The author wishes to express thanks to anyone who may read his story and encourages them to leave reviews, comments or even flame it hard. As with any who try their hand at publicly expressing an idea or story concept, all feedback is important and welcome.
Disclaimer: I do not own SeaQuest, Star Wars, nor any other sci-fi or fantasy series, movies, comics, cartoons or news items used in this fiction as they belong to the creators or broadcasters or publishers who put them out for consumption by the public.
SeaQuest
Abstract
Lucas knew full well that being sent out of the country on a military boat would only end up with him injured or dead, no matter what lies Lawrence spread around. So Lucas did the logical thing: he packed up and left in the dead of night, leaving behind in public forums incriminating evidence against his bastard father to keep him too busy to hunt him down.
This story takes place before season 1, in the months before the SeaQuest is commissioned out to sea in the period when Lucas was ordered by his father to join the ship without any care for his opinion or general welfare.
This story is Alternate Universe, most characters are OOC and there are several mini-crossovers in the form of cameos and snapshots with the maritime-inspired series NCIS and JAG who are the most relevant to the situations facing Lucas and the casts of MacGyver (2016), NCIS and Bones will make large appearances. There is a lot of CIA, NSA, Homeland Security, Canadian Mounties and Coast Guard and other multi-varied organizations mentioned along the way. As such, given so many crossovers of equal proportions, I am again placing this in the general SeaQuest section of the fandom since it would not fit in a single sub-genre. My thanks for your tolerance of the situation.
Unlike my other story, "Justice for Lucas", this has absolutely no psionics, magicks or time engines involved even if such things were part & parcel of the SeaQuest canon in all three seasons.
PS; I like flames, they're fun to read so don't hesitate to write them.
{ SQ } - { WARNINGS & NOTES } - { SQ }
All warnings at the beginning of Chapter 3 are repeated verbatim.
For this chapter, time stamps will have America's West & East coast hours.
WHAT IF LUCAS SAID 'NO'?
NINENTH CHAPTER; This is the world we have wrought
Secret meetings in the Dark Web
(Gosudárstvennyy gimn Rossíyskoy Federátsii)
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 14:00pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 11:00am
Internex secret channel
Multiple locations; Moscow, Beijing, Seoul
At roughly 2 o'clock in the afternoon, Washington DC Time index, the secret services of three massive and powerful confederations were working diligently to establish and secure an impromptu VPN linkup through a military-grade Tor server in the lowest reaches of the Dark Web. This task was helped along by the fact that the Internex system in question was Tier-3 military usage only, and further segregated from normal tactical traffic/chatter by several layers of proprietary governmental encryptions. This was completed by the need to have a very special adapter box to connect into the normally employed red colored wall socket reserved for Tier-3 military web cabling.
Since the secret services in question had been integral parts of the conception and construction of all parts, programs and building renovations needed by the vast system, you could bet both hands that they could, and would, succeed in their appointed task. Otherwise, their Lords would punish them cruelly, right after their immediate supervisors had done so first.
While publicly declared as democracies by the ruling Council in each confederation, everybody on the face of the Earth knew that to be a massive, transparent lie. While it was true that all the member countries inside each block participating to the secretive conference call had moved away from pure communism towards a looser form of leftist socialism with private property allowed, that didn't make those nations democracies. Furthermore, even a democratic nation would be forced to follow along the drumbeat of the other members once Council votes were tallied and Cabinet directives were issued, so the issue of political regime and philosophy became moot de facto anyways.
{ SQ } - { A different world than we were born into } - { SQ }
In late 2017, the Trump administration managed to scuttle the UN charter, causing the collapse of the Assembly and most of International Law for a short period of 7 months before the successor treaty, The United Earths and Oceans Organization was enacted in mid-2018.
It was in the early months of 2018 that NATO was disbanded but never rebuilt. What followed was the birth of the multiple 'confederations' and several 'limited local alliance', or LLA.
New grand alliances emerged from the meltdown;
The Russian Trans-Caucasian Confederation founded in early 2018 regrouped Russia, Estonia, Latvia, Lithuania, Belarus, Ukraine, Moldova, Georgia and Armenia. As the biggest member, the richest, and the only one with nuclear weapons, Russia acted as overlord towards the others which it saw as mere vassals that supplied it with cheap resources. Even the other two founding partners and traditional allies were more-or-less pressured into joining and had only a paltry influence on the overall confederation. The most important elements unifying this alliance were the varied governments' desire to keep societal order and peace, even at the cost of democracy and personal freedoms. This was helped by Russia sweetening the deal with cheap oil and gas, financing the rebuilding of public airfields or naval ports, and selling good military hardware at decently discounted prices compared to the global market. It is important to understand though, just how little trust there actually was between the leaders (and populations) of these countries, even in a good year.
The Chinese Silk Road Confederation founded in late 2018 regrouped China and Mongolia, then Kazakhstan finally joined them barely four months ago, in August 2020. Similarly to Russia, the Chinese government lorded over the two other members since it was several times richer and more populous than them, and its sole possession of nuclear weapons in the block didn't make it any kinder to the junior members. Unlike Russia though, China took its role as 'cultural beacon' quite seriously and thus offered to help Kazakhstan with a large program to build schools and hospitals specifically in the poor and remote regions. This was to be facilitated by the new four-track railway for a new type of double-width / two-storey wagons that would cross all three members of the CRSC. It would start from the city of Aktau on the eastern shore of the Caspian Sea, going north until Bozoy where it turned east to then pass between the three great water bodies of the depleted Aral Sea, then going on a north-east course to Astana, capital of Kazakhstan. From there, it would go east & south into Mongolia, curving slowly until it reached Ulaanbaatar, capital of Mongolia. From that city, it would go south & east, until the chinese city of Shenyang. Because of old & new treaties, the railway would then split into three major branches. Firstly, east & north to terminate in Vladivostok in Russia. Secondly, south to Pyongyang city, capital of North Korea, then to Seoul, capital of South Korea, to then terminate in Busan. The third and last route would circulate westwards to Beijing, China's capital, then south to Shanghai, then south & west to Hong Kong, then cross into Vietnam to terminate at Hanoi. Plans were already in the works to negotiate building a branch route from the small village of Bozoy in Kazakhstan on to Sevastopol in Crimea through Russian lands. A second branch was being negotiated from Hanoi to reach westwards to Vientiane in Laos, then south & west to Bangkok in Thailand, then due south to Kuala Lumpur in Malaysia, going down further south to terminate in Singapore where it would pass by the airport and finish at a new ferry terminal in the naval portuary district. The most vital part of the railway proposed was that electricity, potable water, sewers, telephony & Internex cables, weather & security sensors and workers' bunkered shelters would all be laid in the foundation slabs and bridges of the massive system, along with a paved one lane service roadway on each side. The new asphalt was supposed to be both photo-voltaic and thermo-voltaic to feed electricity captured from the environment into the sensors, comms and shelters' life-support all year round. Should this all be built to specs, it would extend the industrial, commercial, economical and cultural shadow of China across all these nations, as they would want to have access to the cheaper central systems offered by Beijing rather than the privately exploited local versions.
The Himalayan Confederation founded in early 2019 regrouped India, Afghanistan, Pakistan, Nepal, Bhutan, Bangladesh, Burma and Sri Lanka. While the economic and military power of this block was considered only medium strength by conventional terms and the members nations were rather poor, the two founding partners held nuclear weapons, thus stabilizing and protecting the entire ensemble. This did not however have any positive results in the daily lives of their populations who remained dirt poor, had many health problems and little to no education. Added to this are much racism, religious strife between sects holding historical rights, India's caste system that refused to die, and a high quotient of crimes emanating from the sexist bigotry endemic to the founding cultures, and society was not anywhere near getting better for anybody but the ultra rich. Even then, it got better because they could build walled compounds and hire private guards; walking in the streets unprotected was just asking to get mobbed, robbed, and killed; possibly raped as well, regardless of gender or caste. Furthermore, the confederation's leading member, India, had recently elected in 2019 several provincial governors and village councils that were sectarian fanatics linked to the old castes supported by Hindu extremists that preached a return to ancestral superstitions. The ensuing clash of values and flagrantly illegal legislation proposals from these religious zealots caused multiple riots, even causing the collapse of one province when its government building was torched with the fanatics still trapped inside the old wooden edifice. If it weren't for the military high command having stepped in to assume control of several territories under martial law, there is a chance that India would have undergone civil war at that moment. As it was, there was an ongoing, violent and lethal, active purge of these sectarian elements from the positions of power in government, but it would take a few years to see if the intervention was successful.
The Montagnard Confederation founded in early 2019 regrouped Thailand, Laos, Cambodia, Vietnam, Malaysia, Indonesia, The Philippines and Singapore. This group did not seem to have a single country that acted as 'senior partner' contrary to the other confederations. The initial idea for the confederation came from Chi Hoy, president of Vietnam, the alliance's first president named at inception, and political backing from the large banks in Singapore. Unfortunately, the actual foundation treaty was fomented and secretly pushed by the Chaodai, a terrorist organization based on asian (or mongoloid) racial purity, Buddhist orthodoxy, ecological extremism and anti-everybody else creed. They were the asian equivalent of ISIS; they committed several cruel, disgusting acts of rabidly racist violence from February 2020 onwards, when they revealed themselves to the planet. The true extent of the menace had yet to be discerned and addressed by the UEO Council. Two facts were evident from the start: firstly, the Chaodai had their main bases inside Montagnard, specifically on the Gulf of Thailand and the South China Sea; secondly, they had vehicles and weapons accessible only through official governmental channels thus indicating the group was old, well established in society, and had very high contacts inside the member nations.
The Kim Dynasty LLA founded in early 2019 regrouped North Korea, South Korea and Japan. Nobody knew why in Hell the Japanese had agreed to this deal, but the nuclear weapons in North Korea's hands plus the USA pulling out its troops from the region entirely in late 2018 could have forced the Nippon government into this alliance to save their country from being annexed by China. Another theory being explored is that the Chaodai had exerted occult influence on the elected officials to force the acceptation of the treaty, in a cruder maneuver than what led to the inception of Montagnard, as that was already in the works for almost six years. As it was, Japan had the economic power & scientific establishment, South Korea had economic & industrial capacity while North Korea held more military capacity & manual laborers than both. The creation of internal free-trade, defense and Internex management treaties allowed the creation of something that could become the 21st century's new 'model' regional power. The current leader, Kim Jong Un, had established commercial and data-flow treaties with Micronesia and its alliance, including for the R&D of sub-sea colonies and military defense posts. The Hyundai shipyards in South Korea have, in 2019-20, built five massive all-purpose hangar ships that the KD-LLA now uses as floating airbases for helicopters, patrol boats and cruise missile batteries to deter hostile entry into their oceanic perimeter. Five more such ships are scheduled for completion by 2022, and Micronesia has ordered four units of the same model to be delivered in the same time-frame.
The Micronesia Confederation founded in early 2019 regrouped Micronesia, Melanesia, Polynesia, Australia, New Zealand, Papua – New Guinea, the Solomon Islands, Fiji Islands, Brunei, and hundreds of smaller islands that were barely acknowledged by the UN, or the UEO afterwards. This alliance is important because it has been at the forefront of R&D to conceive floating villages and submerged colonies, especially geothermal or mining installations. Since the year 2010, Micronesia in particular has been very active in developing the hydro-combustion generator which works on a combination of solar panels and raw sea water. The device uses the solar energy to decompose water into oxygen & hydrogen which are then used by a conventional piston engine configured to burn hydr/ox, natural gas, or bio-alcohol. In the same period, Micronesia has bought from its partner Australia three dozen large floating platforms similar to oil rigs, but without any drilling systems. These platforms have been spread out across Micronesia's national waters to act as military border outposts capable of intervening under the waves as much as above. More worryingly, Micronesia itself has bought an uncertain number of 5th generation ICBM from North Korea, all equipped with Japanese made plasma warheads, dedicated as ship-killers to convince greater nations like America to stay out of those zones they have declared under their control. Theoretically, a single such missile could destroy even the largest aircraft carrier in function, or at least render it barely capable of floating back to port to be scrapped formally. It is obvious to the eyes of experts that deterring the presence of US carriers in the south-Pacific zone has become the number one priority of the Micronesian government since November 2017 when Team Trump's inherent racism and religious fanaticism began to surface visibly. The promise made by V-P Mike Pence to secure the US borders around Hawaii by forcibly christianizing every human that lived on the islands around their important naval station at Pearl Harbor was largely credited by experts as the spark that triggered Micronesia's desire to possess the capacity to commit retaliatory strikes at strategic mobile assets & landmasses.
The European Union (Confederation) was entirely rebuilt at the fall of NATO in early 2019 and now regrouped Norway, Sweden, Finland, Denmark, Poland, Romania, Bulgaria, Greece, Cyprus, Germany, Liechtenstein, Czechia, Slovakia, Hungary, Serbia, Kosovo, Macedonia, Austria, Slovenia, Croatia, Bosnia Herzegovina, Montenegro, Albania, Netherlands, Belgium, Luxembourg, Switzerland, Italy, Malta, France, Monaco, Spain, Portugal, England, Ireland and Iceland. Due to the collapse of the old Western Block, the 'Brexit' movement imploded and, at the same time, the elderly Queen, the venerable Elizabeth 2nd, died of a brain aneurysm at age 93, thus giving the impetus for emergency elections in January 2019 and the sweeping victory of new pro-Europe MP's. This venomous situation however cost England its chance to be counted as one of the senior founders of the Union, despite holding nuclear weapons like France. It is important to understand that England had also become an important player in the development and manufacturing of undersea colonies, which were also used mostly to delimitate the country's claimed borders on the oceanic floor. None of that was sufficient to move the founders of the alliance who have multiple votes & veto powers on the Council of Europe. Most of the rest of the EU was not particularly involved or interested in sub-sea colonies, nor military maneuvers in those areas. Most of the energies and efforts of the EU are concerted towards managing the constant flow of migrants from the poorer nations of Africa and arabic lands, stabilizing their internal commerce, and patching up a failing societal tissue that has been strained to the breaking point. The presence of the RTCC on their north-east border has mostly been dismissed as a credible threat, given that the Russians are presently far more preoccupied by the Kim Dynasty's latest crazy scheme and the on-off relationship between China and the Montagnard. In fact, the EU is much more worried about Micronesia's attempts to obtain nuclear weapons or America's steady march towards theocracy and a new christian crusade against the world.
The North American Confederation founded at the fall of NATO in late 2018 regrouped America and Israel, plus Canada and Mexico. Yes, the USA's "christian pastors first & always" doctrine was in full play during that decisional process, much to the horror of Canada and Mexico who had no choice at all in accepting the un-strategic membership. They would now inherit the consequences of every idiocy the racist, fanatical white evangelicals did in the name of Divine Prophecy. Trump's miserable excuse that it was just 'a move' to secure the nuclear weapons in Israel from falling to muslim hands, should their population balance shift towards an arab majority, was seen through by everyone as the meaningless racist diatribe it really was. In margin of this, Team Trump bombastically laid claim to the entirety of Groenland which it said would serve to compensate for all that America had overpaid on defending NATO's members since the 1950's. That 'public declaration of seizure'was never recognized by the UEO Council, the European Union, nor even inside the NAC Council itself. Amusingly, the spurious claim was never acted upon by the White House staff or US military, especially after the Israeli government declared itself uninterested in supporting Trump on the matter.
The Amazonian Confederation was founded in mid-2019 and regrouped every country situated south of Mexico in the central and southern parts of the American continental mass. It had a much better central Council and Cabinet than the confederations in Africa and Arabia, but far less military or economic capacity. As such, this group was seen as the vassal/puppet of the NAC, a fact only reinforced by their almost minionesque following of USA policies and diktats. The only real powers inside this alliance were Panama due to the yearly revenue and strategic value of the canal, and Brazil which had recently discovered deposits of 'rare earths' and small pockets of radioactive isotopes hidden under patches of jungle that had just been clear-cut by – permitted – logging companies.
The Freedom Communes of the Antilles was a hodge-podge LLA that regrouped Cuba, the Cayman Islands, Haiti, the Bahamas, Dominican Republic and several tens of small barely acknowledged islands that survived only by tourism or Dark Web channeled illegal banking. This alliance has practically no Council to speak of, a figurehead Cabinet that rarely meet face-to-face, and no defensive capacities whatsoever that would scare off anything stronger than a VERY small smuggling ship.
The Pan-African Confederation was founded in late 2018. It was so loosely governed as to be considered legally an LLA rather than a firm reliable treaty with a Council and Cabinet. Every member nation has to be physically situated on the actual African continent, no exceptions tolerated. However, since many countries were in fact in the process of civil unrest, or flat out civil war, and some like Ethiopia and Congo were yet again bereft of any government at all, the decision-making and law enforcement activities of the PAC were very much sketchy and unreliable. The only real jobs of the PAC-LLA were to insure the security of the Suez Canal and protect the fossil fuel deposits from attacks by terrorists and rebels, two occupations that they were hard-pressed to succeed at. In reality, it was an open secret that the PAC was just a thin curtain of civility behind which the national leaders committed crimes, graft, corruption, and political reprisals, including suppressing human rights groups, all the while claiming these were regular governmental law-keeping activities. Nobody believed them, not even the populations on their territories, but they were all too poor and menial for anybody to care enough to act against them to stop the mess. The Country of South Africa was included in the PAC but had little influence since its economic, industrial and military powers were in fact very small compared to the rest of all the african nations united. The fact that the nation was still pretty much in the hands of a white minority irked many on the PAC Council, who were thusly refractory to all proposals & positions of South Africa just because it was the only gesture of disdain they could materialize with tangible effect without devolving into warfare.
