Old Men And Infidels Books

Excerpt from After the Fall Was Over

2026-01-30

The Tombs, 125 White Street, Nyork, Unity
19.39.08.EST_19_October_AU77, (2129AD)

Within the stygian darkness within the dank, dripping walls of this lowest and least known level of the Tombs prison of Nyork, sat Sergeant Graybarre. The lights within Nyork had gone out almost two hours ago, and no one had come to check on him and his prisoners. The air, always dank and musty, was gaining in character and body. Scurrying had increased exponentially, occasionally running over his own boots.

Sergeant Graybarre was not happy. He was an honest screw, taking no bribes and meting out punishment only as deserved. He got no pleasure from being harsh. He wished he could say the same for General Aliende’s Zeta squad—sadistic thugs they were, and the Sergeant did not care who knew his opinion. Interrogation of the prisoner in Cell #1 had just ceased when the lights went off. They would recommence in two more hours. Graybarre wanted to go check on him, but with no light, no first aid kit, and the incessant scurrying, he concluded that his efforts were pointless.

In the darkness, at some unknown distance, he heard a lock turn. He did not expect to be relieved before midnight.

“Sergeant! I’m General Seftus Ploidid. I have been given command during this emergency. We are setting up new arrangements for the security of political prisoners during this period. The lights won’t come on for a week, I’m told. I need you to come out now and be scheduled for rotation in a lighted ward.

“I got my orders from company HQ, General Ploidid, Sir. Not supposed to leave my post until relieved by Sergeant Edwards of the Beta Squad, sir!” said Graybarre.

“Sergeant, I have had to assign your entire company elsewhere. Riots are breaking out on the docks. Come on out, and we can talk in the light. I’ll get some electricians in to see what we can cobble together in the meantime. Is that okay with you, Sergeant?”

Finally convinced, Graybarre replied, “Yessir.”

Gathering his few things and moving uncertainly towards Ploidid’s voice along a narrow corridor of empty cells in the otherwise empty cell block in the lowest level of the Tombs, Sergeant Graybarre came abreast of Blanche’s location within one of the open cells. Using night vision headgear, Blanche was able to move behind Graybarre, pinioning his arms before dragging the man into the cell behind her. After a few minutes, Blanche had Graybarre hog-tied, hooded, and snoring gently on a bunk. His quietude would last the hour. It would have to be enough.

She had tried to quest the entities before contacting Ploidid. The silence inside the user CORE was absolute. Nothing was “open.” Conduits ended abruptly into nothingness. All Blanche’s usual routes to information were profoundly wrong. With the CORE down, Blanche concluded that the entities were gone—removed—sanitized. Despite their brief contact, she grieved. She would not be able to talk to Cain or EffieCee again. They had been the ones to show her the wonders possible inside the openCORE—and now they were gone.

Any hope she had invested in her new virtual allies was wasted. Smart money would have gotten drunk, dealt with the hangover in the morning, and considered life unchanged. Somehow, she would not consider that. The entities had, even in the brief time she had talked with them, struck a cord that still vibrated within her. Will Butler had entrusted his life and happiness to her, and she must do everything in her power to retrieve that for him. Now she had mobilized her own plan B.

Leaving the Graybarre snoring gen tly, Blanche strode down the empty cells lined corridor confidently with the aid of the night scope. It was easy to determine Will and Hecate's cell, as only one door-grate showing a heat signature. Graybarre had been kind enough to leave the keys on the small desk at the juncture of the corridors.

“Hecate, it's me, Riley,” said Blanche, after opening the door.

“Thank you, God!. Will is getting beaten up once a shift—like clockwork. He can’t take more of this. His piss looks, I mean, looked, black the last time I saw anything. The air's getting stale, too.”

Blanche nodded, then, realizing that Hecate would need more, said.

“I’m going to get you out of here. Then we can see about getting some help for Will. Can he walk?”

“I don’t know. He hasn’t walked since the last interrogation.”

“Okay, I want you to go out the door and along the wall to the right for about ten meters. You will run into a small table. Stop there and listen for people arriving. Ask what the password is. They should say ‘Parker Rolls’ and you should say ‘Orange juice’. Got it?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, here is the door. Go ahead”

Slowly, Hecate moved out of the room. Blanche could hear her scraping along the wall as she turned to look at Will.

“Will, can you talk to me? Things will be getting better from now on, but I need to be sure we are straight. How are you? Can you hold on?”

Will looked up and smiled through a split lip into the darkness. “Nice to meet again, Colonel ma’am. I am just nifty, I am. I would very much like to slip into anonymity, if it is all the same with you, though.”

“I said I would do my best to protect you both, and I failed. My boss took over your capture and changed the script.”

“You mean the fat guy?” asked Will. “He did go on, didn’t he?”

The power is down all over the city, I have no idea why. I think our CORE friends are dead. I need to get you to a safe place. Can you walk? We can get an HP to visit you there.

“You need more water at the very least. You're as dry as sand. If your urine doesn’t clear, it might be a sign of a kidney fracture or failure. Let me get you and Hecate out of here, and we will get you the fluids as soon as possible.”

“I think I can walk. I think I can hold on. I don’t know how much I can drink. I feel nauseated. Bur to your question: you and I are good, Blanche.

“I have been living an iffy existence for years. This is our chance to get home and I know you are an honorable person from the openCORE. No one promises anything but their best effort in this business. I am in your hands, Colonel.”

Blanche helped Will to his feet and the two staggared out of the cell and along the corridor to Hecate. Blanche gave a shout to alert the squad to come forward and then left Hecate and Will once more alone in the dark. Graybarre would have been surprised that the squad Blanche brought forward to help Will were not Ploidid’s Greens as he had been led to believe, but Fenerghan’s Oranges.

This had been Blanche’s contribution to the affair. Ploidid and Fenerghan, being obligated to work together by Aliende, had nearly come to blows. Blanche intervened. Running interference with each faction, as an unofficial aide to Aliende. The two leaders, discovering that their differences, no longer suppressed by the ruling junta, had mellowed in isolation. In their political isolation, the two had found common ground. Gilsoit and Seftus rapidly developed a modus vivendi.

With the blackout, Blanche shared the problem with each leader in person, moving around the blacked out city with her infrared apparatus, moving like a wraith among citizens staggering blindly along streets and hallways. Ploidid had suggested the swapped identities. He and Fenerghan had shaken hands on it.

The reports would be hopelessly muddled. Ploidid’s Greens would be blamed for the couple’s release from the Tombs but would be convincingly present and obvious putting down the riots at the docks, while Fenerghan’s Oranges would be blamed for Will being treated out of turn at Mid-Manhattan’s Emergency room. Commands would ring out, weapons would be drawn, a certain amount of shoving might occur, and Will would be treated. All would vanish within a half-hour. Key words might be uttered like “Climate Justice,” “Together, we can save the earth,” and even a few “Climate Change: The Everest of Our Problems,” despite these generating more than a few blank stares among the sick and wounded sitting on the hard plastic seats that filled the waiting room.

Investigations would be made, no doubt. Identifications would implicate each faction; yet, upon further investigation, it would be deemed impossible for Ploidid and Feneghen to be in two places at once. Enemies of the state, recidivist revolutionary Sisis, and feral elements of the underworld would be blamed. Without the CORE, no reliable, durable, unquestioned evidence was available.

Within that hour, Will Yeats Butler slipped from the ken of the Unity into oblivion.

New Eve of the Scorch-Excerpt from Book 3

2020-11-17

Malila confronts Jesse as her changed self

Excerpt from "The Parting" in Malila of the Scorch

2019-11-06

excerpt from soon to be published Malila of the Scorch

New Mission for Haversham -an Excerpt of Malila of the Scorch

2019-11-02

excerpt from Malila of the Scorch

The Invasion of America: New Excerpt of Malila of the Scorch

2019-07-16

Malila of the Scorch is divided into chapters that will be familiar to any climber.

This sub-chapter is part of the Crux, the hardest part of the climb. Frequently near the end, it is the sine qua non of the climb; if you and your partner cannot get beyond this point, you have nothing to do but down climb the route. This section of the Crux is the Overture, a comic relief from the grim eventualities of the preceding and and following machinations. You meet a cadre of some of my favorite people: NCOs, non-coms, non-commisioned officers, without which any army would fail to exist. Brutal task master, mentor, teacher, psychiatrist, motivational speaker par excellence, and occasional brood hen, sergeants make the squads run. These guys come to a sticky end, their talents squandered by the neo-socialist republic (inevitably turned dictatorship) of the Unity against a depopulated midlands of what was once America.

