, the brightness faded from the room and from him.
She fidgeted in her seat, breaking his thoughts. She had something to say but seemed hesitant to speak.
“Are you okay?” she asked as she watched him drink another shot down as if it were water.
He didn't answer. Okay? Of course he wasn't okay. He had just executed a man and then gunned down two more innocents, all in the name of safety for Cicada and the people he cared about. He was again becoming that same person he had been in Basra. Yet, if he didn't do what he had to do, Cicada would eventually fall into the hands of the barbarians outside, who were receiving military-grade equipment from some outside source. Tom and he confirmed this when they swung by the split aspen and found the package of explosives waiting for the man who would never use them.
No, he was not okay. Worse, he was beginning to believe that this was his penance for past misdeeds; he had to be the protector of this place, regardless of what the future held. And he certainly couldn’t open himself to the love of another woman.
“Yeah, I'm fine.” He poured himself another drink.
There was a rapid bang on the doorframe followed by “Mr. Thompson, are you in?” through the wide-open door.
She put her glass down and bounded up. “I'm going to go. Thanks for the drink.”
A different voice called from the blazing doorway, the raging morning light still pouring through in torrents. “Mr. Thompson, sorry to bother you, but we really need to talk to you.”
“I'll be right there,” he yelled. To her, he spoke softly. “Please don't go.”
“I think I have to,” she faltered. “I don't want to see what happens next. I care about you too much.” At the doorway, she stopped and turned to him. “I know you think you need to do whatever it takes to keep everyone safe, but consider the costs. The man I left in Mexico took the time to save several people, even though it meant he’d be delayed in meeting up with his friends and maybe helping them further. I'm not sure what happened to that man. I'd love to sit and talk with him for a while.” She vanished into the light as the two men burst in.
Max was frozen in place, his shot glass poised at his lips. He held it there; for the first time since opening this old treasured bottle, the tequila’s sweetness danced on his nostrils, never fully there, like her. But her words bit harder than the tequila’s burn. He had had too much of both.
“Sorry, Mr. Thompson, but this is real important,” one of them said. Max put the glass down and looked up at the outlines of two men in lab coats. His thoughts were already muddy from the alcohol and his fatigue made it hard to focus on them in the bright sunlight.
The older and shorter of the two said, “We’ve figured out why the CMEs never stop!”
15.
Bios-2
Westerling had stolen everything he needed from Cicada: the idea and plans for the Cicada complex, courtesy of one of his most senior people; then some of Thompson’s land—seizing it by using a federal statute on grazing; and then just before and after the Event, many of their scientists. Now he wanted the prize, too. He wanted Cicada. It wasn’t that he wanted to control the land or their personnel or even their resources anymore. He wanted them to fail.
There were many reasons for this, but the reasons didn’t include a need. He didn’t need them to fail for Bios-2 and therefore his daughter and granddaughter to prosper. It was much more of a want, a desire that gnawed at him, like regret did for most people; he didn’t suffer regret. It was probably a pride issue for Westerling, and he had no problem admitting it. Cicada represented the one thing he couldn’t yet control in a world in which he controlled so much, and that bothered him. They had control over the Outsiders outside their walls, and the crazy sun-drenched environment around them, but they couldn’t control Cicada.
And yet, what bothered the senator most was Maxwell Thompson. Because Cicada was his, a hand-me-down from Thompson’s great-granddad, along with his fortune, all the while Thompson played on the beach in Mexico.
For all of these reasons Westerling wanted Cicada to go down and he wanted it now. He knew they would eventually fail, but he was tired of waiting. He wanted them taken out and taken out immediately. And now that Thompson was there, he could strike down the two headaches at once. He had asked Lunder to come up with a plan that could be executed within a day or two.
“I’m sorry, sir, but I must disagree with the whole idea. Cicada will fall, and probably sooner than later. Why commit resources to a bold plan when under the current one we don’t have to expend many resources at all, and we still get the same result?” The German’s hands were flying around so much to make his point, Westerling would have thought he was an Italian with a German accent.
“I don’t want to wait. We have them on the ropes. Now is the time to strike. We can take them down and take their resources to replace those we’ve expended. Plus, we’ll get the bonus of maybe getting some more of their scientists. Most of all, I want it because I want to rub a dead Cicada into Thompson’s face. Then, all that inheritance and planning will have been worth nothing. That’s what I want and I expect you to make it happen.”
Lunder realized he would lose this argument, if it was something Westerling really wanted, as he apparently did now. He’d have to follow orders. At least he gave it his best shot, but still prepared for this contingency.
“Okay, sir,” he said while unrolling a set of plans on the coffee table. The leather sofa squeaked as he reached over and placed each of their coffee mugs on the first two corners of the plans. The final two points of the plans were held in place with Westerling’s cigar ashtray and his own trusty Luger, given to him by his father from the War.