The Pan-Arabic LLA was justly named, and managed as such. It had barely managed to coalesce into being at the end of 2019, mostly in response to the formation of the Chinese Silk Road Confederation which was lobbying Kazakhstan intensely, to the point it did join the CSRC in mid-2020. The PA-LLA regrouped Turkey, Saudi Arabia, Iran, Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Azerbaijan, Syria, Iraq, Lebanon, Palestine (Cisjordania + Gaza Strip), Jordan, Yemen and Oman. Do note that the inclusion of the Palestinians in the treaty was purely symbolic as they do not have any sovereignty that is recognized by the UN or the UEO afterwards. Also, while the confederation members agreed on putting the name in the documents, they never agreed on the means to enforce it, nor how far to take hostile actions to force Israel (and the USA) to relent enough for the treaty to become applicable. The Pan-Arabic Alliance was an abhorrent creation that suffered from bipolarity and schizophrenia from inception. It was based mostly on the old historically arabic lands, plus a twisted view of 'arab race' intermixed with the obligation (unverifiable) to be born/converted to Islam. This completely non-functional definition of identity & membership resulted in a collection of countries that are racially and religiously diverse, but under the control of a small group of fanatical muslim ecclesiastes allied with known criminal gangs and terror groups. These LLA governors were in every shape and form as bad as the White Christian Regency in America and the ISIS group that they were already fighting an open war against. The only real claim to global power of the PA-LLA came from large fossil fuel deposits which, incidentally, were fast becoming useless to the point of irrelevance, and control over the highly strategic Bosphorus Straight, also called the Sea of Marmara, the only waterway into the Black Sea to the Russian ports of Odessa and Sevastopol. This was critical for the RTCC's commerce, capacity to project influence, and movements of armed forces towards the Occident, thus forcing the Russians to pay a yearly 'open passageway' tax to the PA-LLA Council to have the right to pass military ships without causing an act of war against the neighbors. Russia's alternative is of course to launch from its northern port cities, but the psychological effects on the European countries and Americans just wasn't the same.
The resulting state of the planet's geopolitics was such;
As things stood, the old communist nations from the Warsaw Pact were reduced to Russia, China and the Montagnard, but they were united in culture and purposes against US expansionism, especially their push to finance (white evangelical) christian missionary activities backed by the country's national army across the planet. Cuba and most south-american countries that were communist-led had become so poor, chaotic and irrelevant in the geopolitical context that they had been cut loose from any treaty or obligations that had bound them to the Old USSR.
The Old Western/Capitalist Block from the Cold War was radically butchered, split in two major groups of the EU and NAC, with the surprisingly officialized partnership of the Kim Dynasty. This was a subject of great speculation across the Earth, as the NAC's inclusion of Israel, enforced by the USA as sine qua non to the new treaty, was an ulcer internally and abroad. To date, nobody really knew what exactly the North Koreans had in mind when they created their group, let alone why they sided with the USA's team rather than China or Russia. Suffice it to say that just as the Americans were happy to no longer fear Kim Jung Un's missiles, the Chinese and Russians were proportionally displeased by the neighboring menace switching allegiances to integrate not only the financial and industrial might of South Korea and Japan together, but even allowed US troops to move their DMZ from the south all the way to their northern border with China, thus putting American missiles and military ships in striking distance of critical Chinese sites.
The Arabs and Africans were more or less living together in the same oversized, dilapidated house, when they weren't fighting or causing racial and religious strife in each other's families. The loss of importance and financial power from petrol products, coal and natural gas was the biggest cause of concern, unrest, and political changes across all of the member nations in the PAC and PA-LLA, especially since the SeaQuest had launched with a first generation prototype cold fusion reactor in 2005. The recent revelation of electro-plasmatic generators shook the entire oil industry, from the wells to the retail stations, and all the way up to the boards of administration in the USA. Alongside this reorientation for large-scale electrical needs, small-scale engines necessary for mechanical movement were changing dramatically by the push from poor countries to return to using steam systems, giving rise to new-age boats, trains and trucks that didn't rely on manufactured combustibles.
The Amazonians were left aside by everybody since their inherent poverty, lack of precious resources and the falling prices of oil led to ceaseless peasant riots, revolts, regime changes and civil war in half the member nations. Only Panama, rich from the thousands of ships passing through its canal each year, stayed relatively stable, suffering only a few favela riots occasionally. Brazil had uncovered mineral deposits of important commercial and strategic value in early 2019, but that was the result of the government allowing a logging company, in exchange of publicly known bribes to the president, to clear-cut an area that the native tribes considered sacred for close to 3,000 years. This had sparked racial and religious riots that were still happening, and threatened to spill over to other provinces of the vast undeveloped country, turning into a full-fledged civil war. As such, Brazil's importance as a founding member was severely curtailed, almost to nil in fact, as even the tourists were now avoiding them.
The Micronesians and Montagnard were beginning to collaborate on surveying and regulating sea shipping lanes, improving portuary installations, and building sea-floor pipelines to bring sea-floor natural gas and petrol to the refineries in the surface nations. Worryingly, rumors were circulating that Micronesia was secretly attempting to buy atomic weapons from Pakistan, while India was apparently involved in supplying the scientists to fit the warheads to prototype Mach-4 speed missiles home-built by the small island nation. Given the unstable situations in all the major nations of Earth at this time, nobody has any intelligence operatives inside Micronesia to spy upon or verify these rumors, but they are becoming more frequent with persistence, which is never a good sign.
These situations & movements of philosophy, religion, politics, race, science, technology, economics and armed forces were the backdrop that necessitated holding this unplanned vid-meet by the leaders of the three 'socialist' blocks, in response to the events that had just changed the regime and society of America and its treaty.
{ SQ } - { Old men bitching at life } - { SQ }
The signals & comms technicians from the three large national alliances were on schedule, doing the final synchronization of the automated translation programs necessary since neither of the principals in the vid-meet spoke the same language. The linguistics matrix had to translate vocal and written at the same time so that if a misunderstanding occurred, the leaders could simply read the scrolling print-out of the conversation appearing on a smaller monitor under the large conference-sized screen.
This meeting was so secret that there wouldn't be any translators in the room or online, and no bodyguards either. Since each leader would be ensconced deeply in an armored concrete bunker under his very own seat of power, neither felt fear at being alone for two or three hours of conversation where the most violence they would face would be emotional jabs from the neighbors.
The lines came alive and the three confederation leaders were now visible to each other.
Vladimir Putin, age 68, president of Russia, was a lawyer who lived and studied in Leningrad, then joining the KGB where he acted as an intelligence officer for 16 years. In 1991 he recycled himself into politics, moving to Moscow to join the central administration. In 2000 he won his first election as president of Russia, which he stayed until 2008. The 2008 election was won by a man widely recognized as a crony of Putin, who promptly named the outgoing president as prime minister, thus instituting what became known as the 'tandemocracy' of Russia. Due to nefarious constitutional changes of his own manufacture, Putin was able to get elected as president again in 2012, and yet again in early 2018. His career is characterized by distributing bribes, gifts and privileges liberally to oligarchs while maneuvering the new secret service, the GRU, to intimidate, extort or kill off his rivals, and occasionally those who made his rich allies antsy.
Xi Jinping, age 67, president of China, was a lawyer and politician from his youth. He had been exiled in a rural area as a teenager because his father was purged from his positions when a change of power occurred in the capital. After living in abject poverty for a few years, he managed to attend university and succeeded in graduating, thereby obtaining access to the rest of society. He washed off his father's stain on his name by entering the Communist Party as a low-level civil servant, then rising steadily without any scandals until he achieved the presidency of the nation in 2013. He has monopolized power, gathered multiple functions, and assigned himself as chairman of several decisional committees, all to become overlord of China in everything but the name. His biggest coup was having the CCP change the country's constitution to name him as president for life, essentially empowering a monarch in all but name. Since 2015, Xi has committed several purges, and routinely enacts 'anti-corruption' investigations through the civil servants or military that result in hundreds of demotions and disgraceful retirements for people who had been close to previous governments.
Chi Truong Phu Hoy, age 75, president of Vietnam, was born as a poor peasant người Thượng, or Degar, an ethnic tribe native to the central mountainous highlands of Vietnam. It is from their place of dwelling that the French colonist named all these tribes under the common appellation 'Montagnard' which means 'person living/working in mountains'. That is the reason for the name of the confederation; because it regroups a number of mountainous nations where each peak had its small ethno-cultural tribe for thousands of years, and they are all united by their survival against repeated attempts at violent colonization by Europeans, Russians, Chinese and Japanese. President Chi was a poor logging laborer until age 17 when he was awarded a charitable scholarship by the French Embassy to study medicine in France because he saved the lives of tourists struck by a flash flood during the monsoon season. He spent a year of intensive catching-up to get his secondary diploma then spent 6 years to get his medical diploma and right of practice. He returned to his family in Vietnam where he practiced medicine in his village for thirty-three years, until age 59, when he was invited by officials in the central government to join them to help guide the country's renewal of its medicinal laws and institutions. From then on he climbed the ranks until he was elected president of Vietnam for the first time in 2017, at age 72, his first elected position in career. He was seen as the only logical, pragmatical choice to head the Montagnard Confederation since it was his brainchild which he had worked to create since his return from France. He was widely viewed as the least violent, least temperamental, and least corrupt of the three since he had no history of extortion or political purges to date.
{ SQ } - { Video conference begins } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 14:11pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 11:11am
Chi; "Gentlemen, I bid you good day. I trust the weather isn't too cold in your domains?" he quipped with a small discrete smirk.
Putin; "Chi, you old hill goat... You know full well what a muscovite winter feels like. I'm snowed in so badly that I need a BTR-80 just to get back to the presidential residence. And the stupid peasants aren't even intelligent enough to get out of the way when they see an 8-wheel tank rolling at them! My countrymen are either born imbeciles or too drunk to care, the байстрюк!"
Xi; "I must admit that the passing winter has not been kind in Beijing. I am lucky everything is located inside walking distance through covered corridors. At my age, the cold winds do me no favors to be thankful for. No wonder you refuse to come visit me, despite the repeated invitations since you took office. I too would prefer tropical rain to a blizzard, if I were given the choice."
Chi; "But you do have the choice, my old friend. You could retire and move to Taiwan at long last. There, you would be blessed by permanent tropical climes that your joints would be quite satisfied with. And your wife would be much happier too, given the artistic and theatrical venues on the island territory."
Putin was pouring himself tea from a battered old sterling silver samovar that had belonged to Stalin, smirking amusedly at the kindly suggestion to 'take a hike' Jinping had just received from their southern counterpart. He would be happier if the cagey leader of China were to retire. Or have an accident. He was far too similar in mindset to himself for the Russian leader to feel at ease while the other man sat on a lifelong presidency. Not, of course, that he had that much leeway to point fingers, but his opinion had to be worth something, nyet?
Xi grumbled dismissively as he sipped his own aromatic tea, already in hand before the meet began. He knew his dream of Putin chocking on his drink was unrealistic, but 'hope springs eternal' as the proverb goes, and he wasn't getting younger. He needed all the positive thinking he could get, and there was pitifully little of that left. As for Chi, the hairy mule could go graze on his palm trees and see how that made him feel. Retire to Taiwan indeed! He was still healthy enough to last another twenty years as president, he would most certainly not be going anywhere, and definitely not while that backwoods spawn was still in office.
Chi was amused, as he always was in diplomatic meetings. His career as a medical doctor had gifted him with superb people-reading skills, which made interpreting the moods and situations of people involved in a conference always entertaining. What? He was old, worn out by a hard life, and ready to hang his lab coat for good. His wife was the same age, but getting sicker every month, and he dearly wanted to spend her remaining time with her, not in these useless vapid meetings. However, his conscience would not let him retire as long as the other two pseudo-emperors were in power with their vast military so slavishly following them. If only the UEO could truly live up to its promises, instead of being just a different shade of the same white European/American colonial corruption.
Putin; "Tell me Chi, has your grandson finally dispensed with that deplorably sub-par french woman he was shacked up with last year? If he absolutely wants to marry a European, I can recommend several russian women from Moscow, each bred with a long familial history and far superior pedigree. And they wouldn't be marrying him for his money or access to your office by a back-channel, either."
'Not when a russian GRU agent should be the one doing exactly that' Putin thought as he smiled vapidly at the other two men, while they graced him with matching deadpan looks.
Dismissively, Chi answered; "Thank you for your heartwarming concerns towards my humble grandson. I will pass your generous offer along to his parents."
'And make certain it lands in the waste basket besides my desk before he's ever aware of it' the older man thought, wondering again why he was entertaining any sorts of relationship with this ill-mannered drunken boar. Ah, yes! Diplomacy. It was an obligation of his office. Damn!
Xi; "How deplorable of you, Chi. I have made the same offer the last three times we spoke. I have several nieces and grand-nieces still unmarried that would be far better suited to the intellectual soul of your grandson. Why should he look so far outside his kin, when so many are willing and able?"
Chi; "I'm afraid he takes after me and his father quite honestly, given we both married women from France. It has become somewhat of a family tradition by now."
Synchronous snorts of derision met that last retort. He really hadn't put any effort in it.
The three old men bickered and dithered, poked and prodded, jabbed and deflected for about a half-hour more as they had the time and safety to indulge. It wasn't like their own alliances were falling apart, unlike the real subject of their meeting. Eventually though, they had to talk business.
{ SQ } - { The American situation is discussed } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 14:45pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 11:45am
Xi; "So, the Americans? What do we do about this latest depravity?"
Chi; "If we must, then, by all means, let us discuss the aberration."
Putin; "Why else do you think we are here, Chi? Because we like each other that much? I have rebels with more personality than you in my gulag. In fact, some Chechens come to mind..."
Xi; "Enough banter. This is not a family dinner in a telenovella. You have both seen what they did yesterday morning? How they tortured some of their most loyal and upstanding citizens for no reason but to assuage the miserable vanity of that fickle media slut Trump? These – 'inquisitors' – did push the spectacle to all available channels and websites they could usurp through software hijacks. Even our automated censoring array was overwhelmed so much that we weren't able to block the film from passing along to our populace unfiltered. There have been millions of complaints, comments and fearful supplications coming into our ministries, asking the authorities for confirmation, reassurances, and even for revenge and retaliations against these depraved monsters. It seems that many in my country have forgotten that the USA has well over 6,500 nuclear weapons on hand, and they would not be an easy target for such punitive measures."
Putin; "I am aware of the mess they are making of their homeland, but unimpressed. They have been treating each other that way for nearly 400 years, and longer if one counts their roots in the old European countries that spawned them. The weakling buffoon Trump was destined from the very beginning to be the dismantler of the USA. The few times I met him face-to-face left me wondering how such an unstable, unreliable moron was ever elected to a position of such elevated power. Then, I read the GRU reports about the widespread racism and religiosity across America, and things became clear. Even the inclusion of Israel in the NAC no longer surprises me, unlike back when it happened. That had been a shock, yes. But, in retrospect, we should all have expected that move from Trump given who financed his first campaign. Nonetheless, his team had made several critical mistakes that guaranteed the collapse of his new Papal Lordship before the end of the week. Then when the bank servers began following the fraudulent orders to drain and pauperize the churches and affiliated worshipers... Well, the end is already in progress. His own priests are already abandoning the system they wrought, with the soldiers following suit. This 'White Christian Regency' regime has no future in this world."
Xi; "I concur, and gladly so. Our intelligence services have concluded that the internal damages done by the automated attacks on the finances of institutions and individuals has effectively reduced America to the level of a third world country for the coming 30 to 50 years. This, of course, is aggravated by their simultaneous religious and youth revolts across all levels of society, including rich whites, which will set back the recovery timeline to a full century at the shortest. The USA will not last the week to celebrate their precious 'Risen Christian God' this year, let alone impose it on the planet by force as Trump's voting base wished for viscerally. I must admit that if a single thing about this entire debacle is good, the collapse of this miserable excuse for a faith system and its invasive tentacles is it."
Chi; "I can understand you both feel unconcerned by the military aspects of the problem, given that the national armies of the USA are now mostly defunct, or without credible guidance. You both have nuclear weapons and vast armies to repel Trump's crusaders, should the fools try to beach your shores. But, in counterpart, are you not worried about the full reach of this cybernetic attack against all sects and worshipers? My ministry of finances has informed me that several thousand individuals and over a hundred organizations have already been devastated inside Vietnam, ten times that number across Montagnard. Forget not that we are quite early in this game, too. Those numbers will worsen rapidly as the fraudulent orders cascade through the public servers and then the private systems. Do you not fear a destabilization in your territories, when the people begin to riot in protest against their enforced poverty and shaming for having been worshipers of a cult?"
Putin; "Russia is officially atheistic, as written in the constitution since Lenin. As for the reality of the banking system being attacked... We know who did it, and why. Governor Desdensky of the World Bank has already told me the facts of it, this morning, just after the UEO Cabinet was informed. I could retaliate, of course. So could you, or any other so informed. But the person responsible would commit reprisals far worse than break a few churches and duly chastise church-mongers as they deserve. One does not go to war against a biochemist lightly; the end is never a victory. And that is another point; I do not actually disagree with the man's goals, nor his methods. He was targeted personally by Trump for enslavement or extermination as he is jewish, a doctor of multiple medicines, and quite the virulent atheist. The fact that he was so rich at such a young age also did not make him any friends. The evangelicals wanted him dead, and Trump had to deliver if he wanted to stay in office, just like he had to create that imbecilic theocracy to keep his voters lined up obediently behind him."