Overture

The Southern Gate, the Unity

06.32.11.local_09_October_AU77 (2129 AD)

“Soldiers of the Glorious Unity, it is given you today to strike a blow for your great nation, and to bring the benefits of enlightenment to a dark corner of the world. Too long have the people of Jorga suffered under the crushing oppression of their misguided and vicious shamans. It is time to free your fellow creatures to enter the light of the Unity, adding their rich fields and resources to our own. Your great sacrifices today will resound through the Unity’s history along with those of our storied past like—like those heroes we are all so proud of.

“In the Unity’s desire to free its suffering brothers from the tyranny of these aged, misguided plutocrats, we have chosen to drop our defenses along this front in our sincere desire to serve mankind.”

In a lower voice, once the microphone was supposed to be dead, the assembled multitude, the cream of Unity armed services, heard “Okay, hit it!”

Jourdaine sighed. To his dismay, in its entire seventy-year history, the technicians had never been asked to disable a section of the Rampart. Generations of technicians, educated and certified in the care and maintenance of the Unity’s massive technological triumph, could not find the “Off” button. Senior technicians, after laboring over mildewed schematics for a week, were reduced to snatching up flashlights and burrowing into the maze of tunnels beneath the works. They came up with a solution to bypass a likely circuit breaker.

“It had better work, Lieutenant.”

It didn’t.

Top Sergeant Les Moran switched on a comm-line to his platoon commander, S11, E6 2nd Lieutenant Consuella Dimatto. “Sir! It appears that the attack is off for now. I think the troopers are going to get hot. Can we break formation and get them under cover? Immediately would be best, sir!”

As in most armies since the Battle of Kadesh,[1] the efficiency and success of junior officers are measured by how rapidly they learn to accept their sergeants’ "suggestions." This much Consuella Dimatto had learned, and thus she ordered the platoon to bivouac in place. In time, so did the rest of the half-million-man army.

“Can you believe these feckers, Bull? They can’t figure out how to open the fatherin’ gate to let us out. Don’t bode well,” remarked Sergeant Alex LeBron as the unSapped non-coms of the company sat around a fire that evening.

“Not much into boding myself, Alex. Brass tells me to shoot, I shoot. Long as I get my food, bed, pay, and retirement after twenty-nine years. What are the knuckledraggers gonna do, piddle on us?” said Sergeant Eugene (Bull) Fuller, S13, E27. Most of his audience laughed.

“Well, Sergeant Fuller, I know that last year a whole platoon was ambushed. The outlanders took all their pulse-rifles, new Springfield 72s. When they finally found the bodies, not one of the geeks still had his right hand,” replied Specialist Ewan Powolsky, tolerated for his willingness to collect and share scuttlebutt.

“Yeah, Bull. Those knuckledraggers? Don’t underestimate them. Vicious, cruel, and sneaky. Best to shoot the fathering scum before they get you,” rejoined Sergeant LeBron.

BeBe Ramsey, staff sergeant for B platoon, spat into the fire and said, “You guys are forgetting. Do you have any idea what still has to be here? Jewels, books, antique weapons. The Unity never invaded Jorga, not really.”

“Whatcha going to do with books and weapons, BeBe? Stuff is old. No one wants it,” replied Specialist Leif Greene.

“Keep telling yourself that, Leif. Some of us know who buys and who sells. It’s gonna be a bonanza. If you’re nice, I might buy what you bring back.”

Two more men approached the fire and sat down, ranking sergeant for A Platoon, Lawrence Lowe, and top sergeant for the company, Les Moran.

Lowe accepted a mug of tea. “Looks like they are pretty sure about finally getting off tomorrow. Heard it straight from battalion. We should put the geeks to bed. Specialist Greene, that means you have to tell each one individually. For some reason, they cannot take a hint. Same goes for the latrine. You gotta show them where—and how.”

“Let’s all turn in. We want to be fresh. Gonna need a good breakfast, even if it’s cold. ‘Freeing your fellow creatures’ can’t be done on an empty stomach,” said Moran.

Leif Greene kicked the fire apart as all the men started shouting at the CRNAs in preparation for beddy-bye.

16. ‎April 1457 BC

Excerpt from The Silence Within the Light: Star Chamber

2019-03-27

an excerpt from the as yet unpublished TSATG

(set-up: America is coming to visit its long-lost cousins in what was once California. Things have changed in their absence. The new country, The Demarchy has become highly segregated between the enlightened and the unenlightened, the former getting their knickers in a twist over the new arrivals)

Star Chamber

Demarch’s Residence, San Francisco, Great Western Demarchy

1:53 PM, June 6, 2030

Jorge the Wine Steward

Another meeting of the Seventy! thought Jorge the Wine Steward. It was all so trying for the Demarch. And there had been no proper time to prepare for this one. Just a single message and the Demarch’s residency had erupted in near-chaos. Even when they were scheduled, His Enlightened would fret and worry about it for days before considering what and how he should handle that pack of wolves—then he would worry and fret for days thereafter as to whether he should have said something else. Of course, he would not confide his worries to a mere toulos like himself, Jorge the Wine Steward, but after fourteen-years of service, he could tell.

When he had first entered into the Enlightened One’s service, Jorge had worried whether his training and knowledge of the vast holdings of the Demarch’s wine cellar would be up to the task. He had spent a seven-year apprenticeship within the residence to learn his craft, not once coming within sight of the man who controlled the nation. Now, with the cellars nearly empty, he saw and talked to Bernhard the First on a daily basis. His encyclopedic knowledge of vines, vintners and vintages was no longer of much concern to the Demarch except on state dinners, of which there were mercifully few. Those sent the Enlightened One to his sick bed for a week, at the very least. Now Jorge’s duties concerned the rigorous medical regime which kept the Demarch functioning.

All knew that the selection of the Demarch was of signal importance for the nation, even the touloi. Only the most intelligent, robust, virile, and healthy were even considered. Workers followed the initial public selection of the electoral college avidly. Despite the nominal secrecy which was supposed to surround the six additional election and de-selection steps, they were the object of numerous wagers in the Hunch and Perdita, nevertheless. The whole procedure was meant to assist the new Demarch in maintaining his Enlightenment while carrying the burden of becoming the absolute ruler of the state. The Seventy, and a few trusted satori-zhin such as himself, knew also that the process of raising an enlightened member of the Seventy to become the unchallenged, absolute ruler of the nation, killed the man.

It had something to do with changing the brain to eliminate cravings, to sharpen the decision-making process by removing the confusion of longings, desires, and appetites. It was inevitably fatal. And he, Jorge the Wine Steward, had been tasked to follow the Steward while he was awake and remind him to take the pills, and give the injections and inhalations. He had just finished the last injection, a small dose of Dronabinol, into the slightly jaundiced thin left thigh of the Enlightened One and returned the stiff court trousers to their proper position.

“You may stand, Enlightened. I have finished,” he said, his head bowed.

“Very well.” A bony hand was placed on his head, ruffling his regulation haircut, a tonsure leaving bald the fore part of the scalp. With Jorge as a support the Demarch rose and, strangely strong now, walked the few steps needed, followed by the grubby little man, His Voice, who intoned once he was seated, “Move to dispense reading of the Article of Enactment, the oath of office, the patriotic oath, the summons, and the minutes of the last meeting.”

Simon of the First

Market Street, San Francisco, Great Western Demarchy

1:33 PM, June 6, 2030

Simon, leader of the First, of Montfort, scion of trader-lords, builder of storied wealth, and a reluctant leader of his faction, scowled. His bodyguard solidified about him, weapons at the ready as they approached one of the Star Chamber’s entrances, hidden in plain view, next to a Singaporese architectural firm’s entrance, a florid representation of a sunrise. The unmarked door next to it on Market street was but one of about four score entrances he could have chosen. His own toulos agent, anonymous but certified-trustworthy, had staked out the selected entrance twelve hours ago to ensure that no other faction was tampering with it.

“It is clear, Simon of the First,” came a whispered feminine voice into his earphone and he strode forth and opened the door, dropped the concealing gray cloak he had worn while travelling to reveal the rich purple and orange colors of his faction on the stiff robe. His retinue did not follow him. He found himself alone in a sterile unbranched passage, navigating it with confidence. Once he had opened the outer security door, the locked security door at the farther end would only open to his retina scan. Within minutes, he emerged onto the circumspect bustle of the fourth promenade, across from the Speaker’s Seat, and started to move to his usual place, thought better of it and started moving to the other end of the gallery.

The Seventy met, when they did meet, in the round high-ceilinged room in the middle of Market Street, with eighty-some entrances, each different, each defensible and each with another armored exit available nearby. The Demarchian revolution had been enlightened and stabilizing, and in consequence, tolerated no unsupported thesis about the nobility of Mankind, god-given rights of free speech, or such-like. The Enlightened ruled for their own and the country’s benefit. However, the disaffection of the Seventy for each other, in ever-changing constellations, clichés, and cabals had prompted alterations—such as the construction of the Star Chamber, itself.