“There,” he pointed to the coffee-mug side of the plans, “is our point of penetration. It will take us a while to get enough men through there. But, if we’re careful and quiet, we’ll take them by surprise. We’ll also need to coordinate with our Outsider contact and have them mount an assault at the same time we arrive at their flank, to keep them busy. This should work, sir.”
“Excellent. I love the idea. I knew we would use this to our advantage someday. When can we take ’em down?”
“Give me a day to pick our assault team and a day to get there and be ready for the diversion. So, in two days we can strike. It should take about an hour to take out their defenses and then we’ll have them.”
Westerling’s intercom buzzed and he punched the button. “Yes?”
“Sir, there are three men at the front gate, asking to speak to the senator.”
“Do we know who they are?”
“They’re the ones who executed the leader of our Outsiders this morning.”
Westerling took a sip of coffee and smiled at Lunder, who nodded in the affirmative. “Okay, Reynolds, let’s give an audience to their leader only. I will only speak to their top leader. I’m counting on you to not waste my time with underlings. Once he’s cleared, bring him to my office.” Westerling punched the intercom button again, severing the connection.
“Is that wise, sir, bringing a stranger into your office?” Lunder asked, sitting back in the leather couch.
“I want to meet the man who has the huevos to put on today’s display. Besides, we may be able to use him and his troops with your plan, if you can speed it up a day.”
John, Frank, Stephen and the Teacher stood in front of the towering gate of Bios-2, waiting for the Teacher to be ushered inside. John had taken Frank and Stephen first and demanded an audience with their leader, the one who the settlers here called the Senator. Their request was granted, but this Senator would speak directly with the Teacher and only the Teacher. John didn’t lik
e it because it would be so simple for them to kill or hurt the Teacher without them there to protect him. Yet the Teacher insisted, saying he would be protected by his God and to have faith. John relented, as he always did, and so they waited, standing before this massive gate, in their finest red robes. It was their normal procedure to have the warriors wear red and the apostles wear white. Whether they were in battle or negotiating with an enemy, they wore red with the intent of striking fear in their opponents. Plus, their enemy would be less likely to be able to tell the generals from the soldiers with them all wearing the same thing.
Their robes were a gift from God after the Teacher received the Book; they were led to a hotel supply company and took more than a thousand white robes. One of their followers knew how to dye fabrics and made a blood-red dye for most of the robes, holding back fifty white ones. They then added their GA insignia where the hotel’s name would have gone. The apostles wore the white as an expression of purity in their belief of the Teacher, and the warriors the red to show that they wore the blood of their enemies like a badge of honor.
A large rumble sounded behind the gate, shaking the very ground on which they stood. Then the gate cracked open, just enough for one man at a time to pass through.
The Teacher looked calm. “John, you and your men wait for me here. I will return shortly with exactly what we want.” He then stepped forward and into Bios-2, the gate rumbling closed immediately behind him.
16.
Bios-2
Melanie, led by “Simple” Simon Washington, walked up to the entrance of Westerling’s office and the Observation Tower. Simon was no longer watching her, at least that she knew. But he was detailed to their apartment building, where most of the scientists lived. So she asked him to lead her to Westerling’s office. She didn’t need an escort, but she thought it might still be good to include him. If he scored more comic books because of what she had to say, maybe Simon would be more predisposed to trusting her, and it would be smart to have a friend on the inside.
“Mrs. Melanie Reid to see Senator Westerling,” announced Simon through the intercom button. “She has information she wishes to share about her meeting with the scientists.” Simon spoke the words exactly as she had coached him.
The thick door buzzed open and she took the lead as they entered. Until now, she hadn’t really paid attention to the security features of this entry area. Like much of Bios-2, the whole Observation Tower building was well designed from the beginning. It was entirely shielded against EMPs, as if they had known ahead of time that the Earth’s atmosphere would become a raging electrical catastrophe for anything with a closed circuit. What she hadn’t noticed, even during their visit earlier this morning to see the public execution, was the high level of security: six guards, the whole-body imaging scanner to pass through the second-tier entry, security cameras and lots of guns. All posed a nearly impenetrable barrier of protection for anyone wishing harm to Operations or Senator Westerling.
Melanie endured another over-the-top pat-down for weapons—in the pre-Event world, it would have been called groping—by a sneering guard, who was then able to see everything he felt in real-time color from the whole-body imager. She had heard some of her images were being floated around by the guards; she guessed this one would be added to their collection soon enough.
She was escorted to the elevator.
Just before the doors closed, she looked back and caught a glimpse of a tall man in a full-length red robe brushing by Simon; it reminded her of a hotel bathrobe but dyed in blood, and rather than bearing a hotel name on the breast, this one said God’s Army. She knew instantly that this was one of the robed men who had put on the bloody display this morning. But his face was hidden in the shadows of his hood draped over his head. In the moment that passed when she saw him, she thought, Maybe he doesn’t have a face, and then she saw only his blue, piercing eyes. They glowed like a wild animal’s in moonlight. The doors closed and they were gone.