Xi; "I do not share your detachment from the situation, Vladimir. In the past 50 years, the Americans have made several sustained attempts to shove both evangelical christianity and white anglo-saxon superiority upon our populations. They went so far as to use the 'human rights' angle to try and force law changes when we stopped them from smuggling sectarian books at our borders. Our recent upgrades to the central Internex management softwares, along with our alliance treaty clauses for such, have become too much for their churches to bypass. Hence, they tried to create a collaboration between churches and their military's cyberwar division to punch their way into our Internex segments. We will not tolerate this act of war against our sovereign territory. The chinese people have always controlled and subordinated religion and priests to the common good of the nation, never tolerating that monks defy or supplant the established monarchs, nor the civilian officials. We will not change this traditional policy, no matter how many church-whores cry on the shoulders of Washingtonian politicians. However, my police and military are well aware of the millions of 'secret' worshipers of the crucifix hidden in our midst, receiving moral support, and oftentimes monies or materials, from American clergy to build secret worship groups inside our borders. They grow inside our society like parasites, but we can do little to truly curb this infection. The worse thing is, they are so numerous already that if these credulous peasants do revolt when their bank accounts are drained, they could actually inflict severe damages to the rest of society around them, simply by the sheer mass of their combined gullible stupidity let loose."
Chi; "Our governments forgot the old wisdom: 'A desperate man is rarely rational, but a fanatic who is proven his myth is false will always resort to violence to fight off the reality that disproves his claims'. The proverb of our ancestors spoke truth, as always. The presence of so many religious peons in our countries is our own fault. We were the adults in charge, and yet we let diseased, criminalized strangers into our homes. We should have refused them passage. We should have culled this evil root before it flowered into such a gangrenous creeping vine that we cannot incinerate it, for fear of burning down the entire edifice. We wanted to move away from totalitarian regimes to avoid civil wars and revolts like the 1920's and 1940's saw across the planet, but are we any better today? Now, we have this socially transmitted mental illness that ravages our nations to deal with, and the only applicable solution is neither simple nor without its own damaging consequences for all involved, including us at the top. What do you suggest we do, short of shooting every worshiper we find?"
Xi; "Unfortunately, the methods are few and rarely fare well in the long term. For now, we have to repress, forcibly and permanently, all manifestations and protests seeking to compensate the pauperized worshipers with state money or tax credits. They have to be acknowledged publicly as the mafious organizations that they truly are, and our ministries must treat them as such in all circumstances. Any attempt by the credulous believers of any sect to change laws to obtain some sort of 'exalted moral status' above the rest of society under the affirmation that 'God blessed us more than others' as compensation for the torts suffered from this cybernetic attack must be fought off and punished severely. In parallel, we must work together to define a common legal, political and social context by which the entire population will follow the leadership of civilian authorities, with the churches and ecclesiastes being obliged to walk in-step or be disenfranchised, going so far as to jail and execute them if they revolt in any way. Then, we will have to try and convince as many national or confederation leaders as we can to adopt our plan to establish a common front. At this point, we must consider religion like a contagion, and religiously motivated people are the vermin that spreads it. They must be blockaded or exterminated, else our nations and our world will collapse as well."
Putin; "Трахни меня тяжело! It's at times like these that I thank the Orthodox Church for having survived the Stalinist purges and the communist era. They are a tatty garment worn to the threads and too ugly to tolerate, but they still have their uses, if handled with caution. Like rat poison. Bleh! If my population didn't have its own version of the cross to worship, they would be vulnerable to this american purulence, right alongside their music, films, dances and disgustingly fat, oily foods. It's bad enough that we have to tolerate McDonald's and Starbucks, but to think they want to force the international economic trade agreements to consider religion as a 'tradable commodity' so as to have an open door right into the minds of our populations! The nerve of these foul creatures!"
Xi pointed venomously; "Don't you have a few million protestant christians of all sorts spread across your vast state? I recall that many of their evangelical sects do not consider the russian orthodox faith to be genuine christianity, the same way they say anybody not themselves is false or heretical. Wouldn't they constitute a sizable block of troublemakers to contend with, regardless of the combined orthodox and atheist majority?"
Putin drained his tea then set the cup down firmly; "Curse you for speaking too much, Xi. You will drive me to drink, despite the early hour. And yes, you nosy old dog, our Motherland has been physically and spiritually violated by the presence of these sectarian trash since before the fall of the tsars. We are simply better at keeping tabs on them, and making the agitators disappear in the gulags. There is a truly utilitarian reason for why I never cared that Russia lost the status of 'democracy' in the early 2010's, when the UN was gasping its last noxious breaths. As a tyrant with a KGB past, nobody is truly surprised that I employ heavy-handed or brutal tactics, so they stopped doing anything about it but sending pesky emails that the SPAM filters delete for me. In fact, with Trump elected, a large part of the planet has shifted to the right and begun to question the validity, or desirability, of democracy as a regime, when compared to what our own nations have accomplished under our rule. Consequently, I do not think that our strict enforcement of anti-sect laws will attract that much negativity from those countries that still function. The worse peddler of such religious idiocy was the Americans for most of the 1900's, and they are now a comatose corpse for the foreseeable future."
Chi; "You raise an interesting point, Vladimir, about the loss of credibility and desirability of democracy in the public eye. What you fail to mention though, or perhaps perceive, is that almost every national or ethnic group that undergoes that shift expresses the opinion that more freedom for privately organized religion, or worse, state mandated religiosity enforced by police, are the only alternatives that would permit the society in question to 'evolve towards better'. You have seen the example in action with the Americans for decades already, plus a spill-over of this in several local elections across Canada and Europe, all in the last 4 years, since Trump's elevation empowered the uncouth and bigoted. Do you think these countries' populations will still favor that religious primacy after yesterday's debauched spectacle? Or at the end of the week when the USA lies in mortal repose, dead from the toxic shock of self-inflicted sectarian imbecility?"
Xi; "Snort! Spoken like a doctor, always in terms of organics, infections and diseases. Not that I disagree in the least where sects and religion are concerned! But, you are somewhat predictable in that regard, my old neighbor."
Putin refilled his tea cup, stirring in honey as he answered; "And amusing too. But his reasoning cannot be set aside so easily. The old hillbilly has more truth than tort in his words, and I will admit that I have some worries about potential revolts. Russia and its allies have already wasted too many years to pacify the muslim threats inside our borders, adding the christians to the lot does not make me happy. We too, would like a solution more permanent and less simplistic than just shooting or jailing each fool devotee we find. Unlike Kim Jung Un and his forefathers, the idea of keeping multiple generations of the same family in jail does not appeal to my more strategic sense of how we should use our resources."
Chi offered wisely; "You could copy the French; their idea of a Foreign Legion is not bad. But instead, you make it a system separated by faith group, isolated geographically to fight only against one of the other groups so they don't sympathize with the enemy. Let's say, you place christians in Chechnya to fight muslims, and muslims in Crimea to repel Europeans if it becomes necessary. You see the idea?"
Xi quipped; "Why, exactly, am I not surprised you that you are preaching a French solution?"
Putin snarked; "Because he has become predictable that way too, in his dotage."
{ SQ } - { The death of turpid hopes } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:12pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:12pm - noon
At exactly 15:12pm on Washington DC's clock, the Internex, television and radio systems of the world received an emergency broadcast emanating from the Oval Office of the White House. It was broadcast by vice-president Mike Pence, who was dressed in some sort of modern-day crusader styled clothing that looked caricatural in the eyes of anybody not a white christian devotee from America. That meant about 7,75 billion people out of Earth's 7,78 billion living humans. America's WASP were truly that small of a minority, even though they thought they ruled the planet unlimitedly and eternally.
They were wrong.
The news that held people's attention until the end was that Donald J. Trump, self-styled Papal Lord Amerikus the First, had been killed by a sniper yesterday, after his Low Mass had deteriorated into an open-air riot. You knew it was bad when a tyrant saw his own putsch turn against him in the same week that he had just declared his usurpation of society.
The second news to grab people was that the entire White Christian Regency had already collapsed before it could get any traction to get anywhere.
Mike Pence's message was critically short, ominous, exuding depression, despair, and a morbid finality that nobody understood.
Until the channel went dead in a flash of white light.
Then all the planet's networks began broadcasting military alerts and civil defense orders to assume sheltered positions for the next 24 hours. Automated travel advisories normally used to warn tourists away from monsoons or tornadoes were sent to every device available to reroute people away from all of North America, especially the eastern seaboard. It only took precious few minutes for the automated algorithms in the Internex Mappe Mundia servers to roam across what was left of the American network to connect with a functional traffic camera to show the event.
Washington DC had exploded in nuclear fire.
It was a man-made disaster of planetary proportions.
Somebody had suicided the biggest military and nuclear power on Earth, condemning its already impoverished, beaten, starving, agonizing populace to rapid extinction.
{ SQ } - { Consequences on the communist confederations } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:20pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:20pm - noon
Xi exclaimed, sounding unhinged; "What in the names of the Blessed Ancestors have these accursed – untouchables – done this time? Tell me what calamity they have visited upon us now!"
Putin replied, his voice thick with defeat; "They have done to themselves what I threatened them with for decades. But I never meant it for real! It was just verbal pushing, to get my points across their thick skulls! Now, the damned Cossacks blew up their own nation back to the stone age. All by themselves, without any help! Boum! In a flash of glory... Well, not glorious so much... And now, we have a bigger mess to clean up than their idiotic commercial war they had going on with everybody."
Chi commented toxically; "It sounded more like a wet firecracker from where I am. And I fail to see anything glorious about this debacle. All of us will be stuck holding the bucket on this one, since they're all dead and well past caring anymore! Bleh! Why did I accept this post? If I were retired already, I could limit myself to caring for my wife and family, let the young and foolish handle this horrendous catastrophe by themselves! It would be no less than they deserve!"
Putin; "While I can agree that the younger generation should be the ones stuck with this, since they are the ones who will benefit the most, WE are still alive and suffering this event as well. Since we have the actual reigns of power in our grasp, it behooves us to do – something – before another idiot appears out of thin air, with a head full of ideas about how to manage our problems for us."
Xi whispered hoarsely; "Enough is bloody well enough! Can't these parentless bastards without a proper family name stay in their own dump-yard? WE allowed them to live and forage amongst their own garbage without taking issue at their unnatural uncouthness up to date, and this is how they repay our patience? With damages to the ecosphere and collapsing global commerce? Enough, dammit all! We have had enough! The People of China are patient and benevolent, but there is a finite limit to the virtues of even the saints amongst the golden clouds! We are not funeral steles to just stay planted there, immobile and unreactive, in the face of such diabolical ineptitude! What kind of imbecilic, moronic, incompetent buffoon of an – invisible – did they put in charge of their weapons? NOBODY leaves nuclear weapons unsecured! Not even the Kim Dynasty in North Korea were ever so amateurish as to do THAT!"
Video conference suspended:
Before any of the other two could reply to president Xi's tirade, all three were rudely interrupted by loud knocking on their armored doors, with emergency alarms going off throughout the compounds where they were located. With synchronized sighs, the three leaders muted their vid-meet channel to attend the headless chickens that served as their subordinates because they were panicking and needed an adult to hold their hands.
Was there ANYBODY in their damned countries that was old enough, and mature enough, to decide something by himself without receiving permission? Did the communist purges of the early and mid 1900's really kill off any potential for intellect and usefulness in their populations? Somebody, somewhere, had to do something about this congenital stupidity; it was just too much to bear anymore.
Video conference continues anew:
Vladimir Putin had gotten a bottle of Stolichnaya Elit vodka that he was pouring into a small glass with the air of a man that knew how to drink fast and hard without remorse.
Xi Jinping had uncorked an old bottle of Gujing Gongjiu that was crafted before the Revolution of Mao and seemed to be filling his second shot glass already.
Chi Hoy now had a small tabletop cast iron brazier with blazing charcoals in it. The flames were gently licking the underside of an iron teapot as he was pouring in a generous dose of imported French La Fontaine de La Pouyade; Cognac - Grande Champagne, Premier Cru, as if it were cold milk.
The old doctor's gesture was so damned incongruous that it forced the other two national leaders who bore witness to pause their own stress induced libations to contemplate just how unsettled the older man must be. How could he otherwise justify desacrating such a tasteful, important liquor by diluting it as a menial tea aromat instead of an ordinary Napoleon VSOP or even a Courvoisier, or in fact anything else. Didn't he have any cheap whiskey for that? Bloody entitled snob! The La Pouyade cognacs were a special house reserve, sold in small numbers every year, and at roughly 2,000 Euros per unit, drowning the noble spirit in tea was a sacrilege for connaisseurs. And pretty much everyone else, too, come to think of it.
Putin, as he filled his third glass, said tartly; "Don't bother with us, Hoy, we'll get along just fine without you and whatever depraved witch juice you're preparing in that flaming cauldron. La Pouyade in tea! Even I, who am not the most appreciative of these fancy spirits, can tell that your concoction will not be what earns your confederation better relations with France. If anything, you're liable to offend them badly enough that they stop exporting their liquors to your country."
Xi snorted inelegantly in his second glass, practically empty as it was; "Or they will go to war. The French take their liquor crafting quite religiously, and you could spark off a sectarian conflict with the citizens of the Champagne terroir. Wouldn't that be amusing? The Americans nucleate themselves into a lower level of crass debasement, whilst the French start their own holy war about the proper arts of tasting their eldest spirits. Given how ridiculous the occidentals are, I could see it happening."
Chi responded glibly, all the while keeping his eyes and focus on his precious delight; "Oh, I am quite capable of heating my fortifying beverage while listening to your inane prattle. It's not like I never heard old women, sitting besides the village fountain, gossiping away at anything more important than the pair of you. Given the state you are both in, I'm certain that anything I miss will not be vital enough to even merit being written down, much less be acted upon when we conclude the conference. Besides, I see the age of that bottle, Jinping, and I know that liquor for having bought a few, last decade. Pulling back on the Emperor's Tribute Water as if it were your mother's milk? Oh, the shame! Even Vladimir has better manners than to use a ritual libation to assuage his natural penchant for depression."
Putin sighed aloud as he poured his fourth glass; "Perhaps gentlemen, we could bypass each other's drinking habits to discuss the situation at hand? Our planetary neighbor has just committed bloody societal suicide, then kindly left us the mess to clean up. What do we do now?"
Xi shrugged carelessly like a peasant boy, flinging back his fifth glass as he did. Then, looking in surprise at the half-empty bottle, he blinked interrogatively at the crystal container, wondering how he had managed to drink all of that so fast. He was a rather sober character, usually. Half a liter of alcohol at 50% strength wasn't his usual style of soft fruity dinner wines. For the moment he ignored his colleagues as they were speaking nonsense anyways. Setting the cork in the bottle, he put it aside in favor of another cup of tea and some small creamy cakes decorated with icing to resemble traditional junks that used to sail the Yellow River back in the pre-industrial age.
Chi finally took his first cup of mood stabilizing tea, inhaling deeply the aroma before drinking half the contents in one go. Swirling it around his mouth a bit, he swallowed then drained the rest in a second mouthful the same way. He refilled his cup, holding it in his right hand while the left took up some backed puffed-rice snacks whenever he started to get fidgety.
It took almost a quarter hour for the three leaders to have stabilized and recovered enough of their personal equilibrium to whelm their political façade back in play. It wasn't good enough. If you had the least little bit of experience at watching speakers during public conferences, you could see the cracks in those façades, and the nervous ticks they had each lost control of.
Putin sighed loudly, passing a hand over his weary face. "We are on the cusp of a breakdown of the planet's financial system. No matter what comrade Desdensky at the World Bank wants us to believe, the USA had already done incredible damages to us by converting into an impromptu theocracy. Then they collapsed unto themselves, imploding into civil war against their young, women and non-whites altogether. That civil war, in itself, would have been enough to cause a worldwide crash, even without the anti-sect hack. But all of it together... Who will pay the debts? Russia has treasury bonds from diverse American governments. What are they worth, now? Who will reimburse them, if we want to sell them?"
Xi was on the verge of apoplexy as he responded "No one. Not a single soul out there will want to buy these wads of decorative toilet paper! China has bought several billion dollars worth of US treasury bonds, and just like you and others, we are stuck with hands full of ash! No one, not NAC, not UEO, not the World Bank, nobody will pay for these pieces of offal! It is our countries that are now deficitary, and broke, without any issue in sight. How will we fill up this immense hole in our national finances? How can we get paid for these debts when the population that emitted them is dead and long passed caring?"
Chi posited glibly "We could still be repaid, if simply not in our lifetimes. Given enough time, effort, and international assistance, the Americans could repopulate their land, rebuild their economy, and pull out of this apocalypse like the Europeans and Russia did after World War II. The real problem is not the capacity to repay or the timeline involved. No; the real the problem is convincing the new government to recognize and honor the debts emitted by the old administrations. Given how devastated they are, all their economy will be locally centered, geared towards subsistence and familial survival only for at least a century. After that period of societal reconstruction has passed and a new governmental order has been solidified, those in power could, possibly, be petitioned for repayment of the bonds. However, no one can tell in advance if they will reimburse their creditors, nor what kind of government they will be, nor what honesty these persons will have. Technically, the bonds are still valid for now, but practically, you are both correct in assuming that we could never be repaid. Our countries are therefore in dire financial straights, given how much we had lent the USA, thinking the returns would be good."
Putin gestured vaguely with his left hand, sloshing the vodka in his glass as he did; "Let's all be honest here. We're now broke like the rat catchers that eke out a pittance in the trash heaps of Dharavi. Between the US bonds devaluating to the status of outdated newsprint from last century and the cyber attack against the finances of all churches and ecclesiastes, we no longer have any stable currency to base international trade on since the UEO Credit was based on parity with the US dollar and the Euro. Within days, all confederations will all be reduced to barter with gold or material goods in hand. All loans, mortgages and credit systems will be defunct. But given how reliant all of us are on electronic payments and international credit scores... Even large resource-rich groups like ours will be pauperized for the foreseeable future. I just don't see how our national economies can recover from all these blows without some sort of outside intervention."