Few of the people who walked the streets above knew it even existed—fewer still after the Earthquake of 2098. With the downtown so disrupted, prudence and wisdom had recommended the reconstruction underground, as easier to conceal. The chamber itself was circular and narrow, almost the proportions of a soup can; by design the one hundred and forty seats, easily moved and more numerous than the Seventy needed, were arrayed in random patterns—all the better to thwart assassinations. Even so, the cut-glass faux windows, the art nouveau murals in vibrant colors and the gilt accents belied its grim architecture. The Star Chamber was without corners, or null places where an assassin might linger. Indeed, by chamber rules, all assassinations were to be attempted face à face. None but one of the Seventy were allowed within the precinct. While no electronic apparatus nor gun was allowed, it was not a weapon-free zone.

The Seventy had been summoned by the Demarch, the supreme executive and undisputed highest power in the country, and among the most pathetic. Elections were coming, yet things had still to be done. Simon shuttered involuntarily. The expression flitted across his features, carefully adjusted by breeding, enlightenment, training and periodic injections. Stanislaw of the Genovese Family, looked up and Simon had the presence of mind to merely shrug. The Tenth, containing the Genovese, were a tool of the Fourth and not to be trusted. Stanislaw looked away, his crisp primrose and lavender robes [WB1]rustling as he turned to greet Marcus of the eleventh by the Sobieski.

Simon continued along the promenade, finding a seat with several unoccupied seats surrounding it. Once seated, the First’s clients from among the Seventy would make themselves available to him by sitting close by, as much for his protection as their own.

The bell tolled fourteen times and there was a general movement to seats.

An amplified message blared overhead, “We have work to do, Citizens. Please do not take up the committee’s time with ex parte communicaŕe. We have work to do.”

A clang, like that of ringing the soup can itself, boomed through the room, eliminating all furtive conversation below a bellow. The glances toward the speaker’s podium as members moved off to find a suitably isolated seat ranged from amusement, to pity, to anger. Elections were coming.

Simon looked up to see the Demarch emerge from the blank facing wall onto a balcony which had not been there when he entered, followed by a shorter man.

Once the Demarch was seated on his virtual dais, the smaller and less richly dressed man intoned, “Move to dispense reading of the Article of Enactment, the oath of office, the patriotic oath, the summons, and the minutes of the last meeting.”

“Second,” came a shout from below the Simon’s level. The small man, the Honorable David of the Rubensteins, of the Seventeenth and minion for a season, in the service to the Demarch, droned “Moved, seconded. All in favor. So passed.” The room had been silent.

“New Business: the Demarch will address you. All rise!”

None but the Demarch rose. The Sublime Demarch was of medium height and a scant build, bespectacled and thin through the shoulders with a pale face, wearing the scarlet and green robes[WB2] of state, carried a small, black, carved lacquerware baton. He wore a turban of verdant silk as a crown, making the man’s complexion even more ghastly in comparison. The Sublime Demarch was many years into his office. He did not speak; David of the Rubenstein’s spoke for the Demarch.

“Honored of the Seventy, I salute you. None but those with fortitude, wisdom and foresight could have guided the nation into such a grand vison of Peace and Tranquility!” said the small man in a now booming voice.

“Hear hear”

“Sure, dat.”

“Fur sure, Dude!”

“Say dat again!”

“Into our happy realm a new thing has come[WB3], unbidden and unforeseen. Emissaries from a country long thought wasted and bereft of value have arrived at our doorstep. The Great Western Demarchy wrested itself away from the suffocating and archaic societies to our east seventy-nine years ago: the America of famine, strife, and satori-zhin.[1] We barely escaped the contagion. Yesterday in the early morning, this idyll came to an end with the forceful closing of our Great Eastern Gate by official representatives of America.”

The Seventy were now on their feet, shouting and scribbling on notepads, a few already with their heads together.

The small speaker continued, “They say—they say—they are here for peaceful and commercial reasons, bearing letters of salutation from the American chief executive who is, I must add, commander-in-chief of their armed forces. These people contend that the Restructured America, prostrate just a decade ago, are now the masters of the continent, defeating their old enemy, the Democratic Unity, by force of arms. I fear they come to complete the reconquest of the old republic, adding the Demarchy by bluff, bullying and intrigue.

“Always in the service of the nation, the matter has been the subject of study and calculation by the Demarch’s office for some years now. In his ultimate and sovereign wisdom, the Sublime Demarch has formulated the policies which, according to the laws governing our republic, the traditions of our nation, and the supremacy of the Demarch’s power to render your lives, fortunes, and posterity extinct, are hereby enunciated:

“Principle One: no confrontation for their transgressions, past or present, is to be mentioned by anyone. The sooner they leave the better. No permanent embassy will be allowed within the Demarchy.

“Principle Two: all of the Seventy are to extend to the American delegation the utmost civility and courtesy. They should be entertained by conventional means. I repeat: conventional.

“Principal Three: all security questions are to be referred to the Demarch’s office. A tour of our defenses has been arranged for a few members of the delegation. Again, The sooner they are satisfied, the sooner they leave.

“Principle [WB4]Four: commercial Affairs are to be handled by Felix of the Third of the Kawasaki and his Committee of Seven for the Improvement of Commerce. No others are to intimate by word or deed that they are personally involved with commerce.

“Principle [WB5]Five: for the duration, Durangos and Columbians are not to be mentioned. If asked they are to be referenced as merely our neighbors to the south and north respectively. Our occasional visitors from those nations have been excluded briefly to encourage this impression.

“Principle Six: tours of the satori-zhin [WB6]sections of the city are under no circumstances to be allowed.

“Principle Seven: Opinions regarding the economic health and wealth of this nation are not to be shared with the foreigners.

“Finally—A warning. The arrival of the delegation was not without incident. A single man from the American delegation approached the Reno Gate unannounced and was taken into custody as per protocol. Two satori-zhin employees, unbeknownst to our border official, once away from the gate, striooed the American naked in the freezing weather of the Sierras. Even unarmed, naked and stupid with the cold, he over-powered these two, armed men, killing one with the man's own knife. He was well on his way to murdering the other citizen but was only prevented from doing so by his own people. These people are not to be underestimated. This individual, a Reuben Alexander, has chosen to carry about with him a projectile weapon at all times. In this he is to be humored, as long as he demonstrates it is unloaded.”

The little man paused, shook himself slightly, and changed his voice to that of the hectoring whine he had used previously.

“In closing, let me say to you Members of the Seventy and rulers of the Demarchy: we will prosper by this incursion if we cooperate with the counsel of the Demarch. He has spoken. These proceedings are ended.”

Simon watched across the space of a mere ten meters the image of the Demarch turn and disappear into a blank wall, the Demarch’s Rostrum flickering out and the wall becoming a smooth surface. He smiled. Nicely done. With the Demarch no longer present, the real work of the Seventy could begin. Shortly he was surrounded by his open allies, all dressed in the factions colors. The secret ones would be contacted in time, while the outright traitors to other factions, later yet. Assassins were expensive.

Even before they all arrived, Bertha of the Duffys, a svelte blonde with the general attitude of a wet bantam rooster, hissed, “The Crane is trying to cut us out of any deal he cooks up. We will be lucky to get a whiff if Kawasaki and the Seven have their way!”

There was general nodding of heads and mutters among the six other members of the First: Klaus of the Draegers, a saturnine presence who seldom spoke but railed at Simon when in his cups, Derwitt of the Rodhams, a large fair man who fancied himself a deep thinker of military affairs, Evan, a young scion of the Placentias who had yet to prove himself after the assassination of his father last month, Philippa of the Jeffersons, a solid and reliable ally both in and out of power, and Andre of the Smiths, a brilliant assassin. Time to take charge.

Without looking at Bertha, Simon said, “Let me remind you, our beloved Demarch has a perfectly good name, Bernhard of the Botsharows. Epithets tend to underestimate his power and cleverness in one’s considerations. Hassen of the Alkaljani did just that, to his eternal sorrow. Do not fall into the trap.”

Before apologies issued forth, Simon raised his hand, quelling all comment.

Andre of the Smith’s retreated to the back of the box, agitated, and removed a small box from his sleeve before tilting his head slightly and noisily snuffling it.

“Fellow enlightened ones,” continued Simon, trying to ignore this breach in probity, “we are assembled here, in a relatively safe and silent place to avoid the demons among us. Please,” and here he paused until all eyes, not just Andre’s, were upon him, “let us not bring our demons with us into this chamber. I am aware that the current understanding is that Blize is not addicting, that it provides no observable increase in VAT-activity or surrounding areas of any level of dopamine. For reasons of my own, I do not think its use is wise and its use while we are corporately trying to solve issues of state, might possibly be considered and insult to each and all. Do I make myself clear?”

“I apologize Simon of the First. I meant no disrespect—”

“I have no memory of any incident for which you need to apologize, Andre of the First,” said Simon, as he continued, shooing the comment away with a long lanquid hand.