The guard behind her intoned his instructions. “You will sit in the Observation Waiting Room. Senator Westerling has an appointment before you…”
Melanie heard none of this; she saw only those two eyes gazing at her. She felt undressed… exposed. She folded her arms around her chest and hugged herself, trying to apply reason to her disquiet. She didn’t know if it was the smug guards and their violations, the stranger in the red robe, or the fact that she was about to turn in several scientists who were not cooperating with their plan to assist—her mind cried out, You mean ‘aid and abet’—Westerling and Lunder.
She wished she could have spoken to Carrington again after her meeting with her colleagues, but she knew he was working on Westerling’s solar power plan. She would fly solo on this and do what they originally agreed upon.
But it felt wrong. It was more than a feeling; her gut was telling her this was wrong. Telling her she needed to stop and go back. Her gut told her to not go through with this.
The elevator doors slid open and they spilled into the lush entry foyer with Westerling’s office door on the right and the Observation Waiting Room on the left. The conference room connected them. There were other chairs in the foyer, but Lunder must have wanted her in the waiting room because she was deposited there by her guard. He released his claw-like grip on her arm and shut the door behind her.
It was a small room with a couple comfortable leather chairs and that same floor-to-ceiling forty-five-degree window, which looked out toward Bios-2’s main gate and beyond that, the platform. The four dead men were still on display, like some crazy real-life art exhibit left to rot in the sun’s burning heat. She blinked her eyes, as much to remove that image as to mitigate the glare, and then noticed the wall and door that separated this room from the conference room.
She tried the door—it was unlocked—and gingerly stuck her head through, confirming it was empty. She had forgotten how big a room it was; their eyes and minds had been on other things this morning. She was somewhat shocked to see the door to Westerling’s office was open, remembering that he had to put his whole body into the heavy door to open it and that it automatically closed from a tension spring. She was about to shut herself back in the waiting room when she heard voices.
“Lunder, let’s hold back on the plan to take over Cicada until after we know where we stand with this leader of that giant army outside.”
That one word made her freeze. She dropped to her knees, not wanting to be seen but now desperate to hear more. She found a doorjamb by the door and shoved it under the door so it could close most of the way and not be obvious, but remain open enough so she could hear them.
“I was going to ask you about that, sir. I’ll put it aside until you give the go command to bring Cicada to its knees.”
She quietly hurried to the exit, wanting to get out and tell Carrington about Cicada. It still exists? She could hardly believe it, but believe it she did. A peek outside revealed the red-robed guy getting off the elevator with three guards. They strode through the foyer directly to Westerling’s office. She shut the door and quietly returned to her listening position by the conference room entrance. Perhaps she could learn more while she waited for a chance to flee.
“Sir,” said Lunder, “he’s here.”
It sounded to her like another door was opened, probably the one to Westerling’s office, and then sounds of introduction between Lunder and she guessed the red-robed man, but she couldn’t hear well enough. She stuck her head further through the door.
After a few seconds of listening to her staccato heartbeat in her ears, she heard Lunder again. “Sir, this is the Teacher.”
“The Teacher, huh. They don’t have real names where you come from?” Westerling chided.
“That is what my followers call me, so it is the name I use now,” he said in a calm voice. Melanie pictured those eyes, blue and piercing, looking at her. She shuddered.
“I’m Brian Westerling, but you can call me Senator.” Scorn dripped from Westerling’s
voice. “You now have an audience, what do you want?”
“Senator, I will be brief because you appear to be a man who is leading many people. My followers and I only need two things from you: some water and food, and information about Cicada.”
Melanie’s shoulders were in the way of the door and jamb as she craned her neck further through the crack in the door, desperate to hear what was said next.
“That’s three things, actually. Hang on for a moment while I talk to my Security Chief.”
A long silence and the fear of being caught made her pull her head back, like a bug going back into its hole, hiding. She heard a conversation in the background.
“I agree to your request,” Westerling announced, “but let me show you something first.”
Melanie craned her neck back out. Then she saw them coming toward the conference room, and she was so startled, she almost fell backwards. She softly pushed the door nearly closed, the jamb resisting, keeping it open only enough for sounds to get through and scurried back a few steps, out of view.
Westerling’s voice now boomed, no longer muffled by the glass wall. “You can see a perfect panorama beyond our city walls right here. We had a great view of your display this morning, as you can see. Walk this way. So that you can understand who is in charge here, I need to show you something. Then, I’ll describe our roles here and how we can help each other.”
More silence. If she’d been a fly on the wall at least she could’ve seen what was going on.
“You see your men down there?” asked Lunder.
“Yes, of course,” said the Teacher.
“Which is your least senior man?”
“Stephen. Of the three, he is the one furthest away, on our left,” the Teacher stated, his voice still calm and resolute. “Why?”