Xi shook his head vehemently, raging aloud at the situation. "The People of China cannot and will not let this come to pass! We will not allow our country to be returned to the poverty, ignorance and destitution of the pre WW-II days! We will not return to what was before the Revolution! Our citizens have suffered enough under the imperialists of Europe, Japan and then Mao's not-so-hidden follies, we will not descend to such madness again! If I have to print money on plastic chits like a casino in Vegas to make the planet accept Chinese currency and bonds as reliable, then so be it! Our nation had solid numerical money long before the Europeans came to our shores, we will do so again, and be damned the Internex, , coin, and every other accursed thing that doesn't come out of our own bank!"
Chi replied blithely "That will not work, and you know it, Jinping. Printing more of our own currency will simply make us look not only weak, but self-deluded and incompetent. After every war, any government that tried to just print more money saw hyper-inflation in the 10,000% in mere weeks. How can you afford a loaf of stale bread, when it costs over 500,000,000 of local money? How can you rebuild when your national currency has absolutely no value on the world market, like Germany saw happen after World Wars I & II? Be realistic, man. Our only good chance is to bolster an existing currency that is independent from our own countries, like the UEO Credit. Both of you know that there is not enough gold, silver, other metals or gems, available to cover the dollar-amount that the planetary economy is calculated at. We cannot avert the catastrophe, not anymore. But we can soften the blow, and shorten the duration of the rebuilding process. However, the only thing that will suffice to do this is an artificial money, an electronic currency that all nations already recognize as legally valid inside their borders. If all countries of the Earth agree to scrap their own local monies and adopt the single planet-wide system, we eliminate both post-war hyper-inflation and market speculation together in one move. At the same time, we make the UEO responsible for refunding the bonds and loans from countries that default due to wars, natural catastrophe, or civilization collapse. This would then allow all our peoples to rebuild on an equal footing, regardless of whether old debts are repaid or voided."
The other two leaders were silent, deep in reflection on the proposal their colleague had offered for consideration. It had a certain elegance in the simplicity of switching the current monies with a new one, just like the Europeans had done with the Euro in the late 1990's. On top of that, if they offered a conversion premium, like 2-for-1, this would take the poorest a bit out of their misery while keeping the rich well endowed and well above the rest of the populace as they desired to be. With both the elites and the working masses profiting from the scheme, this could be turned from a hecatomb into a very slight victory over humanity's collective stupidity. As Chi had said, not a single government had ever managed to make the world markets 'swallow without choking' the decision of printing more money, other than a small yearly trickle to replace worn out or destroyed bills. Even then, the replacement process was closely monitored by the World Bank and International Monetary Fund to make certain that no extras were silently put in circulation to bolster the limited fiscal means that were the curse of all societies.
Putin griped aloud "We will give your advice some thought. In the meanwhile, we should concentrate on what we can actually affect and redirect. Namely, the eventual riots caused by the collapse of the churches and ensuing pauperization of millions of our citizens. On this, I must bid you farewell until next week at the earliest. My subordinates are panicking outside the door. Again. By listening to them, you would think the world was ending today!" he quipped in gallows' humor.
Xi sneered angrily as he deadpanned "If only it were so simple. I could sit with my liquor in peace, knowing that nothing would get any worse for it. But, no! The world will actually keep on going, and if I don't leave this room to hold their hands, my idiot employees will manage to make everything worse and I will be the one stuck with the cleanup! Why do I bother, anymore?"
Chi sipped some warm enhanced tea in silence, content in the knowledge his words of wisdom had been sowed in fertile ground. He pushed the 'off' button to close the conference, having still enough dignity and sobriety to not comment in public on the limited capacities of his underlings, unlike the two drunkards on the screen. Juvenile runts, the pair of them. Where was the strong, coherent, leadership the planet needed it this time of turmoil?
The death of an Era
(Frederic Chopin – funeral march)
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:12pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:12pm (noon)
All over the zone
Washington DC, Maryland, USA
The city was now a deep irregular hole in the sea shore, a rough triangular indent in the planet's crust that dug so profoundly that it cracked the tectonic plate, exposing the magma for a few minutes until it was covered by landslides of molten rock from the collapsing landmasses all around. The depth of the blast shafts had come close to initiating pyroclastic events, that is the creation of multiple eruptive volcanoes right where once sat Virginia and Maryland.
The wind patterns, strength, humidity and particle density in a zone of 100 kilometers around the blasts were all modified in fractions of seconds, temporarily changing from a cold snowy winter into a deep summer haze of warm smog, dry sweltering hot sweeping winds, and almost no sunlight visible from all the thick pollution clouds gathering around the event.
The cold merciless waters of the Potomac River and Atlantic ocean were already rushing to fill in the trench, boiling savagely as they touched the super-heated molten bedrock of the cataclysmic injury in the eastern flank of the continent. This elevated an instantaneous storm cloud filled with hot water, heated expanding gases, fine (and not so fine) dust and particulates, all joining to form a localized, non-moving typhoon that rapidly rotated on the spot without leaving the trench where it seemed to be rooted.
The typhoon caused such a suction of water in the area that the cold flows, barely recovering from the compression wave that passed through them, were dragged back violently towards the titanesque column of swirling flames, air and trash, being sucked up the ionized, magnetically charged vortex, mixing with gases and solids until the whole thing destabilized, exploding in a gloriously demonstrative fuel-air-plasma discharge. This phenomenon took about 37 minutes to reach its point of critical instability, upon which the typhoon had changed temperature and composition too much to sustain. When it detonated, it caused a second surge into the sea waters that was felt up to 100 kilometers away in less than 3 minutes while splashing a monstrous flash-flood all over the burning, incandescent land masses up to 2 kilometers around the rotating tempest of water-logged trash. It also spread out a hail of carbonized or still blazing solid trash at up to seven kilometers away in a straight flight like so many millions of tracer bullets.
{ SQ } - { Make it all burn! } - { SQ }
In the 0 to 100 kilometer distance radius around the crater, everything burning wildly. Everything combustible was set alight immediately and directly by the explosion and energy discharges. From fuel to cars, to houses and industries, to the organic bodies of plants, animals and humans. Nothing was left but natural rock so dense and old that it could not burn or sublimate in the 9,000º Celsius heat that took three days after the explosions to cool down to seasonal norms.
In the 100 to 200 kilometer distance radius around the crater, everything made of glass, crystal, ceramics and most wood had pulverized, or at least shattered, from the hypersonic blast wave that traveled across the zone at more than mach 9 for a period of 8,98 seconds before dissipating. That same pulse of sound/vibration was responsible for pushing forth the scorching 6,500º Celsius front of dense air like an incandescent bulldozer blade five kilometers tall, instantaneously exploding to juicy mush all forms of life in its path while cremating it to free-floating ash in the same moment of impact.
In the 200 to 300 kilometer distance radius from the crater, there stood up no man-made structures anymore as they were all flattened, toppled over like trees battered by a storm. The outer edges of the blast wave that scoured the zone was greatly reduced in strength, down to mach 5, but still powerful enough to cause multiple super-cell tornadoes, dust storms, thunder-dust flashes, blow out the windows and doors of houses, and flatten anything no built of solid armored cement. The scorching 4,000º Celsius winds were still enough to qualify as a firestorm though, and plenty enough to light up then calcinate any construction materials, flesh or bone it encountered, despite leaving more inert material recognizable in its wake. Here and there, you could see occasional puddles of molten glass, patches of mud baked into instant ceramic that cracked and warped from the heat, and large stains or rivulets of metal that liquefied for a few minutes before solidifying anew, inlaid into the new apocalyptic landscape.
{ SQ } - { Gaea's fury is felt } - { SQ }
From up to 500 miles away, people could see the gigantic mushroom cloud raise from the ground, going so high in the upper atmosphere that it changed form to become a simple thin, elongated column of fire, ash, debris and fluorescent ionized gases that made it look like a vertical rainbow inside a dirty glass tube. People saw the rising cloud become a typhoon and collapse, far away, over the hills and tops of buildings that survived the devastating 11,7 Richter Scale earthquake that shook the entire eastern quarter of the American continent for a good 13,7 seconds, loosing strength until it was felt as barely a 5,6 RS in Los Angeles, or a menial 3,7 RS in Vancouver city. That telluric shock was felt in Europe at 1,68 RS, and along the western coast of the Africa continent too, causing bottom-wave carried tsunamis all the way to the depths of the Mediterranean Sea, flooding the coastal areas with several feet of frothing salt water for several minutes before receding.
The massive temblor caused hundreds of deep cracks in the south-east quadrant of the North American tectonic plate, spreading from the three points of explosion in a spiderweb pattern. The smallest cracks were one or two meters wide by about a hundred meters deep, but the biggest were genuine rents in the continental structure, almost 900 meters wide and near two kilometers deep, running for several hundred miles as they followed the breakage in the hard living rock of the geological under-layers. Several natural rivers and lakes saw their beds suddenly give out, deepening by twice their normal depths when the bedrock beneath cracked or underwent a liquefaction phenomena that collapsed long thin stretches of soil normally hidden under the flowing waters.
In most cases, since these instant fault lines were all directly linked with the triangular crater and its three deeply penetrating explosion shafts, it only took mere minutes for the Atlantic ocean's unbearable pressure to push up the Potomac River basin, up through the dregs of the blast wave and air pressure, to fill in the new canyons, thus causing thousands of sinkholes and widening the weak-walled cracks along the ways. What had been empty cracks, crags, faults and mini-valleys filled only with swirling scorching air chocked with ash and silica dust took less than half a day to turn into a gigantic network of streams and rivers, ponds and lakes, marshes and swamps chocked with toppled trees and the remains of man-made structures, with the occasional small but incredibly deep sunken well.
All of it was salt water.
All of it would be undrinkable oceanic water for centuries to come, until enough rain and snow had fallen to repel, dilute and re-equilibrate the hydraulic pressure needed to push back the encroaching sea tides and replace it with clear runoff water that plants, animals and humans could live from. The supreme irony of being stranded on piles of vitrified dead rocks, surrounded by innumerable bodies of water that nobody could drink or fertilize fields with would be lost on the handfuls of survivors, when the climate cleared enough for them to see the new landscape they were left with.
{ SQ } - { The fragmentation of the east } - { SQ }
By sundown, the entire geophysical structure and ecosystem of the eastern seaboard of the USA had been redrawn; they would need new maps and decades of accumulated data to understand just how deep and permanent the changes were.
The principal tectonic plate was damaged badly enough from the shocks and counter-shocks to have snapped. This caused the two seaboards to sag away from each other while a large weak spot started to form an enormous crevasse running north to south, from Toledo (Ohio) on the shores of Lake Erie, down to Colombus (Ohio), then Cincinnati (Ohio), Louisville (Kentucky), Nashville (Tennessee), then curving back east through Atlanta (Georgia) until it ended up at Savannah (Georgia) to create yet another opening for the Atlantic ocean to rush in. This telluric scar in the landscape was so irregular that it varied from 300 to 1,700 yards in width, and 400 to 3,000 yards in depth along its path.
This instant river was called The Grand Eastern Split by cartographers.
This massive curving swoop of a gash in the continent's physical crust had just separated the old America in two distinct bodies; the western part that was still a single solid mass, and part of the main continent, while the eastern part was now a messy agglomeration of cracked valleys, jagged mountains and thousands of new streams, rivers and lakes filled of unusable saltwater for the foreseeable future.
This principal geophysical event was matched in intensity and violence by the subsequent break-away of the landmass that separated Washington DC from the seaway, a large fault line appearing from DC itself all the way north to Baltimore, cracking the tectonic plate and shoving off eastwards the central sector of Maryland. This fault line varied from 200 to 500 yards in width and 400 to 3,000 yards in depth as it was directly connected to the nuclear explosions and had received far more energy than the far away GES fault line.
This was followed by repercussive shocks in the foundation layers of the bedrock that weakened and split off, causing a fault line from the cities of North East and Elkton in Maryland, from where the crack then progressed due east to a point midway between the towns of Bayview Manor and Delaware City in Delaware, averaging 800 to 1,200 yards in width. This tertiary event pushed away from the main US continental plate the enormous landmass that had sheltered the Potomac outlet and Chesapeake seaway from the worst Atlantic storms, a territory composed of Maryland's eastern half and 85% of Delaware.
{ SQ } - { The human costs are tallied } - { SQ }
The great sprawling metropolis covering the Washington-Baltimore-Arlington, DC-MD-VA-WV-PA Combined Statistical Area had held 10,000,000 permanent residents since 2019.
They were all dead now.
Roughly 1,000,000 tourists in the zone for Christmas with family or just sightseeing every year.
Plus an estimated 203,000 fanatical white christian males; carefully selected soldiers of the Grand Crusade Army, inquisitors, support priests and 'ennobled' or 'exalted' ecclesiastes presently favored by the newly elevated Papal Lord Amerikus. They had all moved in slowly at first, to help secure the Inauguration Day, as per the USA legal calendar, but then rushed in to protect the newly revealed White Christian Regency as it jumped the schedule to reveal itself a week before Christmas, a month before planned, in response to critically fatal legal challenges.
The challenges that Lucas had started and publicized on TV.
So it was that an estimated 11,250,000 people, give or take some sluts-of-the pews, political attachés, or symbolic military aide-de-camps, that had all died in the blink of a disbelieving eye, with nary a warning to their impending doom.
The blast zone affected the distributed infrastructures in several states across the entire nation as electricity was cut off by the EMP burst, just as oil, gas, alcohol and charcoal stockpiles combusted in seconds, water and sewage pipes suffered pneumatic shocks that made them back-up catastrophically in spectacular geysers or else cooked the contents till it was naught but calcinated ash suspended in a plasma gas that melted what little remained of the pipes. The Internex on the eastern coast shut down due to the 1,1 second burst of highly ionic and magnetic radiation (EMP) that emanated at the explosion, but frantic global efforts managed to reboot the surviving nodes and servers remotely in the following hour, if they were situated far enough from the detonations to survive the physical part of the blasts.
Unfortunately for humanity, two dozen atmospheric recycling towers had been located in the zone affected as it was one of the most heavily polluted, and strategically important, in the USA. That, plus the fact that the US government had dreaded the possibility of a ICBN attack on itself since 1970. Thusly, they had built the two separate lines of 12 (inland & seaside) air & water filtrating towers to form a circular 'safety buffer' outside what military technicians stipulated would be the area affected by a Russian nuclear attack.
Their initial calculations had been correct, except for the fact that they had done the math based on regular atomic devices from the 1960-70 period. Small, tactically viable thermonuclear missiles came later in the late 80's, then the Russians invented the Tsar Ivan cargo plane deployed drop-bomb that had a 'reported' yield of 50 megatons. That was the biggest detonation used in the models until 2010. That is because in the year 2010, some unnamed individual working in a private lab on alternative fuels on a basic prototype for an electro-plasmatic reactor had accidentally invented Synthium. Nobody ever tested a Synthium blast bigger than 1 milliliter, at 1,100 meters deep inside a mine shaft. It had been declared a sufficient sample size to create the mathematical equations to predict which quantity would create what kind of devastation, in how big a zone. Well, the scientists of 2010, if they were alive, could take comfort in knowing that their predictive mathematical models of a Synthium explosion had indeed been correct.
The models had gotten the wind pattern shifts almost to a 'T', the hydraulic movements in known bodies of water had followed suit, and the dust clouds had formed at the appointed moment. Everything had occurred as per the plans, except for the one thing they hadn't planned because it wasn't the warfare strategy being envisaged by anybody with a functioning brain.
The massive earthquakes, and the splintering on the tectonic plate were not in the models.
Why?
Because all models followed the conventional AERIAL attack pattern; not a planet-cracker strike.
Because somebody devoid of any humanity, driven by a deeply childish, religiously fanatical desire to say "It's mine and nobody else can have it! God said so!", had created a kill switch for the country without asking them before doing it. Not to mention that, as a religious dictator, this person had planned to have a Great Divine Revelation festivity during which he would tell the people to "Obey me as I give out God's Orders to you, or else die in fire like heretics!". Yes, it was part and parcel of the entire way of ruling and managing that the WCR had put in place.
The plan was simplistic but critically effective; they buried multiple Synthium weapons carrying 4 liters (1 gallon) of 'Blue Moon' variant per detonator, in a triangular pattern, at less than 25 kilometers of each other. They then set a catastrophic scenario of burying two levels of weapons, at 3,000 yards and 1,500 yards, plus another trio of weapons that would be elevated over the ground atop 100 yard long telescoping poles that would emerge from their underground bunkers when the time of detonation was nigh.
That made NINE weapons for a total of 36 liters (9 gallons) of reactive fluid.
Each liter of Synthium (Blue Moon) explodes equal to 50 megatons of TNT.
Each conflagrator had an estimated power of 200 megatons.
The nine weapons together yielded 1,800 megatons of RAW potential.
Because they were in such close proximity and timed to explode in the exact same millisecond, they actually catalyzed and amplified each other into an infernal cycle of mutual perpetuation for close to 9,27 seconds.
The result was that the zone suffered a three-tiered blast in the 2,100 megaton (compound) range, or roughly an increase in RAW yield of 12,5% on each weapon.
The mathematical models had never been made for that scenario.
Neither had the military and civil defense plans.