“Something is afoot [WB7]of which I cannot share with you at the moment. You are all to follow the Demarch’s instructions to the letter. Do you understand?”

“But—” interrupted Evan, before rapidly subsiding and saying, “Of course, Simon, Leader of the First.”

Simon continued after a bland glance, slightly prolonged, in the direction of the Placentia scion, “Bernhard has specified restrictions on entertainment, defense, commerce, and exposing the visitors to the touloi sections of the city. He has not made restrictions on the arts or sports,” Simon said, waving his hand limply.

“His prohibition certainly does not limit the First from assisting his efforts to entertain and enlighten, after a fashion, our backwoods guests. I feel confident that any exposure of the Americans to the Demarchy should have a representative from the First. I will insist Upon it,” he said with a confidence that made the members smile, their smiles long, sly, and predatory,

“I perceive, Our Beloved Demarch desires to prohibit the new comers from gaining a clear idea of our unstable military situation, our dependence on touloi labor, and our mercantile arrangements with the rest of the Pacific nations. This is either to keep them ignorant or to substitute his own narrative. Why he should be shy about our commerce is curious. American can hardly be a competitor. Other than the Panama Canal, they own nothing of importance. Only if Bernhard allows us to use it again might that fact become important. Commerce to the East is effectively our monopoly, already. What is he afraid of? Bertha, I will let you try to cut through that particular Gordian knot.”

A nod from the blonde woman was acknowledged by a hand gesture and she was gone to find one of the armored exits from the star chamber to rendezvous with her retinue of Duffy bodyguards.

“As art ‘holds a mirror up to nature,’ I think we can show our circumstances to these Americans without violating the Demarch’s prescription. Phillipa, if you two would take on that burden?”

More nods and a hand gesture and Simon continued his discourse to the diminishing company, “Exposure to our enlightened management of the underclasses for their own benefit and productivity can hardly demean us in the estimation of these newcomers. Andre and Klaus, might I suggest you befriend members of the delegation. Show them how the touloi fare within the Demarchy, if you would be so kind. Suggest that as a work force, they have no rival. It might make their dreary little mercantile minds start to whirr.” The two left with their heads together.

When Simon was alone with Evan of the Placentias, he paused.

“Simon, Leader of the First, I stand willing to turn the power of the Placentias to any task of your choosing. I hope you know this, Leader!”

“I presume nothing less, Evan. You will admit, your status is ambivalent?”

“I was elected unanimously by the chiefs of the kindred, Leader. I graduated first in my class from Stanford. I am an Eagle …” he said before a gesture cut his resume short.

“Your real life begins now, Evan. Nothing you have done before helps you and it may hinder you. We two, you and I, will collaborate on trying to discover the real interests of the Americans. Only fools would take a trip of this magnitude to see what is over the next hill. Their motives, whatever the Demarch may think, are suspect. That the national character allows an official member of the delegation to commit murder on our very borders, is certainly telling. Get to know this barbarian Alexander, as well. Be careful. I would not wish to answer to the might of the Placentias for the loss of so promising a leader as yourself,” he smiled. “Our tools, as I said, are the arts and sports. I believe a sporting event may provoke useful responses. Moreover, can you arrange to tour some of our rather nice museums, through one of the smaller faction members\, as well? I am afraid If I suggest it that it will tip our hand prematurely?”

“Yes, Leader. It would be my honor to do so,” he said, smiling, his checks blushing.

In a moment more, Evan too, was gone.

Simon, Leader of the First, of the Montforts, scion of the foremost family of the Seventy, builder of storied wealth, and a reluctant leader of a faction, scowled. His resources were so thin, at the moment. A draft of the families touloi had left his factory understaffed. His allies were mostly untested, like Evan. His understanding of the opposition was only partial, the last crop of his spies having been ‘disappeared’ just a month ago. Terrible time for these outlanders to appear!

He rose and made his way to an exit, which opened at his touch. The passage way was well-lit and featureless, all the better to detect tampering. His bodyguard would be alerted by his entry into the exit passage and be waiting for him when he arrived at the outer door. He needed to hurry, as the subtle but persistent alarm had notified him even as the Demarch was speaking. He needed some privacy.

The Demarch, the Crane, had been a childhood friend, their fathers allies in the difficulties of the last touloi uprising forty-five years ago, before Flense/Pslant had been perfected. They had been teenagers then, thrown together of necessity. The three of them, he, Bernie, and Joshua, living like rats in the Citadel as the touloi rioted. Their fathers, as leaders of the Legion of Alcantára, had restored order. It had been brutal, bloody—and necessary. Their present situation spoke for the wisdom of those actions. Both Bernie and Joshua had been friends of the heart, closer than brothers. Joshua Naughton had gone into the military, a dead-end career if ever there were one.

But, Bernie Botscharow had frequently been an ally until he was chosen as Demarch, chance selecting him from among the Seventy. He had gone to his fate with his usual nonchalance, a wave, and a lop-sided smile. After the surgery, removing forever his ability to find pleasure or to crave it, he became the Crane, severe, solemn, and the undisputed power of the nation. Simon shuddered. Bernie was close to the end of his term. He was losing weight and his skin had an unlovely sallow color. A new Demarch would be elected soon. The Fates might choose him, Simon, to be the next Demarch: all powerful and universally pitied.

He reached the outer door and opened it. Simon, Leader of the First, of Montfort, scion of trader-lords, builder of storied wealth, and a reluctant leader of a faction, scowled. His bodyguards were nowhere to seen. The small revolver was instantly in his hand as he pulled back into the shadow of the entrance. Assassination was not his only concern, unfortunately. Delay could kill as well. The little monitor which measured his numbers was alarming subtly but persistently now, the message flashing alarms along his belly. He was sweating. He needed his drug. Personal emergencies like this were becoming more common for him and it was disturbing his satori, his sense of centered peace resulting from his enlightened state. He must speak with Katsumata-hakase[2] soon.

Just as he was securing the door, which would trap him for a time within the armored passage, as he heard the voice whispered from beside the entrance.

“Come quickly, Simon. The guard is detained by an action.”

He recognized the voice of the faction’s anonymous watcher who had guarded the entryway to the chamber from vandalism just that morning.

“Quick, come within,” said Simon, gripping the pistol tightly.

“You are in need of more than shelter, Simon, of Montfort.”

“How do you know?”

“I have been told. Shahrazad.”

“Gretchen,” Simon noted the password and gave the counter-sign for the day.

“It is this way, Leader.”

Simon came quickly through the portal, sideways, his gun-hand close to his body and foremost. He met the gaze of a young toulos, her garb stained with dust and stiff with blood.

“The blood? Are you injured?”

“Most is not mine.”

“Can you function?”

“In all ways needed for your safety, Leader. It is this way.”

The anonymous worker threw a dark waterproof around Simon, covering his rich clothes and making him less conspicuous in the streets with the cold rain now falling. Simon remembered little of the hurried walk. The worker opened a door next to a Baluchi restaurant, led him up a dark stairway and across a makeshift bridge into a darker part of a building across an alleyway. In the dark and his increasing distress, all Simon could do was follow the sounds of the toulos’s light steps. The steps turned and stopped. Simon raised the pistol beneath the rain cloak, waiting. A light came on, dazzling him, making him blindly point the pistol, the trigger slick under his finger.

“I assure you, Leader, that I am no danger. You are in need of what help I can provide. Please lower your weapon.”

Simon’s sight returned slowly as he replaced the pistol into an inner slit pocket of his gown. The room was small and smelled of cooking, unwashed laundry and an inapparent cat. The toulos removed her blood-stained cloak. A cut along her left forearm still gaped and oozed blood, occasion drops falling into the floor covered in a worn rug. A book shelf, made of a board suspended by wire from the ceiling, hung over the bed. The titles ranged from the cheap touloi pulps to a heavy dark book labeled “Summa Theol...” on what was left of the binding.

“Sit, Leader. Do you have your medications? If not, I have been given some for an emergency.”

Simon sat on the narrow, rumpled bed; the linens needed to be laundered. “Who has sent you? Who knows of my disease?”

“I was told, should you ask me, to respond that those who admire your leadership and wish it to continue have made it their business to look after your welfare.”

“So not the family or the faction?”

“I do not know.”

“How do I know this is not an assassination?”

“Feel free to leave at any time. You have a weapon; I have none. I have the means, and willingness to help you. Your death without my help would not even be an assassination.”

“What have you got for me?”

The toulos moved swiftly, going to a concealed place under the floor and the cheap rug, to bring out a metal case which she unlocked with her thumbprint. She turned and knelt before Simon, her wound still dripping occasionally as she held the box toward him, open it to show him the contents.