There were NO SURVIVORS anywhere inside 300 kilometers of the blast zone, and a fatality rate of near 66% in an extended zone in the 300 to 350 kilometers, 40% at 350 to 400 kilometers, and down beneath 10% in the 400 to 450 kilometers away from the actual events. Only the most heavily constructed, shielded, edifices with built-in autonomous life support would offer any kinds of hope in those zones, and even then, only if the openings were covered to keep out the glare and vibration/shock wave.
The final count at sundown, near 18:11pm (eastern time) that day was a compounded 30+ million dead across a dozen states. That number would reach above 50 million dead by the end of next day. That was 1/6 of the country's population at its peak.
The first goup of deaths were immediate from the radiation burst, the hypersonic blast wave, the fire storms, the typhoon and subjacent tornadoes, non-critical injuries that went untreated, people being blinded or deafened by the explosion that went into shock and died afterwards from whatever happened then...
The second group was mostly people who died buried under debris, bled out from small but untreated injuries, and radiation exposure that had somehow not been as intense as others.
It would only get worse when the earth shook and cracked, the salt water rushing in then turning to toxic boiling haze on contact that would either parboil alive or poison everything it touched.
The worse part of it was this;
These were just the fatalities from the bombs going off. There were still a Religious War and Youth Rebellion against the tyrannical government going on. The country had already lost tens of millions of people in the last 20-odd hours, and was still going down deeper into a hole it couldn't climb out of without external help.
Then, in the following days, weeks and months, despair & depression borne suicides, disease, untreated injuries, savage criminality and other factors would kill off millions more.
{ SQ } - { Humanity loses ground } - { SQ }
One of the most catastrophic consequences of these geophysical temblors was the splitting of several pieces of land from each other, the creation of deep crevasses when the earth's under-layers liquefied causing collapses, sinkholes and long cracks all over the eastern quarter of the country.
The most violently different and climatically catastrophic change was the Grand Eastern Split that ran north to south, as described previously. The most dangerous problem of the Split was that it now connected the Lake Erie directly to the Atlantic through a circuitous route, several thousand miles long, that was riddled with lateral cracks formed in the same cataclysmic event. This meant that the water level and pressure in Lake Erie suddenly dropped as the winter-chilled, ice-covered soft water sought to follow the lowest point of the newly redone geography. The same was true for the hundreds of cracks along the Grand Eastern Split as they connected to existing rivers and lakes, or directly to the Atlantic ocean via shorter routes than the GES.
This was catastrophic for the ecosystems in the direct zone; it meant that in the coming decades nature would have barely 20% of the fresh ground water that it had before to sustain new plants or animals. For humans, this was worse as they needed farming and ranching to eat, while also needing the soft water to cook, wash, heal, and use in industrial process.
In a far wider geographic context, it was a hecatomb for the entire Saint-Lawrence River as it had already suffered declining water levels for four decades at this point due to over-consumption by cities all around the five Great Lakes that were its source. The SL Seaway traffic would also be badly impacted as cargo boats needed a steady reliable depth to navigate several of the shallower points between the Five Great Lakes of North America and their connecting rivers. This sudden loss of water level and flow strength would dry out many thousand square miles of lateral shorelines, cause wet towns to suddenly have dry harbors in the coming summer, and force a redesign of all commercial shipping on the Lakes towards smaller, lighter ships, thus creating a lot of jammed traffic all around.
The most visible and critical proof of the dangerous situation was that the Niagara Falls located between Ontario and New York State were suddenly only half as strong as they had been, even with the wintry climate having made much of the falling water curtain into towering icicles, the same way it did every year. Except that the temperature was warming up at great speeds, and the icicles began to melt, falling down in great crackling shards of clear white ice as if it were spring again. The Niagara power plant managers called their superiors in Toronto, to alert them of the situation, barely seven hours after the atomic blasts had occurred, but nobody had made the logical link between events yet.
The aquatic hecatomb and matching carbonized wasteland on the ground meant that for decades to come, the only reliable methods of transport in the 600 kilometer wide 'strike' area would be aircraft and trains, once the railroads were repaired by the military's efforts at reclaiming the sovereign land before somebody else. Since the country wanted to rebuild itself, even with radically altered borders, it needed the trains to bring in materials, tools and people since the vast majority of the new cracks that filled with water were just too small to pass anything bigger than a leisure boat. In fact, some crevasses in the bedrock were hundreds of yards deep, filled to the brim with cold salty ocean water, but barely wide enough for a man to row a kayak along its path without hitting the side with his oar.
This entire destabilization of the continental underpinnings with widespread burning-out of ground and arable land, followed in mere days by monsoon strength rainfalls, caused severe flash floods that washed-out the remaining topsoil into the new salt water crags. This widespread erosion and loss of cultivation, ranching and logging territory would force the USA to adopt far more stringent environmental protections, building codes and land-use zoning laws that were no longer negotiable (payable to corrupt elected officials) as before the explosions.
It would take concerted, centralized willpower, money, and leadership sustained for centuries to reclaim and rebuild the destroyed parts of America in these new raw, barren and unforgiving places.
There was no way that this would end well anymore.
Mission interrupted, yet again
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:20pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:20pm (noon)
Daleminton Hotel, suite #204
Park Royal, West Vancouver, BC, Canada
All the people assembled in the dining and kitchen areas of the suite were watching the wall mounted Internex screen with deadened eyes, their pallid faces and clammy skins more fitting for cadavers than living humans. The few who had been getting out into the corridor were called back in urgently, then pointed silently at the television, where a red emergency banner had appeared at the bottom of the image frame, writing plainly what had happened 8 minutes ago.
Washington DC had just been destroyed by atomic fire, and the repercussion were being felt in the air, water and ground of the entire planet. Just as the senior agent for CSIS was about to ask a question of his colleague from the ministry of defense, a loud noise emanated from the foundations of the building, spreading upwards throughout the structure, shaking furniture and decorative items alike.
An earthquake.
The violent destruction of the American capital had been so horrendously catastrophic that the entire northern tectonic plate, known as the 'Canadian Shield', was affected badly enough to inflict a 3,7 Richter scale temblor to the western quarter of Canada. The countryside nearer the blast was shaken far worse and suffered immense collateral damages that stunned the people, unused to such phenomenon as they were all located in geologically stable areas.
Lucas Wolenczak was looking at the screen in disbelief, gazing at the image of the massive artificial typhoon that had risen where DC once stood as if he were hallucinating. The gigantic column of gases, boiling water and incandescent debris was illuminated from within by arcing discharges of plasma like an old lava lamp or a novelty Tesla coil luminary. The camera was able, despite being located hundreds of kilometers away, to capture the fountain effect of the hailstorm of burning debris and raining ashes, making it look like some eerie gothic spectacle from a Victorian era theater play. You only needed the dancing dead and a pipe organ made of bones to complete the funeste tableau.
After about five minutes more, cellphones began to ring, the Canadians being called by their agencies to report and receive new orders in regards to the emerging situation. It was called a national civil security crisis, despite happening inside the neighbor's borders. Nobody asked why. The answer was bloody evident, as shown on TV without the need for comments from any news anchor, if there were still one on the job at this point of US history.
{ SQ } - { This can't be happening, can it? } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:25pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)
Forgetting all the people in the room, their identities and the significance of their jobs, the stunned teenager stood up to walk woodenly towards the main fridge, leaning on his cane as he ambled around unsteadily. Taking out the carton of doughnuts he had ordered in yesterday, he passed it to – somebody – then handed over the carton of mixed muffins, juice & milk bottles, cream jug, and the last two croissants in the carton that had been present when he took the suite...
When again had he arrived? How many days?
It wasn't important; not anymore.
Pointing one junior CSIS agent at the upper cupboards, he told him: "Get the thermal carafes down and brew some coffee for the group. The machine has a setting for 12 cup bottles. Things are gonna get dicey and we'll need all the fuel we can get, before were carried away by events. It's better not to have a lineup in front of the dispenser, if we can avoid it. Being deprived of caffeine isn't something we should try to live with, right now." Turning to a second CSIS agent, he old the man: "Go to the empty suites next door, on either side; stoke ablaze the wood stoves, set out the dry foodstuffs on the dining table, and light up the TV on CNN or any American channel that still works. The NCIS and DXS teams can crash in one for the time being, you CSIS and RCMP guys get the other one."
Sitting back at his chair by the principal oven, the boy glared at everybody in sight. "What? Do you all really think that this is my first life-threatening situation? I was hospitalized in fear for my life four different times in 16 years. I know how to bunker down like the best of you. Now, stop using your hands for ass-warmers and move! The hotel's about to sound their storm-shutter alarms, forcing people either in or out, so make up your minds. And call your teams outside to tell them what happened, so they can understand why everybody's acting like a headless chickens all-a-sudden."
Jack Dalton was still stuck on the twin-like resemblance between Angus and Lucas that had never been truly evident when speaking through a vidphone. Then, viewing the explosion in Washington DC had pretty much fried every last circuit in his brain, so getting bossed around by a kid, even if his ideas were good, wasn't the thing he wanted to hear right now. Rolling his shoulders and setting his face in a grim pose, he walked a single pace towards the teenager when the boy locked eyes with him, the unearthly blueness of the pupils sending a shiver of dread down his back. Like any professional soldier, Jack had been taught that if anything scared him that much, it needed to be immediately cowed into submission then paid-off or destroyed so it didn't threaten his mission anymore. The USMC worked that way, the Delta Forces had drilled that into him without pause, and the decade he spent undercover for the CIA reinforced this at all pre-ops briefings.
Presently, Jack Dalton was scared senseless by a lot of things.
By the racist bigotry in America that never seemed to die, no matter what they did.
By the fanatic religious cults that cropped up every year, always more murderous than the last.
By the spontaneous civil war tearing apart his homeland, leaving precious little behind.
By the nuclear blast that tore apart all hopes of fixing their injured, dying society in his lifetime.
By the continents cracking asunder, changing the environment for ever without hope of repairs.
And finally, by this rich, super-genial, strange and amoral child, who had so much power over them all that it seemed the laws for ordinary people didn't apply to him any longer.
With all his US Marines warfare training, all his martial arts, the Delta Forces CQC specialization, the CIA's tradecraft for espionage & sabotage, all compounding to 32 years of armed/spying services to the nation, and he was now without any idea how to move forward. The enormity of everything he saw and heard literally crippled him, until the boy had moved around and spoken.
That rebooted his mind, but not the right way.
He couldn't affect anything else in his mission, career or life, but this he could change, and with relative ease, too. Like all big, powerful, men passed the age of 30 who knew how to fight with guns, knives or their hands, the default fall-back psychology was to ignore what he couldn't change, instead bullying the weakest persons in sight until – somebody – found a way to repair the damages, or he, the big man, had evacuated enough stress from his mind to think straight again.
In his normal everyday life, Jack Dalton wasn't a bully, not like many he knew. He never picked on kids, didn't stalk women, and always kept a respectful distance between himself and the geeks' latest creations so he didn't cause a malfunction or get maimed accidentally. In his missions, he gladly served as Mack's sounding board, even supporting him during his weirder, insomnia-driven, periods of cogitation when the younger male made it look like the universe was inverted and it was actually working better like that.
Today wasn't a normal day.
Today wasn't a regular mission.
Today, Jack's stress buffer couldn't cope, nor purge fast enough to avoid using the old inbred, culturally programmed default psychology. The kid had started all this by being weird, indocile, rebellious and out of hand. To his feverish short-circuited mind, the solution was simplistic in the extreme: make the kid a child again. Make the boy 'ordinary'. Make him behave like a 16 year old 'should' in usual, everyday America, then curb harshly and terminally that damnable autonomy and rebelliousness of his.
MAYBE...
Jack Dalton could possibly have held back at the last second.
It's possible he would have recoiled, never laying a hand on Lucas Wolenczak at all.
He wasn't usually a bully or an ageist bigot, and he despised child beaters.
As far as Riley had known him, he had never hit her while he was dating her mother Diane, nor any child he had a relation with.
He had once threatened Angus with building a woodshed in his partner's backyard, so he could drag him into it to tan his hide with a belt if the younger man was ever so reckless as to almost kill himself with a crazy-assed plan - again. That was 2 years ago, Mac had been 25 at the time. As an adult, and a professional soldier at that, Angus could not be described as a child, nor a victim of anybody, in such a clearly untrue way. Not in his relationship with Jack at any rate. The only person in his entourage to have ever willingly victimized Angus was his father, James MacGyver, and that was by absence, abandonment, faking his death for 15 years, and manipulating his son from the shadows; never by hitting him or handing him over to a violent tutor of some sort.
All these factoids and maudlin thoughts were of no use in the situation.
In front of desperate friends who tried to move to restrain him, in front of witnesses who shouted at him to stop, Jack became like a bloodhound in a hunt. He was myopically focused on the child that every instinct inside his being told him caused all this mess, and was the biggest threat to take out in the room, to keep the mess from getting worse.
He stepped forward one whole pace, a whole yard, with anger, violence and male dominance written plainly on his face for all to see.
Then his eyesight was gone for a fraction of a second, filled by a flash of blue light so harsh it hurt his eyes too bad to keep them open anymore. Reflexively closing his eyes and raising both hands to shield his face from the injurious glare, his defensive instincts also kicked in, overriding his basal need for dominance and control over what he had perceived as the cause of the disaster. Before his sight was even returned, he felt wrap around his upper body two strong arms ending in long, slender fingers that he knew so well as to recognize them by feel. He and Mac had done first aid and rescue maneuvers on each other so many times in the last five years, since their EOD patrol days, that both could recognize their partner's hands and touch in the worse situations.
FEAR.
That was the message from his buddy's shaking, demanding side-hug wrapped around his torso, and the hard fists, tightly clenched in his button-down shirt, as he dragged Jack out of suite #204 and into the other one next door, the #202.
Something had just happened to make Jack blind, and it scared the bejeezus out of Mac and the rest of their team. He could hear Riley crying despite all her efforts not to give in, and Bozer was trying to console her without patronizing or silencing her. This was bad, since the young woman hadn't cried in front of him since she was 11 years old, after a bad fight between Diane and a drunken Elwood had turned violent.
"The fuck happened in there?" Kensi Blye asked/ordered in her Marines-in-charge tone that even her partners in LA knew to heed, given how seldom she used it.
"Beam weapon hidden inside the cane pommel." was Sebastian Lund's concise and exact answer, making everything both clear and nebulous at the same time for everybody in the new suite.
"Excuse me, agent Lund, for asking you to repeat that, but could you..." Jack blinked his eyes repeatedly, hoping somehow that the movement in the eyelid muscles would have some sort of positive effect. The alternative was permanent glare-blindness, just as if he had been looking into the focal lens of a laser array back at the Phoenix laboratory. "I don't want to be a bother, but if you could spell that out at length? And slower too, for those of us without anything higher than a technical college degree? I'd be much obliged." the 50 year old asked lightly, trying to make fun of the situation to avoid a breakdown of his own.
Sighing deeply in weariness, Sebastian took his glasses off to rub the bridge of his nose, as he sat at the foot of the dining table. The rest of the two field teams spread around the table, with MacGyver squatting besides Jack to maintain his side-hug around the older man, even if looser, less panicked, and less needy at this point. Kensi sat on a chair with Marty standing behind her, his arms wrapped loosely around her neck as he laid his chin atop her head. Tammy sat by Sebastian, patting his arm in silent support as she looked him over for signs of injury or impending trouble, a habit she had developed last year after he began field work by her side. Wilt guided Riley to sit on Jack's left side so she could hold his hand, while taking the chair on her left at the head of the table with the wood stove at his back.
Folding the arms of his glasses, Sebastian opted to keep them in his hands for the moment. After seeing the nuclear explosion on TV, he wasn't certain he wanted to see anything else today. In fact, going to bed and closing his eyes for ten to fourteen hours sounded just like the best medicine he could think of in the present catastrophe.
"Okay, it's like this" spoke the forensics tech in tired, weary words. "Doctor Wolenczak has a new cane; we all saw that in the vidphone call from Sunday. Well, besides a retractable blade in the lower end, he also put an emitter for a pulse weapon inside the pommel of his cane. By the information I have from classified sources working at the design and manufacturing of these things, the flash of bluish light that you described is the lowest setting available, at 1% power. It's only used when testing the weapon's strength, frequency, modulation and coloration before handing out to soldiers. It's also used as a 'warning shot' in case you want to deter an incoming threat without causing fatality."
"So, the kid flashed Dalton with a laser pointer?" asked Deeks, not sure he was pleased with the explanation. It had to be worse than that. It certainly sounded worse.
"No, oh Hell no!" Lund responded, upset and fearful at the same time. "That's not a keychain gimmick for teachers to point at a blackboard! That's a genuine pulse pistol he's managed to miniaturize into his cane's handle, not a damned toy! Pay attention when I say things! Dammit all! Are you people really in that much of a hurry to get yourselves killed? This boy doesn't kid around! He doesn't have toys in his bags! Remember; he tried to kill somebody for the first time at age 4! Kidding around with lasers and pulse emitters isn't a 'thing' with him! When he aims at you, he means to kill or maim, not tickle you!"
Whelming his courage, Angus asked in whispered words; "Okay. He flashed Jack with a pulse. Not a laser, a pulse. That's important for us. Lasers are thin, medium powered but very long range and extremely accurate on the targeting ring down-range. Pulses are thick at the muzzle, very powerful but with a short, limited range before they lose cohesion. They can be fired in strafing runs or area shapes like cones and fans, unlike a laser that's always a thin continuous line. That means, Jack has low-yield retinal overload, as if he looked into the flash module of a professional camera when it triggered. At only 1% power, the pulse should blind him for only 10 to 30 minutes, tops. A laser of any strength would have scored the inside of the eye, inflicting permanent damage on the light receptors, but a pulse doesn't work like that. He'll be okay, then. Given time, he'll recover."
Patting Jack on the shoulder in sympathy, Angus stood up and shook his long legs to return some feeling to them. After a sigh of relief, he placed a hand on his older friend's head, telling him kindly "Keep your eyes firmly closed until I tell you. I'm gonna find you a washcloth in the bathroom to make a cold compress for your eyes, to cool them down and help keep out the ambient light."
As the blond male walked away, Tammy Gregorio called after him "We'll keep the artificial lights shut until he's okay. The flames in the wood stoves are good enough for the rest of us to move by. Speaking of which, wasn't there supposed to be food in here? I'm getting in the fridge, anybody wanna help get the stuff out for the evening? I got this gut feeling we're here for a while now."
"You want to eat after what just happened?" queried a tearful Riley, askance at the concept. The young woman had just come a hair's width from losing her surrogate dad, she wasn't in a good mood, not that there had been anything good in the last 4 days.
Jack himself inserted himself in the conversation, again with a chipper tone; "Finger food! Or doughnuts, please. I'm gonna have to occupy my hands for a while, and I just don't do paperclips like Mac. I'm Texan; from where I grew up, we eat when we're stressed out."
"I hear ya" Marty said, sympathizing with the older man. "I'm the same way. If we were at home, I'd be cooking for ya'll right about now." Giving his fiancée a loving squeeze around the neck, he turned to Gregorio, offering to help her ferry foodstuffs to the table since he was already standing and antsy for action anyways.
They were halfway done with spreading out the reserves of finger-food from the fridge and pantry, with one 12-cup carafe of coffee done and the second being brewed, when Angus came back from the bathroom, walking slowly and unsteadily, staying near walls and furniture so he could support himself if he became unstable. He took one of Jack's hands to guide the cold compress in place so he could hold it himself then sat on the man's right side, letting out a sickly sigh as he finally stopped moving.
With pursed lips and a pinched expression visible around the compress, Jack asked firmly "Angus? Did you get sick in the toilet? You were there a long time, and you were walking weird when you came back. The carpets here are an inch thick, but I'm pretty damned sure that's not your usual tread I was hearing. And you smell of luxury mouthwash, like after a visit at the dentist, not the brands you buy when you're on an infiltration op. The hotel soap's odor is stuck on the cuffs of your shirt, you were careless when you washed your hands after vomiting, but before wetting the towel for me. Did I miss anything?"
Everybody looked at Jack with round eyes, the sudden silence stretching weirdly until the man shrugged it off gamely. "What? You people thought that being blind was new to me? Pffftt! I was made blind with a chemical for a month during the second year of Delta Force training, as preparation for surviving crippling battle injuries or contamination from the drug labs we would be raiding in south-America. We were all forced to learn how to read Braille print, with extra credits for those who could actually write it in reply. We were set to live inside our own barracks, with a specialist tutor, for 30 days straight to acclimatize to working, fighting and patching ourselves up when blind, or with functioning eyes but in 0% lighting situations."
As the team members were all silent, he added with a bratty grin "And I always had a good ear, despite rumors otherwise. It's just that hearing things, understanding them, and then actually doing what you're told like a good little boy are three different things, you know..."
Groans of disbelief rewarded his performance as he extended his free hand to pat Mac's thigh, giving his buddy a good strong squeeze to reassure him, and himself, that everything would be okay. Still though, the blue-eyed wunderkind had thought he'd be sick all alone and not tell anybody, especially his favorite brotherly Jack? Nahn-ahn, that wan'nt gonna happen!
"Angus, dearie," asked Jack in fake-sweet tones as if he were speaking to his girlfriend, much to the amusement of everybody. "You still haven't told me how you feel, and if you need anything. Now come on soldier, man up and tell me so I can help you." he finished in his regular strong voice.
Folding his arms atop the table, Angus put down his forehead on the improvised pillow, sighing a deep, soul-weary exhale. "We almost lost you, Jack. I don't know by what miracle Doctor Wolenczak didn't use a lethal setting when he shot you, but the truth is... He had you, Jack... He had you, right in the face, and if it had been any other type of weapon... Bullet don't have stun settings or disappear after leaving the gun barrel. By all rights, you should be dead, Jack, not cracking jokes about stress-eating your way to a coronary."
Jack Dalton did not need his eyes to see clearly just how shaken his entire little family was, and it was all his fault. He knew full well that his brain had disjuncted for a second, making him blame everything wrong or hurtful in the universe on the teenager sitting in front of him. The kid was their mission, but he wasn't cooperating with anybody from the USA anymore, not after having his head illegally put on a wanted poster like in the Old West era. Even the Canadians were having a hard time despite their patience and friendliness. Now, Andrea Dre herself was barely making any headway with him. Then the nuke exploded in DC, and Jack's mind melted down with it.
He really was lucky the young man hadn't blown up is head like a water balloon.
Holding the cold compress across his eyes with his left hand, the Delta Forces veteran passed his right hand up and down his younger friend's back, trying to help Mac recover from his fright. At that moment, Jack realized that if Wolenczak had been the least little bit more bloodthirsty, Angus would have gotten to him only fast enough to keep his decapitated corpse from hitting the floor. That image almost made him sick; the phantom of a devastated MacGyver stepping in to stop Jack's ill-thought move, only to give one last hug to a mutilated cadaver that didn't even have a face to be identified anymore.
Making a stentorian effort to hold his bile in, the older male gave his friend a loving squeeze on the nape of his neck, leaving his hand in place as a way to connect with him emotionally, and maybe steady his own disoriented mind as well. Their little family had come close to the irrevocable because he'd acted stupidly, and none of them could afford a mistake like that again. Not in this job, and certainly not on this mission. The little genius across the table wouldn't allow them a second chance, not after what he already let pass, whatever his reasons had been. The teenager's patience with American violence, bigotry and domination over his life had run out a week ago; the teams were running on the hope he still had some to lend, but that mortgage would have a price. A price that Jack had no doubt foolishly pushed outside of their capacity to pay, unless it was their souls they paid with. That would never happen, because he'd go deep dark on the kid before that. But, what retaliation measures had the boy already placed in prevision of exactly that kind of situation? Would his family survive?
Jack smelled the fresh coffee that was being poured, the unmistakable aroma of high class beans hitting his nostrils in a refreshing way that helped to take his mind off its circular path to nowhere. "I'll have me some of that there Java juice. And anything solid that I can eat with one hand, when I'm not drinking. Unless Mac wants to feed me like a pasha reclining on a couch, like the Romans did. That'd be fun, but the NCIS team would probably ask questions about, you know, us..."
Tammy smirked widely as she poured herself a cup, saying at the same time "Oh, don't worry! After sharing a plane and a deployment dorm with you guys over 24 hours, were all waaayyy past questions anymore. In fact, I don't think we'd want the answers anyhow."
Riley blinked uncertainly, trying to dry her eyes as Wilt took a pair of coffee cups that he fixed to the liking of his friends, then setting them near Jack and Angus. She still wasn't sure it was time for jokes, but everybody else seemed to be moving along, so she let it go. As Wilt prepared coffees for her and himself, Riley's attention turned towards Sebastian Lund, who still held his glasses between long, immobile fingers, deep in thought about what had just happened to their homeland.
"Agent Lund? Are you alright? You seem lost inside your own thoughts." the young female hacker asked softly, he voice still unsteady from the emotional shock she had experienced.
Putting on his glasses, the forensics tech gave the woman who had pulled him from his depressive mindset a kind smile. "I was trying to mentally compute something, and the results aren't good. I need to see the world map, if neither of you mind."
Kensi replied with a vague gesture with her coffee cup, as she bit into a plain butter croissant. Marty, still standing behind her was similarly disposed, nodding silently his assent. Tammy bit her muffin hard enough to hold it in her mouth as she was pouring cream into her coffee, so she had a free hand to pull the wired tablet off it's dock, pushing it to Sebastian so he could access the net. The entire DXS team made gestures of agreement too, although they were distracted at the time.
Lips pursed and eyes squinted in disapproval at what he saw, Lund grabbed the cup of coffee somebody had put in front of him, fixed just as he liked thus telling him it was Gregorio's doing. Sipping the warm liquid with an appreciative sigh, he ignored the offer of more solid food as he gazed into the blurry depths of the Internex Mappe Mundia. He frowned more, as his research told him things he really didn't want to see.
"We have a problem that will affect the entire continent for millions of years to come." Sebastian told the teammates in a miserable tone of voice that conveyed the gravity fully. "The earthquake we first felt was just the first of hundreds to come. Look at this." he swiped the tablet, sending the image to the wall-mounted monitor, automatically reducing the live newsfeed to mortise position in the left side column. "This is North America before the blast, and besides it is what we now have. Can anyone tell me what that means?" he asked like a geography teacher speaking to his class.
Wilt Bozer squeaked like a mouse with its tail in a trap as he saw the images side-by-side. "What in the ever-loving Heaven's pearly white gates is that? Is that our country? Can it be? Mac! Can a nuke do that? I can understand a crater, but this? What the fuck did they use over there?"
Angus raised his head to look at the image, already knowing what he would see. The successive small temblors that had been coming in from the east were too subtle for the others to feel, but his brain had been chemically and electrically unbalanced since the last time Murdoch had poisoned him. He felt most of them pass in the last 15 minutes, and that was what made him seasick. Seeing Jack get blasted in the face hadn't helped his mood, but wasn't the real reason he had vomited his breakfast, not that he planned on telling the team as there was an absolute nothing any of them could do to heal him. The other three would just angst and worry about him for no good results, and they needed to concentrate on reality as much as they could, at this point.
Swallowing a bit to wet his throat, the young man said "What you're seeing Bozer is the result of multiple Synthium warheads exploding in close proximity, at multiple depths in the ground, on a scheduled pattern from the deepest up to the surface. The effect wanted is the same as open-pit mining for rock to grind into cement powder. The deep blasts create voids that strain the substructure while creating a craterized pattern for the debris to fall into like bowls. Then, the middle and upper blasts crack and liberate the rock from the cliff face, making it fall into the trenches just blown out, instead of spreading chaotically all over the mining pit's work floor. It's not the only blasting technique, and not the best either, but it's one of the oldest methods in use. Professional miners actually prefer to synchronize multiple small charges to detonate all at once, in an effort to crack the stone while limiting the probability of shrapnel flying off the exploding work-face. In this case, they used the other method because it's historically proven to cause a lot of flying debris, a huge cloud of dust suspended in the air for a long time, and massive structural damages to the under-layers of the work pit."
Sebastian Lund added, quite morbidly; "And their calculations worked. They must have had a geophysicist in their team, because this just reeks of an attempted synthetic geodesic fault designed to bring about a solicited pyroclastic event."
"A what doing what else?" asked Jack, Tammy, Marty and Kensi together.
Rolling his eyes at them, the New Orleans native explained in detail; "It seems that somebody wanted to not only crack the tectonic plate to send Washington DC into the ocean the same way Atlantis supposedly ended, they also tried to finish that by having their nukes dig down enough to breach the magma mantle to cause the emergence of a lava flow. They wanted to ignite a super-volcano to incinerate anybody trying to take over DC, and mark the city's grave like Mount Vesuvius did to Pompeii in Roman antiquity. Whoever had that idea was both an unstable suicidal bastard, and an egomaniac of unmitigated proportions."
Riley griped nastily as she grabbed her coffee cup with both hands: "Three guesses whose decision that was, and the first two don't count."
{ SQ } - { Harsh realities of survival } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:25pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)
Lucas marched angrily to his office, slamming the doors shut and locked behind him, then sat imperiously in the padded wheeled chair. He put on the meta-glasses, ordering the neural interface to its fullest activation so he could process in seconds what would normally take hours by mundane methods of paper, pens and a tabletop calculator. These bastards thought they could attack him and threaten his welfare, his health and his very life AGAIN after everything he had endured! How in Everburning Hell's bloody blue blazes did they hope to get away with this? Because, you know, there would be retaliations, many, many, many brutally cruel retaliations. With an 'S' pluralized, cuz there'd be so many all at once.
Concentrating his well justified rage at the data streams passing in front of his eyes, he sent a series of aggressive, commanding emails and SMS to several dozen managers and supervisors in his multiple companies, especially the heavy manufacturing divisions in Sault-Sainte-Marie, Sarnia, Detroit and the central control hub in Buffalo. He took the time, mere seconds in truth, to elaborate a set of detailed plans for taking his 'weak' or isolated facilities to a war stance so that they wouldn't be robbed or hijacked from his holdings by local thugs that imagined themselves warlords in the same vein as ISIS, the Taliban, or Somali pirate bosses.
The teenager sent to all his remote facilities a series of designs that would allow them to build manufacturing modules similar to the one he had in the Daleminton, but without any neural circuitry or crystals in the machine. These new generation, high performance 3D printer/router/mill systems would allow the employees to download blueprints from the mother node in Buffalo then mill them to specs to assemble into either man-portable weapons or mounted automated defenses. In both cases, he needed to arm and bolster his employees and land holdings lest he see them overrun by riffraff in the coming days.
The face of Shay Mosley came to mind, along with many others.
Making a face as if he had just sucked on a raw lemon slice, the adolescent directed his potent mind to the deeper, secret registers of the Wise Heritage & Trust manor in Buffalo, so he could access the central archival & inventory that his great-grand-father had left behind when he so conveniently disappeared in the Early 1970's. Accessing the sheltered, heavily ciphered part of the archives was no longer as painstaking as it used to be four years ago when he first found it. Having both a mathematical system that matched the source code and a functional neural interface to adequately synthonize the frequencies in the circuit boards made the transit from normal CPU's to the ancient servers far less onerous than anyone else would suffer if they tried.
Once inside the virtual part of his heritage, the teenager looked immediately for three things that would tip the balance of power in his favor;
1- The keys and codes to open the nitrogen-sterilized dry-storage garages & vaults hidden under each facility that the Wise Conglomerate had built since 1934 onwards, once F. had taken control of the familial businesses. These massive secret and armored garages supposedly held vehicles and weapons from the pre- World War II era that the Canadian, American or Allied governments had chosen to not purchase, or had ordered then canceled when the war was won. In either case, every manor, industry, manufacture and warehouse in his holdings was supposed to sit atop a sizable cache of armaments that, even if antiquated, would still work well enough to push back terrorists and organized crime. Against a national army or the UEO, time only could tell.
2- The fully detailed structural blueprints & defensive plans for each of the facilities owned under the Wise banner. His ancestors had fled racist and religious persecution in Europe after being ransacked, beaten and kicked out of their homes violently by the country's military, so they had learned to build bunkered storage, people shelters and hidden reinforced workshops to serve as armories or infirmaries. Their secrets were buried deep in the cement foundations under the official basement levels, or stuffed inside of extra thick brick walls that seemed built for eternity but were in fact two walls with hollow passages and chambers between them. These armored shelters would become the dormitories, dining halls, infirmaries and shooting galleries from which his employees would resist assault from the outside world, just as his ancestors had foreseen. Once he had the plans, he would reformat them with color codes then send those edited versions to the managers of each compound to begin allocating the extra space according to the lists he appended to the designs.
3- Chemical weapons recipes. Franklin Henry Wise had been a world celebrated surgeon, apothecary, homeopath, naturopath and eugenicist. Presently, in 2020, Lucas could confirm easily that three of these professional certifications had absolutely no value whatsoever. Homeopathy & naturopathy were the same foul quackery that had no value, despite that certain universities in Canada and the USA did offer certification and the title 'doctor' upon completion. It was still useless magical thinking based on pushing pills made of baked flour, sugar, dye and garden plant extracts with almost no medicinal effects possible, given how the concentration of ingredients was so diluted. Eugenics was the medical science concerned with creating 'perfect' or 'penultimate' organic entities, usually for the purpose of having the best soldiers or docile slave laborers. Suffice it to say that F. had a lot of sympathies with the Nazi cause, and many SS officers were close friends of his. Sick, twisted, blood-betraying bastard of a race-traitor that he was. However, the profession of apothecary was modernized, in quite an easy transition, to become chemists, then more recently pharmacists. On that, great-grand-father had been rather gifted when it came to understanding atoms, molecules, DNA and the interactions of synthetic compounds with the living biology of plants, animals or humans. His qualifications as a surgeon had been amongst the best of his epoch, and would still be considered quite excellent this day. This meant that with his political and philosophical leanings, the treasonous criminal had worked on several variations of known chemical weapons, both to increase the lethality of the existing formulae as well as finding antidotes & preemptive defenses. Given his masterful qualifications and astute mind, Wise's work-product would still be today an award-winning innovation that few could match, or find protections against. There was a compilation of all these exhaustive workes in the archive, but Lucas now needed to parse through them so he could choose the useful ones, then send out only the edited 'sanitized' versions to his facilities where they would be manufactured and loaded into the defensive weaponry.
The young man was done with jobs number 1 and 2 when an alarm sounded both virtually and physically to bring his awareness to focus on the imminent threat the automated surveillance apps had identified. It took barely two seconds for the boy to see, understand and commit an emergency exit from Cyberspace, then a whole minute to reorient himself enough to sit still as he planned the response to the disaster.
The Great Eastern Split was going to destroy Lake Erie by poisoning it with salted sea water, then all the Saint-Laurent river hydrological basin beyond Erie. As far as all the data, people, vehicles, buildings and weapons he could know and understand, Lucas could only come up with a single conclusion, and it would not be pretty or without cost. A cost to himself and everybody else, no matter what came next. He rose form his chair, gripping his armament-cane tightly, and marched out into known adversity yet again.
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:25pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:25pm (noon)
The senior CSIS agent in charge (name/rank classified) of overseeing the survival and welfare of the teenaged genius Lucas Wolenczak was almost at the point of tearing out his receding hairline. Of all the people he had expected to lose their mind and attack the kid, a Delta Forces veteran with a decade of CIA plus four years of DXS under his belt wasn't it! What the fucking Hells had taken over Dalton's brain to try jumping on the brat like that?