“See to your own wound, worker,” Simon said, and she left him to examine the contents: all in tamper-proof containers, all with Katsumata’s imprint. He quickly looked at the monitor at his waist, silencing the alarms, and felt better just for escaping the buzzing shocks the little tyrant had been giving him since The Crane started to give his speech. He groaned softly and could see from the corner of his eye how the toulos froze and looked at him. He waved her concern away without looking and bent to examine the medication.

The monitor was 338/2.31/0. Not as bad as the last time. The reservoir was full. Strange. He should not have had this high a glucose level. The monitor should be reading his blood sugar level, as it had done since he was a child, and be giving him small doses of potent insulin all throughout the day. He was not yet ketotic, which was good. The monitor might be defective. He gave himself a moderate dose of the long acting insulin as well a small dose of a rapid acting one. Having years of experience with his diabetic ‘hobby,’ he had skills for this emergency[WB8], as well.

As he was putting the paraphernalia back into the worker’s metal case, secreting the used syringes and their trace amounts of his own blood into one of his hidden pockets, Simon asked, “I will need to return to my compound shortly. Are you badly wounded?”

“The wound is nothing.”

“And how may I call you?”

“’Worker’ is adequate.”

“Not if I want to commend your work to others.”

“Then you may identify me as Mary Mallon.”

“How may I summon my guard? What is the address?”

Mary Mallon made a thin smile. “The Hunch does not go in for addresses much, what with one thing and another. I think I may have smuggled you in unnoticed, between shifts. I have another way out. A platoon of your guard would not go unnoticed, however. I would not survive the week if they were to come here.”

“I see,” Simon said. “You gamble a lot for the glory of the First. Mary Mallon.”

“Gambles depend on the odds and the size of the wager. The First pays well. I am skilled,” she said before giving a small laugh, the first spontaneous gesture he had seen from her.

“Your wound?”

Molly held up a bandaged arm, wrapped in discolored strips of cloth, the blood having soaked through in one small place already. “It no longer bleeds. I will get a healer from among my own. They are skilled in knife wounds—and discretion. Can you move now?”

“I can.”

With no more ceremony, Molly Mallon rose and exited, waiting for Simon to leave before reentering and filling a small bowl on the floor with what he presumed was cat food. Again, exiting and locking the door with a thumbprint lock, the toulos led Simon down the same dark passageway they had come in by but turned right on reaching the corridor. Several more turnings and a brief flight of steps led them to a small tourist shop dealing in old Russian military insignia, currently an enthusiasm among the younger of the Enlightened. There she stopped. There was a commotion at the front of the store and Molly shouted “Here!” before going behind a rack of soviet-style tunics as Simon’s guard approached on the other side.

Huffing and puffing, red-in-the-face, and with their dart pistols at the ready, Alexi, his guard captain and half the squad surrounded him. The captain said, “Leader, we just got the message. The detail was ambushed as they moved to cover your exit, Leader.”

“Did you see the toulos? She was right here. Find her!”

No one did. They found a narrow stair to the basement which communicated with a Tashkurgian electronics store, open to the street.

Simon of Montfort arrived at his pavilion before the sun was up. His retinue was horrified and titillated. The diabetes monitor was indeed found to be defective but not sabotaged. The drug it contained was unaltered. Simon was pleased. The whole thing had felt like a set-up, a staged event to ensure his confidence in the toulos, Mary Mallon. The name Marry Mallon was unknown to his security people.

Mary Mallon turned left after exiting the empty shop, just as more of the First’s guards entered, moved down Tahama Street and across the alley belonging to Madame Chan’s brothel before returning to her room. She was exhausted; twelve hours of careful surveillance of the entry door, three hours wait for the man to reappear, a vicious knife battle and several hours more shepherding him back to his own people, had exhausted her. She needed her Flense. Her handler would be contacting her within the day to congratulate her on safeguarding the Leader even as his real guard had been diverted and pinned down by a band of assassins.

Never let a crisis go to waste—especially ones you pay for. She did not know who paid for this crisis. Not really. Her usual handler for the First, Sion, had acted surprised when she reported the diversion, so a rogue sub-faction was probably unlikely. The Second Faction, only slightly less influential, was the favored culprit. That might even be true, but she doubted it. They were too much in thrall to the Crane, and the Crane wanted peace, not just peace among the factions and peace between the Demarchy, the Columbians and the Durangos, but peace. He wanted cooperation, amity, and good thoughts. The Crane was getting old.

[1] Demarchian for non-enlightenment

[2] Hakase-a Japanese honorific used with doctors and academics

Excerpt from The Silence Within the Light: Javalina's Dream

2019-02-09

Javalina’s Dream (1430)

Headquarters of Departamento del Norte Ejército de Nueva Méjico, Santa Clarita, Federal Republic of Nuevo Mexico

9:21AM, June 8, 2030

General Brigadier Javalina Guadalupe Chavez-Cardenas Guillen left her headquarters with her usual driver.

“The time is near. You know where I need to go, Ximena,” Javalina said before rolling up the window separating her from the driver's compartment. All the troops were in place and the fools in Santa Clarita, army headquarters, had congratulated her on being this year’s general to lead the assault on the Demarchian cow. None of the them, neither the fat burghers of the north, nor the grasping drugged out lords of the Durango capital, Nuevo Grenada, knew. Only Nuestra Señora knew. And she was on her way to find out for herself.

Within the hour the staff car was sliding through the streets of what had once been Glendale, its sidewalks chocked with vendors and blue with the smoke of charcoal and auto smoke. The town had been liberated from the gringos generations ago--little remained of the northerners stain. The car came to a stop in front of a small furniture store selling rattan chairs, electric lamps recycled from glass jars, toasters, and water heaters.

“Pick me up here, afterward,” Javalina said as she exited the staff car. Ximena nodded and moved off slowly, the street awash with small carts, barefoot children and dogs. Javalina entered the store and walked to the back with but a nod to the owner, slipped out the service entrance and climbed the fire-escape from the ally. She reentered the building on the third floor through a broken window into a short hallway, making her way to a heavily padlocked door. She unlocked it with a key on a braided hair cord about her neck and entered.

“Mi madre, he venido a tener sueños,”[1] she said to the empty room and heard an answering grunt from behind a beaded door-curtain. Javalina smiled.

It would take time for the curandera to make the sacred miklantika.[2] Then she would dream, would ascend on the arm of Nuestra Señora de la Santa Muerte, the protector of the people, to have audience with the old gods. The fools in Nuevo Grenada never understood that. They worshiped Señora, if they believed at all, because of the magic, ignorant of her true identity. Imagining her some sort of Santeria saint of the conqueror’s nailed god, Señora, mightiest because she held death in her hand, was the guardian set by the old gods. The old gods, conquered by steel, horses, gunpowder and disease, had taken their hands off a people too weak to defend them. They had retreated for a season leaving Señora to watch, to stand guard until the right time was accomplished.

The curandera, Anna, finally appeared from the back room with a tray. She was old, wizened like a dried apple, and wore a cheaply made but vividly colored huipi. A billowing stench of old urine, rot, and ozone following her into the room, once more making Javalina wonder whether the smell was that of the potions she concocted or merely the stink of old age.

On the tray was a twist of paper, a shallow bowel, a cruse of a dark liquid, and a lamp.

“Siéntate, niña,” said the crone, pulling a low stool to the three-legged table in the center of the room. Javalina sat, her knees nearly at her chest and watched the preparations, as the curador, mumbling furiously all the while, poured the hot thick syrupy liquid into the bowl. The smell of damp earth and corruption, like a newly owned grave filled the room. She then touched the paper, a twist of some discolored page with writing on it, to the flame. It sputtered into light, spitting and popping with green fire. She let it burn for a while before placing her forearm over it, gave a small groan of pain, and crushed the fire out on the bare flesh of her arm. Within seconds, the burn had created a blister on the thin skin. The old woman scraped the blister open and placed the fluid in the bowl, as well. The burned paper she picked up and chewed. White froth was oozing out at the edges of her mouth before she spat the wad into the shallow bowl. The scent of almond filled the room, as the curador swirled the now cloudy potion. The time was near.

“Ve a tus sueños, hija mía, y mira lo que quieras,” said the old woman, giving her the bowl.

Nuestra Señora, Mictlantecuhtli, goddess of the dead, used the lives of her people in her game. Xochipill, Five-Flower, forced the outcome on the throw of the dice in patolli. Men bet and played, won and lost, at the pleasure of the gods. However, Mictlantecuhtli’s patolli game was the world, the intersection of the divine and the mundane, the sacred and the profane. Men bet their lives and Mictlantecuhtli moved them around on the great unseen cross-shaped patolli board of the universe. And Mictlantecuhtli had chosen her to play.

Javalina took the bowl in both hands and drank it down as the thick liquid leeched at her teeth and fouled her tongue. She gagged, the stench pummeling her senses before she could reach the dregs.

“Acuéstate aquí. La puerta está cerrada,” said the old woman.