A wide blue flash.
That was all him, his boys and the pair of Canadian marines had seen before MacGyver had managed to manhandle his defective partner out of the suite altogether. And lucky for them that he did. Wolenczak looked like he wanted to go to war over this, and wouldn't back down from it any time soon. At least, the worse he did was grab his tea set and storm into his damned lair with the doors closed tightly behind him.
For now.
Like any rabid beast, hunger and an innate instinct to depredate the environment would have the boy stalking the rooms of the suite soon enough. They had better be prepared with apologies and gifts for when that happened or there would be bloodshed, he could predict it. What in Tarnation would they be obliged to give the kid to keep him from spreading poisons and malfeasance around? He took out his smartphone, dialing the number for the HQ of CSIS that nobody knew existed, not the public front-piece that was tagged with a big logo in Ottawa. What was the point of being a 'secret service' if everybody, their dog and the mutt's fleas, could find you to plant mikes and bombs in the walls?
After three tones had sounded in the line, he entered an alphanumeric pass-code followed by a verbal pass-phrase singular to his person, which was done simultaneously to the phone's camera filming his visage for facial recognition apps to confirm his identity and security clearance. Once he was inside the first layer of the system, he sent a SMS to his superior, the British Columbia regional director, and waited for the man to hijack his line to update him on the situation in the Daleminton. Their principal had just gotten his hackles up, and that wasn't gonna be good for a while.
"Special Supervisory Agent. What is your situation?" came the sudden, unheralded voice from the phone's speaker. It was indistinguishable since it was actually an electronically constructed voice to avoid any listener from recording the voice print to try to access their systems, vehicles or buildings with such a high level ID. While it was not identifiable to a specific person, the tonalities and emotional accentuation's were still present, and the speaker was clearly not happy to be called.
Taking a deep breath, the SSA explained succinctly: "We were watching the TV when the explosion happened." No need to say which explosion, everybody knew. "Then doctor Wolenczak began issuing orders to get out the food and bunker down for a long day of damage control. At that point, DXS agent Dalton had some sort of episode that had him move aggressively towards Wolenczak with violent intent clear in movements and body language. Doctor Wolenczak used his cane to shoot some sort wide-area blue flash in Dalton's face to stop him. At that point, DXS agent MacGyver grabbed Dalton and removed both DXS and NCIS teams from the suite, relocating to #202 next door. Following that, doctor Wolenczak has isolated himself inside his workroom, doors locked. End report."
The voice from the telephone was angry, but not at the agent. "Bloody redneck southernist micks! Dalton's from Texas, in the deep part of it, and it shows! Every time he has a problem he either bullies or bullshits his way through it, without a care in the world for the consequences! If you wonder why he left Delta Forces, I can tell you it wasn't his choice, and the CIA recuperated him because they thought he'd make a good 'expendable' in case they needed to send in an anonymous head-basher to clean-up after a failed operation. The cold cunt Thornton grabbed him for DXS because of the same reason, plus she had planned to betray the Organization from the moment she set foot inside. I can confirm that the CIA did not fight in any ways to maintain Dalton inside their mantle. Now that Matty-the-Hun is in charge over there, don't expect any improvements. She was let go by the Company because she tends to get too emotionally attached to her 'morals' and her operatives. In a choice between humanity and her people, it's an iffy gamble as to which she'd choose."
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:30pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:30pm (noon)
Their – supposedly – classified & secret conversation was interrupted by the work room doors being yanked opened by an irate adolescent genius with a continent-sized chip on his thin shoulder.
"Spy! We have a shitstorm in progress! I need to talk to your boss or higher in Ottawa Right-Fucking-Now or half of Canada and most of the US north-east will die-off in the coming months, no later than spring thaw 2021!" the boy exclaimed aloud as he trod menacingly towards the CSIS senior agent. Given that he was clutching his infamous cane like he was going to bash somebody soon, in a manner that had the hatchet blade aimed towards him while serving as a knuckle guard, yes the teenager was a credibly menacing figure just now. The agent was aware afterall of what the weapon could do.
Proffering the smartphone towards the teen, the agent said simply "He's online; speak to him".
"Boss-man!" Lucas started up sarcastically in as caustic a tone as he could manage in the circumstances, which was a lot given he could modulate his voice for thirty different languages. "I have some bad news for you, just as much as the USA! And this is more important than the cesspit on fire in DC! The lake Erie shoreline has been breached. When the continental plate shook in repercussion from the Synthium blasts, it caused a massive curving trench, but also several hundred smaller cross-cut trenches that go from the blast epicenter to the large perimeter trench. That means that as we speak, the pressure levels in Lake Erie's fresh soft water basin is no longer positive, it's inferior to the pressure of the in-rushing water from the combined new trenches. And the in-coming waters are all oceanic, all salted, so it will poison the Lake Erie, then go down Niagara Falls and poison all the Saint-Laurent river basin until it returns to the Atlantic in the mid-north, in the middle of Canada's Maritimes. This will kill off all your agriculture, most of your industry, and millions of humans from lack of water, lack of food and, of course, catastrophic irreversible unemployment as the environment changes without any hopes of coming back to normal."
There was silence at the other end of the line for a few critical seconds as the person was looking at his computer screens and a large wall holding a dozen Internex monitors to survey the entirety of North-America during the Civil Wars and Unrest periods in progress. After close to a minute, the artificial voice asked "What can we do? According to the initial seismic recordings and satellite imagery of the zone, the trench is several hundred yards wide by a handful of kilometers deep. We have nothing that can plug a hole that big. Unless you're a wizard that can conjure a humongous stone wall in a blink, it's pretty much a forgone conclusion that the ecology and society of the north-eastern seaboard will be changed forever from now on."
Lucas made nasty smile that showed a lot of teeth as he looked into the eyes of the senior CSIS agent in front of him, even though it was the phone he was talking with. "Oh, I'm not a wizard, Boss-man. But maybe I could become a druid for a few hours. I have a plan in mind, but I need to have the permission of Andrea Dre and the UEO Cabinet to do it. It requires access to the orbital defense grid, specifically the Copernicus-I manned space-stations. The beam weapons arrays could be the solution, if they're handled with finesse and an astute mind. Like mine. Having the US agents MacGyver, Lund and Davis from suite #202 could help the process along, and increase my odds of actually succeeding."
The voice from the phone came out cold and hard; "SSA! See that he gets what he needs locally. I will call the UEO building in NCQ myself, it will be faster than if I get Ottawa in the mix. Over." and the line went dead.
Shrugging carelessly, the young genius declared "I will be in my workroom, getting the project ready for deployment. Come talk to me the moment things are settled on your end. And send the three US stooges in the moment you find them. No need for an introduction, I know what they are, and why they're here already." The menace in his tone of voice could have been recognized by a deaf man.
The CSIS senior agent tapped a button on his phone screen, sending an aggressive SMS to his subordinate outside in the corridor. He had a conference with Andrea Dre to set up, pronto.
{ SQ } - { Waking up to the threat they faced } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:35pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:35pm (noon)
Before anybody could make any further comments, there was a pressing knock on the suite's main door, causing the TV to automatically put as principal image the view from the security camera that Lucas had paid to have installed two days ago. It was one of the junior CSIS agents come from suite #204 to speak with them. Because he was still standing, and within three paces of the door, Marty Deeks walked over to open the portal, letting the upset, angry man inside.
Without preamble, the middle-aged man gave orders in terse tones that brooked no challenges. "Okay, people, there's a change in plans. Doctor Wolenczak is pissed at the recent attempt on his welfare by your man over there, but he's willing to overlook the event in lieu of helping The Greater Good of the continent. As such, Dalton, Bozer, Gregorio, Blye and Deeks are all restricted to this suite and will not leave it unless escorted by Canadian officials bearing the formal & clear authority to do so. MacGyver, Lund and Davis are going back to suite #204 to assist Doctor Wolenczak in his efforts to limit the damages that America's suicide has done to the landmass and environmental patterns. Any objections you have are to be sent in writing to your directors who will then argue the case with mine."
His face getting stormier, and his voice lowering menacingly, the agent added "If you move in any ways differently than the orders I just gave you, you will be declared as hostile agents of an enemy state committing active aggression against us, to be terminated with extreme prejudice. Clear?"
It didn't get any clearer than that; death threats were pretty much a daily occurrence in their jobs, it didn't need further explanations. The three people mentioned took their work packs to follow the CSIS agent. As they reached the door, loud civil defense sirens began wailing in the distance, and the television was taken over by a national emergency protocol that forcibly changed it over to the national Radio Canada channel in english.
Public address begins:
The Prime Minister of Canada, Justin Trudeau, appeared haggard and bleary. In a wavering voice that croaked a few times as he spoke, he declared the establishment of MARTIAL LAWS in Canada immediately.
"Beginning right now, wholesalers & grocers are to implement the sectorial civil defense plans set for rationing fuels, foodstuffs, medicines and critical construction materials necessary for the government to maintain public services and societal peace."
"Any person moving on public lands with a firearm must be its licensed owner, or else it must be stored safely inside a vehicle or dwelling. Otherwise, the weapons concerned will be seized, and a search of the person's properties & workplace will be carried out to find any other guns used irresponsibly. These rules will be applied more loosely, given the troubled times that surround us, if the persons under investigation were physically on their private property or defending against criminals, like a burglary. In order to facilitate the work of police and soldiers, a centralized national gun registry will be established to catalog ALL weapons, including ALL firearms regardless of age, make or provenance, crossbows, bows and spear-guns. Please note that Airsoft style gun replicas and slingshots will not be required to have either a permit nor be registered, but we encourage you very strenuously to not walk around in public with such things anymore until society stabilizes anew."
"To my great regret, despite all my fervent wishes for an open and welcoming society, all land border crossings are now shuttered, as are all airfields and water ports. Only Canadian citizens and permanent residents with valid documentation will be allowed to use the facilities for transport or passage. No movements of non-Canadians in or out are allowed anymore, for an undermined period. Any attempts to pass the borders illegally, in either direction, will be seen as an attempt to enter to commit terrorism and be treated as such via a military tribunal."
"It's my great sadness to follow that with an equally distasteful measure. Americans presently in Canadian soil have 12 hours to report to the nearest police station, fire station or public hospital to be entered into a special database that tracks foreign agents. Failure to voluntarily be registered/tracked will be considered an admission you are in the country illegally, with criminal intents, and will be judged under military rules for terrorists & spies when caught. This measure includes all diplomats, military and police personnel that are on duty, or vacationing, in our lands at this time."
"The following measure was hotly debated in cabinet before being written, but, alas, it must come to pass if our nation of peaceful, law-abiding peoples is to survive. From now on, All christians, regardless of race, gender or age, are forbidden from assembly for the purpose of holding mass, prayers, sacraments or political activism of any sorts. This covers churches, public plazas, public parks or forests, and also closed settings like a private house or farm yard. ANY attempt at proselytism of minor aged children, or their implication in sectarian activities, are now considered criminal abuse of a dependent person. If it is found that the worshiper/preacher/cult/church tried to actively recruit for, or follow the lead of, ANY racial supremacy creed or similar Theocratic Regency sympathy, it will be declared a treasonous endeavor to raise an insurrection army against the Canadian people, and thus destroyed without mercy. They will not even get a trial, if they resist arrest with guns and bombs."
"Finally, given the present state of society & economy following the anti-sect hack two days ago, the precarious situation of the continent's damaged environment, and the temporary uncertainty about food supplies, the Canadian government has decided the following. Any criminals, be they domestic or foreign, spies, terrorists, and 'regular' illegal immigrants will now be judged and sentenced by military tribunals under the precepts of the 'Abbreviated Martial Laws for Canadian Civil Society'. Those condemned under military laws to jail time totaling longer than 5 years will be executed. The method of killing for a specific convict will not be disclosed. Their family will not be notified, and no public notice of the event will ever be made. The moment your are condemned to capital execution is the date & time of death that will be entered into your official record. Those condemned to less than that limit will be assigned to do public works without any pay or compensation. This includes maintenance along the southern ground border, plus other manual jobs normally delegated to low-grade employees or temporary contractors for the federal government's ministry of transports & public works."
"Of course, further details will be broadcast as they are available. I thank you for your time, your patience, and your much appreciated collaboration with our brave soldiers, police officers and paramedics in these troubled times. May you find shelter and solace in the loving arms of your family, until this crisis is passed."
Prime Minister Trudeau looked into the camera with reddened eyes that showed how much he had cried and struggled with these decisions. Nobody would know in this life how much he had fought against these measures, or why he was passing them anyways. Any mandatory recordings of the cabinet's emergency meetings would not be declassified for 100 years, so it would matter only for historians, if the society survived long enough to recover sufficiently to produce scholars again.
Public address ends
Wearing grim faces, the trio of American agents walked out, going back into the presence of the person who would most likely be deciding if they lived or died.
{ SQ } - { Diagnosing the planet's injuries } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 15:45pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 12:45pm (noon)
The Americans were greeted by controlled capharnaum when they entered suite #204. The Canadians were clustered around the dining table with varied laptops and tablets showing maps of the eastern portion of North America, some on the surface and others had geological surveys.
Surprisingly, the door to the first bedroom was opened, letting out the loud humming of high voltage running through circuits accompanied by the wooshing of multiple fans pushing cold air through the room.
Somebody shouted at them harshly, bringing all their attention to the large TV screen on the wall, where the Canadian minister of national defense was in the process of detailing the procedures for martial laws, with a few quick rules-of-thumb for citizens to avoid trouble.
"You bozos see that? That's because of your damned mess that we're at that extreme. Threatening to grab & hold anybody just because of admin snafus or expired papers! It's like we're back in WW-II again! What next? Internment camps for all Americans? If you yahoos don't want to find out just how bad things get from here on out, you get your stinking asses in that room and help the kid repair what you broke! And don't you sass or disrespect him any! If he tells us to shoot you morons, we'll do it with pleasure, and never lose a wink on it! Now get!"
Putting on their game faces while confronted by the vitriolic distemper of the senior CSIS agent on site, the three field agents walked through the workroom doors, closing them behind themselves to separate from the roiling anger outside. They were surprised to find the office was almost completely dark, with only a little light coming from computer screens, LED's set in dials and server stack status diodes. There were network cables, power wires, and odd transparent pipes carrying fluid, all snaking around the shadowy floor, all with some form of illumination in them by miniature fiber-optics lines woven into the armoring of the lengthy connection devices.
As they took in the appearance of the barren room and the six large rolling modules of equipment, a chill went through their spines. In the far, near the inert fireplace and service counter were a large command station with keyboard and multiple screens deployed, and a fabrication device that was in the process of 3D printing/milling something. In the sector near the door were two cabinets that seemed to be nothing but stacks of server circuit boards, data modules and power conduits, all glowing in a menacing shade of swamp water greenish blue. Pushed back into the door-less closet were two square boxy things that were closed tight, their purposes unidentifiable from a distance.
Sitting in a large rolling wooden frame chair with thick upholstery and many electronics attached was Lucas Wolenczak. He was positioned between the fabricator and tall glowing cabinet, in front of the square boxes stored in the closet. His face was partially hidden behind thin expensive designer glasses that carried a lot of customized electronics that were, oddly enough, the only system in the room that didn't glow while active. The three technicians easily recognized the meta-glasses for what they were, and understood the teenager was presently bypassing the physical keyboard and switches on the command console for a faster input device, due to the quickly devolving mess outside.
All three clearly saw the armament-cane standing between his legs, clutched tightly by both hands on the pommel, the ax-blade towards them. The entire weapon had blue veins that glowed eerily in each layer of its frame, giving it a multi-tone depth that looked like a tiny cylindrical nebula. A pair of thin but armored cables, also riddled with glowing blue veins, poured from the teen's left shirt sleeve to connect securely to the main barrel of the cane, in recessed sockets. An indistinct low hum seemed to emanate from the boy's person, or equipment; even when the Americans were three feet away, it was hard to tell exactly what the sound was, because of how low and soft it was.
"I have brought you here for a specific reason." the boy's voice startled them as it came from everywhere all at once, through speakers hidden inside the machinery boxes, filling the cold dark room with dreadful malice that chilled their blood. "Your presence is not of my own choosing, rest assured of that." he specified, his anger at their invasion of his domain evident even for the slowest dimwit they could find.
Luminescent, eerily blue eyes moved behind the meta-glasses, spearing them threateningly with a silent promise of inhuman pain if they sabotaged the jobs they would be commanded to accomplish. Again, all three felt a shiver of dread crawl down their spines as they contemplated just how powerful this kid truly was, that he could grab, manipulate and change a planetary catastrophe to his will.
"Miss Davis will find a chair to sit at the command console. Her primary function will be to insure that the satellite and cell comms work at all times. Otherwise, she will research through what still functions of the Internex to bring up those concepts and specialty studies we need to accomplish our work. If necessary, she will back all three of us during our more mathematically challenging periods by feeding the calculations to the system, instead of us wasting time on basal data crunching."
Pointing at the two men, Lucas growled lowly; "Both of you will find some chairs and at least two tablets or laptops each to use as your displays. Ask the CSIS agents if you don't have sufficient equipments in your kits to do what I say. You will serve as my mathematical co-processors and, occasionally, spare 'instincts' while I control the tools to patch the continental plate."
With pursed lips and a fierce scowl, the teen griped "Well, don't just stand there! Find your damn chairs and equipments so I can tell you how to plug into my network! We don't have all day, the disaster at the other end of the continent won't fix itself without help!"