Reassured she would not be disturbed, Javalina lay on a low pallet before sleep overtook her.

At first, all she was aware only of the rough texture of the blanket on which she lay. But shortly, Javalina realized she was floating, had been floating. Strange. Floating, a slow staccato floating, down the dark deadly river to the underworld, the birthplace of the cosmos. The darkness thickened and became palpable, difficult to breathe, stiflingly hot, and she could see nothing. She heard low murmurs in a language she did not understand and the clicking of dice. Gradually, the stuttering motion slowed and she could now move her head to see from whence the sounds came. In the darkness, suddenly swirls of deep color appeared, parting like a curtain to reveal a tableau, as if seen in a memory: two gods, seated,

She was no longer floating but now walking, that strange halting step you used in great ceremonies. She looked to her left and found Mictlantecuhtli at his side, leading her by the elbow. She was strangely relieved, despite the goddess appearance. Once human before being raised to a godhead, Mictlantecuhtli’s skeletal face, gaping jaws, and sagging breasts, were at least familiar.

Javalina looked at herself, now arrayed as a warrior in bright feathers, but carrying a sword instead of a macuahuilt,[3] and her feet shod in good army boots instead of the heavy sandals. Looking over to the goddess at her side, Javalina was shocked to see a rolling ball of fire, the goddess’s skeletal hand emerging from it, still grasping her elbow, propelling her forward. Javalina smelled the stench of her own flesh burning but there was no pain.

She looked up to see the sitting gods now close enough to recognize. The greater of the two had to be Huitzilopochtli[4] but he was impossible to look upon—his face, helmet, and skin morphing from black to blue to hummingbird iridescence as she watched. Long plumes of the hummingbird shortened and sheened and when she looked again, Huitzilopochtli was indeed a hummingbird, a snake curling about his feet. In another instance he looked like a black-skinned man gripping a mirror in one hand and the snake god in the other. Another second more, and he looked like a warrior, the mirror becoming a small round shield and the snake a flaming atlatl. He was playing patolli with Xochipilli,[5] the Flower Prince, and as she came to their thrones and fell to her knees, the god shouted in pleasure. He must have won the game.

On the way back to her new and rather dingy quarters in Lancaster, south of the fortifications investing the gringos Wall, Javalina had time to compose herself. The god, had called her “Favored” and said that Javalina would conquer in his name under his snake banner, in green-blue colors of the hummingbird. Then, Xochipilli had stood, laughed good-naturedly, and moved aside to let Javalina take his seat opposite the ever-changing Hummingbird. She played the patolli game with the god. Making her last move, the one she knew would end the game with her defeat—she awoke.

As Ximena pulled in to her quarters, she got the word that the Kilabutara Maru had been spotted on the high seas.

[1] “My Mother, I come to have dreams.”

[2] A drug obtained from peyote

[3] Aztec war club, obsidian frequently imbedded along the edge

[4] Aztec god of war

[5] Aztec god of fire, dance, love, feasting and joviality

Prologue “Outland Exile: Book One of Old Men and Infidels”

2014-10-30

Prologue

The message impeded upon the gray man’s notice unbidden. With the faintest suggestion of an interface, it rose up before him through his O-A. In an earlier age, it might have appeared as:

To: ComOutOps

From: ComOutSig

113303z_11_10_AU76

RE: Unity Sensor Station 43.11.0/97_89.13.56/41 (SUNPRAIRIE)

Signal ceased SUNPRAIRIE 112103z_11_10_AU76

The gray man smiled; he signed the memorandum with his characteristic mental gesture and began preparations for the destruction of Malila Chiu.

Excerpt From Outland Exile: Chapter Two

2016-09-02

Nyork, the Unity

11.01.35.local_11_10_AU76 .

Could the Unity not do something to make reincorporation less disconcerting?

It was always the same when she reincorporated; her disembodied flesh sensed the trials her mind had endured … and suffered in her absence. It hardly seemed fair.

“Fathering muckers!”

Edie clucked at her as Malila groaned and sat up.

Don’t be vulgar, squilch! You brought this on yourself, you know.

Fecking frak!

The obscenity was meant to shock, and, on cue, Edie grew silent. Growing up in the crèche and then the Democratic Unity Forces for Security (DUFS) barracks, Malila possessed a flamboyant repertoire of profanity, vulgarities, and obscenities. Her metaphract, of late, had taken a dim view of this proficiency.

Lieutenant Chiu donned the light robe she had laid aside hours before and, shivering, waited for her heart rate to glissade from the heights of conquest. A trickle of sweat worked its way through her short, military-style haircut and down her neck as she took a large breath to steady herself.

You’re going to be late, squilch.

Give me a break, Edie. I just fought a battle … two battles … to the death.

That’s nice. Your appointment is in two hours and twenty minutes. You smell bad.

Malila rolled her eyes. No one was a hero to her frak.

[1] Tell me when the comm’nets announce my whale hunt.

Of course, Lieutenant Chiu. On an unrelated topic, we are getting full of ourselves—are we not, squilch?

Don’t call me a squilch, frak.

Don’t call me a frak, Second Lieutenant.

Malila thrust a gesture, equivalent to a small child with a wetly extended tongue, in the mental direction of her tormentor.

All right, metaphract, have it your own way.

Any messages?

You have received a number of offers on methods to improve pleasure-sex, another dozen offering to contact your spirit guide in the multiverse of your choice, one from a foundation requesting funds to combat the heartbreak of facial hair, and a message from Command Outland Signals.

I’m not going to deal with that now. Show me some music.

The Femtosense Grunge Philharmonic selection that Edie chose swelled within her. Malila experienced it in all her senses, feeling a breeze and receiving the sharp taste of spring rain. The music played upon her emotions, and she abandoned her will to its wanderings. Perceptions, which Malila interpreted as being “outside,” slid over the input of her eyes, ears, and other senses. These were a level “above” what she detected with her corporal body.

Metaphracts like Edie originated as interpreters of the interface for those receiving the O-A brain implants as children. Most of the boys taught their metaphracts to play tricks on one another and discarded them with puberty. Most of the girls decorated them with childish fashions, retaining them after puberty but keeping them unused in their mental closets. Malila had been unusual in embellishing hers with wit, a face, and a personality … or at least as much as a Turing Metaphract could imitate. Edie was, for Malila, a convenient construct of the CORE interface, coming when she called and doing the scut work of daily life.

In contrast to the metaphract, her O-A was a constant presence … with the constant potential danger of slipping across and becoming lost to reality. Malila had been taught to fear this fate. Those who ignored the warning suffered a living perdition. The first few victims had been immediately prohibited an interface with the CORE and had erupted in bloody rage. Thereafter the COREd-out had been left to dwindle away, lost both to the Unity and to their own shriveling personalities.

Perhaps it was just a tale, but some truth was embedded in it. The CORE interface was seductive. Once, when Malila had gotten too close, warning lights, a vile shade of green, had strobed across her inner eye. Now she only looked in that direction from the corner of her mind when she felt secure. Most feared to look at all.

A claxon sounded inside her head.

You are going to be late for your lunch appointment unless you—

Fleckafather!

Malila scampered across her room, shedding the robe as she went, knowing the chamber would retrieve it and sort it into the appropriate category: bureau drawer, closet hangers, or laundry chute. Malila stepped into her bathroom and , or accessed the CORE, with a few taps with her O-A. The room warmed and misted to her specifications.

Within the hour, Lieutenant Chiu was dressed in the uniform of the DUFS: form-fitting black Produra cloth with the subdued holographic markings of her rank on her shoulders. This sleek envelope, surmounted by a black helmet covering most of her features, made her anonymous in the crowded streets of the Unity. Malila was ready to meet her friends for lunch.

Once on the street, Malila stepped onto the descending beltway and after a few minutes navigated to the express belt “For S24 and Above Only!” Malila’s specialist level, her rank within the Unity, was just high enough for her to use the belt.

Detecting Malila’s presence, the beltway comm’nets blossomed with a weltering array of advertisements, PSAs, and lepto-mercials of numerous flavors. Malila ignored them as much as she could, seldom finding the enthusiasm for anything other than a few sporting spectacles, like her beloved kirshing; the daily melodrama of politics; and especially the news.

At that moment the news was showing two people, a man and a woman, both handcuffed, being led to a waiting DUFS skimmer.

This fascination with news borders upon the macabre, Malila.

Nonsense, I’m being a good citizen. Does it occur to you that they brought it on themselves?

You think they brought that on themselves?

Bruises marked the prisoners’ thin bodies. The woman’s dress fell around her waist as she walked. The assembled crowd laughed at her attempt to cover herself.

They must have tried to resist arrest, frak. They were running an illegal phantom shop, after all.

One you have used yourself!

Edie, don’t be difficult! Here come the policoms,[2] I need to see these.

Major political analysts numbered about a dozen, and the long-time leader of the pack was James J. Gordon. He possessed an uncanny ability to ferret out scandal, hypocrisy, and political disloyalty in its many forms, using the flensing knives of parody, innuendo, and sophistry for the loyal citizenry.

Best to keep your head down around here with people like Gordon about.

That could be construed as a disloyal statement, frak.

Then it is you that should worry, isn’t it, squilch? I am but your humble servant, nothing more than your own program, am I not?

So when does the humble thing kick in?

I’m assertive only in your best interests, Lieutenant. Allow me to mention again that your messages await your attention.

Not now, frak!

Malila took an ascender and emerged immediately in front of the People’s Museum of Natural History. A huge banner proclaiming “Triumph of the Will” emblazoned the entrance in the state colors of red, white, and black.

As she entered, Malila looked up, as she did on most visits, to the three pale-blond stony depressions, surrounded by darker stone, far over her head.

I wonder why they chiseled them out in the first place, Malila. What could have been so obscene or seditious that they had to deface the whole building?

There you go again, getting us into trouble, frak.

No, I’m not! It was an honest question. For all I know it was done by the Sisis.

The possibility that senile senior citizens, those who no longer contributed, had once more conspired to injure her homeland was distressing.

The wisdom of the Unity in retiring the elderly had been proven out time and again. Once removed from society, the role of the aged in past mistakes became evident. Even now, the practice of compassionate retirement ensured new ideas and new vigor came daily to the forefront of national life. Young and vital citizens had nothing to hinder them in their rise to greatness. In the past, it had taken decades of public service before younger leaders could ascend to their rightful level of responsibility. But now, citizens could assure their ascendancy if they were able to arouse the ardor of the citizens and were able to formulate most adroitly the aspirations of the state.

Malila brushed past the guards and into the lobby.

[1] “The proper way to give a command to your new Turing Metaphract (ED v3.94) is always to begin on a new line. Announce to the ED that this is a command by the use of ‘,’ and then give the desired command. Lines that do not begin this way will not be taken as commands, although, in time, your ED may act on them once it gets used to you. You can guess the effect of your comments and commands by the ‘verbals’ you get from your ED, a new and exciting feature of Turing Metaphracts. Your ED will gradually learn how you speak mentally and will pick up your personal habits. This comes with time and practice. Don’t be disappointed if your ED finds it too hard at first.” Concepts of Reality Engineering Inc., Beginner’s Guide for the Turing Metaphract (Education Device [ED] v3.94) (Passaic: COREprint, AU 64), 4.

[2] Entertainment personalities masquerading as political commentators

Excerpt Outland Exile: Chapter Three “lunch With the Girls”

2016-09-03

Malila had first met her friends while they had all been crèchies. They each knew more embarrassing details about the others’ lives than bore consideration.

Stealing a glance at the model of a blue whale suspended in the lobby, Malila avoided the packs of ululating children, E3 couples looking for secluded spots, and the state nannies.

One child, who had to be less than six years old, had unfastened himself from the harness and made a break for the worn marble steps. A nanny, brightly painted in a cheerful abstract, wheels smoking, cut him off before he gained the tactical advantage of the first step. The young malefactor was gripped, none too gently, and brought stumbling back to his place.

As they neared, Malila heard the nanny above the noise.

“Janes Brigham Cherbourg, you have violated field trip rule number three. You have brought shame on Créche Alinsky 188 … and you have made me very … disenchanted … with your behavior.” The rest of the machine’s remonstrations were lost in the bustle, but Janes Cherbourg did, indeed, appear penitent.

Malila entered the restaurant, and the gabbling of the children subsided.

The table Hecate had reserved for them was delightful. Delicate gilt chairs surrounded expanses of white linen and shining silver. Nearby a string quartet played some Dutilleux. Exuberant vines wound around lattices along several of the walls, burdened with pale trumpet-shaped flowers that perfumed the whole room. Malila was the first to arrive, but she did not have to wait long.

Two of her friends appeared together: blonde Alexandra in her well-tailored academia-blue suit and Hecate in her government gray. Only after they had been seated did Lucy sweep in with a dramatic dark-red cloak, arriving with her glad exclamations and pointed accusations of neglect.

Lucy was still holding forth when their final component arrived; Tiffany, trotting with her head down, her long white coat fluttering behind her, always came last.

“Now we can all breathe. All present and accounted for! It has been so very long … six months? I was worried you all had forgotten me!” said Lucy, throwing back the red cloak and making as credible an imitation of neglected virtue as the small stage allowed.

“You don’t fool us, Luscena! You have been the one that always has to sleep to noon and uses the ‘I have a matinee’ excuse, aren’t you?” said Alexandra, smiling.

Before Lucy could respond, Tiffany cut in. “Alex, don’t! That is just going to get you the ‘I am merely a pawn of my craft … a victim of my artistic genius’ soliloquy, you know.”

Luscena opened her mouth briefly and closed it to peals of laughter.

Attentive waiters arrived and passed them elegant menus. Having already decided on the filet de sole au citron vert herself, Malila listened with plagiarized interest to her friends’ choices and indecisions.

“Everything looks so good! I love the fettuccine here … but I’ll just have the garden salad,” said Tiffany Collins, to Malila’s right.

Malila suppressed a smile, thinking her friend was on yet one more diet. Tiffany had auburn hair and was dressed in a pale shade of her league’s green. She seemed even more professionally preoccupied than usual. As children, while Malila and Luscena had been egging each other on, Tiffany had been the one to mollify juvenile rage at imagined insults.

In contrast to Tiffany’s soft and melodious voice, Lucy’s projected to the corners of the room. Lucy used her talents well. Malila was pleased for her. As Luscena Kristòf, a rising star of the legitimate theater, she had just won accolades in the revival of Memoir of a Protégé.

Lucy, who was on Tiffany’s right, ordered an herb omelet and a glass of wine without consulting the menu and immediately started her own interrogations.

“Alexandra, my love, I understand you are on the Art Task Force for this year? Are you going to fund the New-Artist Grants better? Phillipa—you know, Phillipa Dvorak—actually had to wait tables last year to make ends meet while she was staging her new thing. What’s it called, Malila? I know you remember.”

Before Malila could answer that she did not remember, the quicksilver of Luscena’s interrogations had moved on to complaining about the woeful delays in the scheduling of aesthetic surgical procedures.

“It’s not like this is vanity, Tiffany. I need my breast augmentation, you know. It is a necessity for my craft. After all, our bodies are our …” said Luscena, unwisely pausing for dramatic effect, which allowed her companions to say in unison, and with choreographed dramatic poses.

“… instruments. They are the brushes we use to paint art on the canvas of the stage!”

The women, absent Luscena, dissolved into peals of laughter.

Tiffany, a health-care provider, hurried on. “But, Lucy, the boob jobs are handled in turn. I have nothing to do with scheduling, honest.” Tiffany, compassionate and hardworking, even if not the most astute, served her profession well, a young and vital population needing little medical care other than obligatory immunizations, euthanasia for the chronically ill, and plastic surgery. Tiffany was always authentically distressed at Lucy’s dilemmas.

The waiter took the rest of the orders while Luscena pouted. By the time the food arrived, she apparently had forgiven everyone for their plebian attitudes and was delivering a convoluted tale that appeared to be merely an occasion for the flinging forth of Names.

Finally reaching a stopping point, Luscena paused to attack her omelet. “Fathercock! It’s cold.”

“Don’t be crude, dear Lucy. It’s only cold because you talk so much … and we all want to hear every word you have to say, my love,” responded Alexandra at Malila’s left.

Malila laughed with the rest. Alexandra O’Brian had her own ways of grabbing attention. While very young, the other four children had adopted her when they’d fathomed the vicious wit she could deploy for the general welfare. Then cripplingly shy, Alexandra had been too timid to bend a breakable rule. She’d found her remedy in academia. After gaining a BA, MA, and two PhDs (theology and political science) at Yal-Vard, she had assumed the Sharpton Chair of Practical Democracy at Nyork City University in 73.

“You should talk, Alex. I see you on the ’nets more than I see Gordon,” Malila inserted.

Alexandra smiled her trademark smile and patted Malila’s hand. “Just trying to do my little part for the Unity when I’m asked.” Malila always wondered who did the asking but admired the liberties it brought Alexandra. Malila self-consciously ran a hand through her short, straight black hair.

With her blonde shoulder-length hair, smooth brow, and large blue eyes, Alexandra always radiated a sincerity politicians lusted to emulate. More than once, she had turned down an offer to join the government, saying she could never make the hard choices that governing required. The solemn woman to her left understood.

Hecate Hester Jones was in government. She was medium: average height, medium-brown hair, and medium build. She and Malila had arrived at Unity Crèche Maddow #213 within days of each other, both “illegals,” children raised by private citizens before being discovered.

Usually finding it difficult to break into the torrents of words issuing forth from Luscena and Alexandra, Hecate was satisfied to dabble in the back eddies of their conversations. Today she was even more withdrawn, Malila noted, but while arranging the luncheon yesterday, Hecate had been animated, even excited. The contrast disturbed her.

Malila’s O-A, usually quiescent during meetings, came to life.

A hunt, concluding with the harvesting of two large male Movasi whales has been announced. The successful hunter has been identified as Second Lieutenant Malila E. Chiu, of the DUFS Battalion Thirty-Two, hunting in a sea avatar designed and built by the Unity forces with consultation with CORE Inc.

Very good, Edie.

Send the CORE address to everyone at the table.

The combination of sights, sounds, and gustatory sensations rose up to overwhelm each of the others. Faces became fixed, eyes dilated, and hands carrying glasses of wine froze before returning to the table. No one spoke. After a moment, Malila played it for herself as well.

Once more breaking through the plume of blood to surprise the huge Movasi, her sea avatar attacked. She luxuriated again in the sharp metallic smell-taste of the blood as she passed through it. She sensed the juddering thrill as her beak sliced along the smooth green flank.

Mesmerized by what their inner senses were witnessing, all the young women paused. Luscena was the first to react.

“Father me, Mally! You are a fecking celebrity! How marvelous! Isn’t that exciting?”

“And what a thrill to be able to use the best equipment the Unity has to offer,” added Alexandra.

Tiffany turned a little pale but said, “Excellent hunting, Mally! That is going to fill a lot of dinner plates. You are so brave!”

“How could you be so courageous, Mally? Those monsters were three times bigger than you, at the very least, and there were two of them!” said Luscena.

“So much blood, Mally. I had no idea they were so big,” murmured Hecate at the last.

“That is going to get you a birth certificate for sure, my love!” continued Luscena.

“Do you think so?” Malila said.

“Absolutely. I got a birth certificate last month just for appearing at the Equinox rallies. You’re a shoo-in, without a doubt,” said Alexandra.

The comment took Malila by surprise. Birth certificates entitled the holder to the use of a state-owned breeder. She had never met one, nor did she wish to. They were gross, slow-moving puddles of flesh, Sapped—drugged in a way that eliminated higher brain functions—and maintained for reproduction alone.

Another citizen with another birth certificate typically provided the other half of the genome. After that, all the messy business of selection, implantation, gestation, and birthing would be the duty of the Department of Reproductive Services. After its birth, caring for the child until it was E4 would be a crèche responsibility. Malila could put “certified parent of a child” on her résumé, and others would notice. The Unity was serious about its assertion that all production, even reproduction, belonged to the state.

“Who is going to be the father, Malila?” asked Tiffany.

“Don’t be crude and sexist, Tiff. She hasn’t even got the thing yet,” Alexandra said.

“I’m not being sexist. She wants to have the chance of having a boy or a girl, doesn’t she? You need sperm for that.”

“They can always substitute a stock Y chrome. It’s in the contract,” Alexandra said.

“Believe me, you don’t want any of the stock Ys out there. Get a Y from someone who is actually using his!” replied Tiffany.

“So who is it going to be, Mally?” asked Luscena.

“Oh, you know …” said Malila, waving her hand in the air equivocally. In truth, she had hardly thought about it. None of her current patrons had ever expressed an interest in breeding. As a career move, the “mother” designation was desirable, but the idea of meeting a person in the future who had somehow been part of your own body was repulsive.

“Whatever you do, don’t you go and use Oui-Donors. It’s just too crass,” added Luscena.

“I promise I’ll have your approval before the dirty deed is done. Satisfied?”

The conversation drifted to Luscena’s new project, her first as a director, for the revival of The Cadre’s Triumph.

“That one has been out of production for maybe eight years, Luscena, dear. What makes you think you can resuscitate that old story?” asked Alexandra.

“Well, the censors might let you change some of the text—you know, make it more modern,” said Hecate. Conversation stopped as all eyes went to Hecate. She usually did not have much to say about the theater.

“I didn’t know you had this self-destructive streak. Bibberty James tried that in ’66, and see where it got him,” Alexandra replied and then smiled.

“Bibberty is so yesterday, my dear. He had no patrons deserving of his talent. This is going to be bold, new, untried. All I need are patrons and donors,” said Luscena.

“I just read the original script of Triumph. What we think is the canon has already changed a lot compared to the original. I think you’ve a shot at getting it through, Lucy,” Hecate said quietly. “I mean, they can’t say that changes have never been done before,” she added quickly, looking down at her mostly untouched fettuccine.

In the silence that descended, Tiffany asked quietly, “How did you know it was the original?”

“It was in a paper book, an old book.”

“When did you start dealing in contraband, love?” Alexandra smiled.

Smiling back, Hecate said, “Nothing so exotic, Alex. You know Victor; he likes it when I tell him stories while we are in bed. He got me special permission to go to an old book warehouse. Lots of old data dumps but also books on actual paper. This one was published in 2060 CE; that’s AU 8!”

“Father me, Heccy. It seems you have a real conquest there.” Tiffany smiled quickly. It was an old joke among them. Victor and Hecate had been together for ages. This time Hecate took the comment at face value.

“You think? I just think Victor’s a lonely man who will retire in eighteen months. Everyone he grew up with has already been denounced or retired,” returned Hecate.

There was an uncomfortable silence until the waiters circulated some very good khat tea.

After everyone had finished, on cue Luscena rose, shrieking as she looked at her watch. Her personal skimmer was announced a second later. She swept out in a characteristic welter of air-kisses, insincere promises, and dubious threats.

The magic broken, Alexandra and Tiffany left, heads together, discussing some interprofessional controversy. Hecate lingered.

Malila was pleased; Hecate deserved her undivided attention. The two women walked arm in arm into the lobby, stopping under the model of the blue whale. Malila took Hecate’s hand to stop her, turning her around and looking into her solemn face.

“Heccy, you haven’t said three words to me today. Tell me what’s wrong?”

“Oh, Mally, it’s work. Talk about a fathering screwup.”

Malila’s heart sank. “It’s always work with you, Heccy.”

Hecate gave a wan smile. “This is my first S22 posting, and I want to do everything perfectly!”

Malila took both her hands in her own. Hecate’s hands were moist and cold. “Tell me what is wrong. You hardly ate anything. What has happened?”

Hecate looked down, away from the eyes of her friend, before looking back into her face.

“The numbers don’t add up, and no one seems to care! A storm wiped out the maize harvest in Lankster in June, and we lost the krill farms off Negzed when the nets let loose. Fatherfecking workers! They let the nets rot in the water. It will be years before we build up the effusion again.”

“Oh Heccy, you must be terribly disappointed!”

“On top of that, the algae plantation at Rawlee has been contaminated somehow, and the whole facility has to be shut down, flushed, and restarted. Even without that, our production has gone down the last three years, and no one knows why. We are going to have eight million tonnes less food this winter.”

“Oh my. How do you think they will make it up?”

“They can’t make up the difference this year. If they slaughtered all the animals, we’d still have a shortfall. Fathering feckers …”

Malila let Hecate run on, though most of it was lost on her. Malila had no idea what an effusion was. What she did know was that her friend was in pain. Hecate had always felt things more than Malila. It had been one of Malila’s unspoken delights as a child to hold a crying Hecate and feel the other child’s sobs dissolve in her arms.

This time Hecate looked up, her eyes bright but tearless. “I asked my supervisor, Undersecretary Rice, what the Unity was going to do, but she just smiled and said not to worry, that they’d make up the difference in the wheat harvest … But that’s crazy. It’s already in! The protein profile is all wrong …”

“Heccy, Heccy, it’s not your fault! No one can blame you. You are just doing your job. Someone will fix it once they know about it. Besides, I just added two whales to the larder, now didn’t I?” Malila laughed.

Malila sensed Hecate stiffen in her embrace and step away.

“You don’t understand, Mally! Whales are gone! People are going to die this winter, and the government knows it already. They aren’t going to do anything!” Hecate stepped back, her stricken eyes seeming to hold Malila in their crosshairs.

“I’m sure the Solons know their business,” Malila started in her most consoling voice, but she stopped at Hecate’s scathing look at mention of the Solons, the ultimate rulers of the Unity.

Pity swept briefly across Hecate’s face just before her professional mask clicked into place.

“Yes, of course, the Solons … I’m sure all will be well.” Hecate faded into the distance even as Malila held her hands.

Hecate disengaged herself and pantomimed looking at her watch, continuing without hesitation, “Oh … look at the time! I should have been back at the department ages ago. Bye-bye, Malila. This was fun. We should do this more often. Bye for now.”

Hecate turned, pushed through the doors, and almost ran down the stone steps under the scarred lintel and out into the street.

Malila looked up into the serene gaze of the blue whale as the gray light of the city filtered down from the high windows above.