It took two minutes for the three technicians to grab themselves some chairs in the dining room, much to the displeasure of the CSIS agents who lost them and were now obliged to call hotel service for extras to have enough seats. Once back in the workroom, the Americans unpacked and connected their computers according to the tersely spoken instructions of their temporary supervisor. The teenager was short tempered, abrupt, and prone to nasty comments about the USA and its government in general. It surprised all three agents that the young man managed to stay civil towards their persons though, even if he was much less well-mannered than in their vidphone conferences of earlier days.
Lucas aimed squinted eyes at the agents, contemplating what happened next. "Come here around the main command hub. You need to see the sensor imagery to understand the situation." the boy told them, in a tone of voice that was cold but less aggressive than initially.
Pointing at the two images displayed side-by-side on two of the large monitors of the command console, the genial adolescent explained the problem. "As you can see, the continental shelf's eastern coast has shattered under a catastrophic explosion that caused telluric shock waves, which vibrations in turn caused a 'subduction' effect that liquefied the under-layers, thus removing any vertical support. Without underpinnings to hold it aloft, the stone shelf's overhanging portions strained until they cracked, then moved apart eastwards until the split-off pieces settled down on the revealed bedrock into new positions."
Creating a yellow fluorescent line in the screen to highlight the problem to solve, the young male continued his tersely voiced explanation. "Here is the thing that can kill off all of North-America inside of the coming 12 months if we don't fix it post haste. This is what Internex Mappe Mundia analysts have called 'The Great Eastern Split'; a great arcing crack in the continent's bedrock, that now links Lake Erie's vital soft waters with hundreds of new rivers filling-up with much colder oceanic salt water. In order for the plants, animals and humans to live, they need soft water as ocean/sea water cannot be drunk by land-based lifeforms. As it is, the massive 'Great Split' will either drain the Great Lakes' potable waters towards the south and into the Atlantic, or else bring in salt water up north thus poisoning all the Saint-Laurent seaway's basin from Erie all the way to the outflows of the river in the north. That means among other things that cities like Detroit, Buffalo, Toronto, Montreal and Quebec would no longer have access to this system for drinkable water. Dozens of major towns and a hundred villages would need to rebuild and re-calibrate their entire aqueduct networks, and sewage as well. If they don't rebuild their water management systems immediately, they face massive loss of population and those that remain will be struck by unsanitary living conditions without flowing water, and the afferent epidemics of disease that always accompany badly managed municipal hydrology basins. Our task, as large as it is, is to plug that damned leak in the shores of the Lake Erie before the water system is either drained or poisoned."
Sebastian Lund rose an index finger, wiggling it around to ask for the right to speak. Getting a nod, he asked aloud "How exactly are we going to do that from here? For that fact, what kind of tools could you possibly wield to 'patch-up' that fault line? It's around 500 yards wide, and a lot more in several places. Not to mention the depth."
Lucas smiled widely as he pointed at the third screen of the command console; it was showing a rendered animated view of the planet's orbital traffic. Including several hundred supposedly classified military satellites that the public wasn't allowed to know about freely. The kinds of satellites that carried weapons not authorized under the UEO Treaty's founding clauses; pulse weapons capable of targeting the Earth's surface assets, nuclear missiles and laser arrays of far greater capacity than just needed to destroy small missiles sent to attack the space-stations themselves. It was this type of weapon that Lucas counted on to rectify the impending doom that hung over North-America.
"When made aware of the problem, our good lady Andrea Dre, in her capacity as secretary general of the UEO Cabinet, gave me access to the Alliance's orbital defense grid." he spoke with great sarcasm upon mentioning the woman's name and credentials. "The Hammerfell-I pulse cannons will crack the bedrock and debris to the desired consistency, then the Basilisk-II laser arrays will serve as welding torches to melt the rock and sediment until the formation of a plug sufficient to permanently segregate the two water bodies. Until, that is, somebody decides to build some sort of canal with locks and a management system that will keep the potable water inside Lake Erie, rather than waste it down the 'Great Split' and the new salt water rivers that just appeared all along its length."
Angus was looking at the images with disbelieving, wide round eyes, trying to mentally compute what would need to happen for the project to become reality. He had a very basic knowledge of the orbiting defense platforms and their CWIS lasers weapons, but not the other secret systems, certainly not the in-depth analysis that Doctor Wolenczak possessed. The fact the UEO had given over to the adolescent executable control access meant that he had also received the analytics programs and apps that showed the status and usefulness of each satellite in function. The screen displayed some highly compartmented & secret informations that select people in Russia, China, Iran, Saudi Arabia and probably Micronesia too, would gladly kill to see, let alone actually get a copy.
Agent Lund opined aloud "You'll need to do more than just crack rock and melt it. The continental shelf has cracked down for almost a mile, averaging 400 - 800 yards in separation/movement. You'll never have enough material to fill up the crack, no matter how much you work the trench. It's like when you dig a grave to bury a body; even with the coffin in the hole, you always end up with a shallow pit at the end because the refilled earth is more compact and placed differently. In this case, it's worse because there wasn't any excavation or mining, only a net sideways motion of the bedrock that created a void that is now being filled by various water bodies, from rerouted rivers or oceanic back-flow."
Smirking amusedly, the teenager mentally changed the display on screen #1 to show a geological survey with seismic data points and a superimposed geophysical analysis grid, including telluric stress, fault lines, and pyroclastic event potentials. Displayed in stark contrast were the hundreds of dull blue masses representing the encroaching waters of the Atlantic as they rushed into the voids, versus the vibrant electric blue of the potable soft water bodies that were also moving erratically as they tried to find the new lowest point of their beds.
Gesturing with his left hand, Lucas explained "I am well aware of the fact that there will never, in any reality, be enough material to back-fill the trench. It would take about a hundred 10-ton trucks on each side working for close to a year to fill in enough rocks, stones, sand, debris and vegetal detritus to create a durable clog in this new river. My goal is to punch down through bedrock, into the magma mantle, to unleash a controlled pyroclastic event. An artificial, limited, volcano. The satellites' pulse cannons will dig through the stone layer, then the lasers will maintain the lava's temperature to ensure fluidity despite the wintry chill and frigid waters in the trench, at the location. I will have to create a thin but long fissure for the lava to rise through, but once the chimney is formed, it should fill-in quite easily. The trick will be to time the cessation of laser fire to make certain the plug is fully formed and solid, without losing control of the nascent volcano so it doesn't become a wild rampaging thing like the Kilauea."
MacGyver closed his eyes, fists clenched tightly at his sides as he tried to control his breathing out of fear he would end up shouting in anger. Every choice in life had consequences, especially the biggest, far-reaching choices made by governments. This choice being made by the teenager and the UEO Cabinet would sacrifice tens of thousands in a poor town that was already shaken and split apart by the forces of a vengeful Mother Nature who'd had enough of human idiocy.
"Toledo. You're sacrificing the town, the people, of Toledo, on the shores of Lake Erie..." whispered Riley, her soft voice thick with emotions she could barely hold in check anymore. Turning towards the seated boy, she asked louder "Are you really going to do this? Start a bloody volcano in the middle of a city, just like that?"
Taking his glasses off to massage the bridge of his nose, Agent Lund asked rhetorically "What else do you want to do, Riley? What other tools or options are you sitting on, that we use that instead? You can ask your partner here, and he'll tell you too. There are no other options that can fill-in that crack in the Earth's crust. Even a small tactical nuclear warhead would only make a wider crater because the explosion would excavate and move out the debris, not actually fill anything, no matter how badly damaged the canyon sides would become during the blast. Any stone slab that collapses from the canyon walls would simply leave voids and new cracks through which the unwanted water movements and mixing would happen."
Putting his glasses back on, the forensics specialist detailed "This ugly solution is all based on the basics of volumetry, geometry, geophysics, hydrology, seismology and vulcanology. You need material to fill in that gap BUT explosions don't fill in anything. If we don't plug that new river, it will in fact contaminate the Lake Erie, then all the waters going downstream from there will become unusable by ground life in a matter of barely five to seven months as the water follows the natural channels and seasonal patterns. The entire north-east sector of the USA in Michigan, Ohio, Pennsylvania, New York, Vermont and Maine, along with Canada's provinces of Ontario, Quebec and New Brunswick, will all become desolate wastelands as the populations migrate away from the contaminated salt water that will kill off millions of fish, algae, and land animals over the next year. The place will be an open air charnel field, with dead carcasses all along the shores of the Great Lakes Erie & Ontario, then down the St-Lawrence river. The presence of so much oceanic water flowing in that current-channel will eventually change the climate patterns of warmth and humidity for thousands of miles in length and an easy five hundred miles in width."
Angus opened his eyes again, their usually vibrant green now dull and dead, as he contemplated concepts and methods he would have sworn to you just last week that he would never in this life consider using. "Stop arguing with reality, Riley. This is what we cut ourselves, and meat that's been cut can't be put back together. This is the Butcher's Bill come due. We pay it now, or we pay far worse in just a few months, when spring comes and millions of people all around the Saint-Laurent hydrological basin are stuck trying to live off salt water. Especially when all the vegetation and livestock are dying around them but they can't stop it."
With trembling hands, Angus began to scroll through the telluric and pyroclastic analytics displayed on his personal laptop, mentally calculating the best way to puncture the planet's crust to create the first ever artificial volcano in the History of Humanity. Somehow, for some reason, he didn't feel good about this discovery of new terraforming techniques, despite that being a scientist and innovator had always been his greatest pride & joy in life.
Besides him, agent Lund and Riley got to work as well, their own hands trembling, but their attention sharp and focused on the tasks they were assigned by their 'momentary supervisor'. Sebastian wore a grim expression, as if he were doing the autopsy of a dear friend, while Riley seemed to be fighting against herself to hold in the tears she knew would help nothing anymore.
Seated deeply inside his thickly padded chair, immersed in the tenebrous ethers of the neuroplexic network, the teenager watched them, their colleagues next door, the CSIS agents in the next room, the hotel's inhabitants and the squads of police and soldiers outside. He was now all-seeing, but himself silent and unseen. He wouldn't again be caught unawares by a physical attack like Jack Dalton almost did, mere minutes ago. If somebody thought they could use his 'apparent' concentration on the terraforming work and orbital traffic, then they would have a nasty surprise. When he was totally ensconced inside the neural system, he didn't lose any control of his body at all, but was instead seeing it from outside like the 3rd person view in an adventure (RPG) video game. He could still maneuver his body, but it felt slow, sluggish even, like a marionette with weighted limbs at the ends of inflexible wires.
But he still saw.
And heard.
And understood.
And he could still defend his person fully.
Yes, anybody trying to damage him or kidnap him during his work would get a nasty surprise indeed, just like those morons in the next suite would get, if the idiotic plan to abscond him back to the USA they had just hatched was ever tried for real. They really should learn to not speak aloud of secret black-ops plans in rooms that were equipped with electronics, let alone domotics controls, when their target was one of the planet's best hackers alive.
Miserable twits. They would all get what they deserved.
{ SQ } - { The Copernicus-I station network } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 16:20pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 13:20pm
The central monitor of the Cyberghast Hub began displaying the stats for each of the 36 orbiting machines built between 2002 and 2015. They were assembled side-by-side in humanity's only existing space dock, a gangly structure composed of a few living quarters, workshops and three garages to park robotic telemanipulation arms when they needed repairs or shelter from clouds space debris following accidents.
Each station was assembled from prefabricated modules that were completely assembled on Earth then shipped up to orbit via the venerable Martin-Marietta Avionics' orbital ascent carrier 'Blue Swan'. This was a massive jet plane built along the size and shape of the plane that usually carried the old USA space shuttles between recovery site and prep/launching facilities. The giant plane was boosted in size to accommodate twelve of MMA's custom designed VariVex-I tilting turbojet engines fed with Superon synthetic liquid fuel. The plane had three engines on each wing, plus four in the belly to help vertical lift then altitude sustention, and a last pair in the tail-end to give an extra push during the atmospheric escape phase. The space station modules were all designed to fit either inside the plane's cavernous belly or the clawed cradle apparatus that was on its back.
Each orbiter was composed of a single central tower that was 50 feet wide by 1,000 feet long, separated, in modules of 50 x 200. Attached to the sides of the stations were lateral spokes 20 feet wide by 100 feet long, placed in 2 clusters of 4, to hard-link the 'dangerous' parts of the constructs in a '' shape. These outer modules were four water, wastes, liquid fuel & gas depots, one quarantine quarters for sick people, one cargo reception & analysis warehouse, and two Patriot-VI interceptor missiles batteries. There were four large mobile arrays that combined a 100' wide parabolic antennae with an optical telescope and vari-cams, each located atop the fluids & wastes modules to give 360º coverage in all 3 dimensions around the stations.
It is important to know that just like the SeaQuest, these stations were built by the USA then dumped on the UEO as a means to pay membership dues without actual cash-in-hand being spent by the Trump administration. That means that while the UEO Treaty is the nominal owner, much of the command & control was still exerted by Washington DC due to a lack of desire from the UEO Cabinet to fight them on the subject, although Andrea Dre had become quite vocal about it since February 2020 after the appearance of the Chaodai as a new planetary menace. The situation meant that presently, with the Civil War going on, not all stations were responding as they should, and it was suspected that at least four were under the control of astronauts who were avowed christian fanatics, especially sincet no comms were coming from those specific orbiters anymore.
At 16:20pm on Vancouver's clock, three of the 36 active Copernicus-I class manned space-stations realigned from their far-Atlantic defensive perimeter duties over to positions 100 kilometers apart, in a straight line centered on top of Toledo (Ohio) on a north-to-south alignment similar to the Great Eastern Split trench that had been created less than an hour ago. The large pulse cannon turrets extruded from their alcoves hidden in the main body of the stations while the ship-killing laser arrays in the very end of the fuselage opened the iris hatches that covered them. Each weapon system was powered directly by its own dedicated cold-fusion reactor, independent from the stations' other functions so that combat could be continued under remote control, regardless of what happened to the human crews inside the titanesque floating steel and aluminum constructs.
The pulse cannons each fired with a punching power of 50,000 pounds per square inch in variable patterns of beam, fan, cone, or a cloud-like strafing volley of 30 short thick bolts to act as CWIS when intercepting vehicles and projectiles at medium ranges.
The main assault lasers fired roughly 10 terajoules of coherent (plasma / photonic / X-ray) energy in a continuous round beam 3 yards wide, on a range of 3,000 kilometers in good conditions. That was about 1/6 of the 'standard' atomic bomb that destroyed Hiroshima in 1945, but concentrated inside a mere few feet. This allowed the lasers' beam to either cut or incinerate, depending on how many fractions of a second the contact with the target area lasted.
Snort! It's wasn't like these things had a 'stun setting' to be gentle like they did in Star Trek.
The truly important particularity of both weapons arrays was that, in full contravention of UEO Treaty clauses, they could be polarized to operate in the part of the spectrum invisible to human eyes to commit a silent (discrete) sniping on critical targets that couldn't be reached safely otherwise. It also saved a lot of paperwork at borders, and avoided the melodrama of political & societal fallout if an insertion team was captured & traced back to its patron country. For those few people who knew about it, this was exactly the kind of factually accurate 'crime' that fed the rumor mill, giving credence to conspiracy theorists around the world.
It wasn't delusional paranoia if it existed for real.
The only thing even the extremists at Info Wars, Breitbart, Fox News and their cohorts would snort at derisively was the presence of nuclear missiles. Six ion rocket propelled Flagpole-I hydrogen warhead missiles were stored in each orbital station, carrying seven drone warheads of 10 megatons. Given the ages of the owners/reporters in these far-right & sectarian organizations, all of whom had been born during the Cold War period, having nukes on any space station was expected, given the need to stop the progression of communist and rogue nations.
Or, spoken truthfully; the need for American white evangelicals to rule the world without fearing retribution strikes right inside their homeland bases, the same way they had imposed on everybody else since the medieval Crusades. There would be no muslim caliph seizing Constantinople then battering his way up to the gates of Vienna or Budapest this time around!
Wasn't it in fact what Mike Pence said publicly on TV, in August 2018? That "America needs a space force to dominates space unilaterally to ensure the future of religious freedom, even in those nations that don't want it", ehm? Well, if it wasn't said aloud that specific way, it was certainly the subtext the evangelicals, and the rest of humanity, heard loud and clear. It was a good thing then, for humanity at large, that the white-skinned worshipful cretins didn't realize they already had a space fleet up there, or else they might have woken up in time to keep their incompetent dumb-ass-in-chief from giving it off cheap to the UEO. Or they may have swallowed his bullshit that it was an Obama creation, therefore impure and un-christian, and applauded as he gave it all away to the planetary alliance Cabinet.
No, the atomic missiles surprised no-one born passed 1950, not even the anti-government activists or the geriatric religious fanatics. After 70 decades of nuclear threats hanging over the planet, it was just too expected by everybody to get a reaction out of fringe-cooks, or politicians, anymore.
But anyways...
It was the INVISIBLE beam weapons (you can't see where to dodge) that struck cowardly, in silence, from orbit, 3,000km away, that had every numb-nut right-winger a-flutter with testicular spasms. The fact the government had built such illicit, unsuspectable, murderous capacity right above the heads of the poor, maligned populace of America. That was grist for the mill indeed. Even if said right-wingers would have built the exact same systems to take out their extensive lists of personal nemeses that never stopped getting longer. Pretty much like Larouche's family cult & followers, in the late 1990's and early 2000's, who kept on harping about "beast-men" and "my enemies in DC". Or Steve Bannon, Bill O'Reily, Alex Jones, Billy Graham, James Dobson, Ralph Reed, Pat Robertson, Newt Gingrich, David Duke, Roy Moore, D. , and hordes of countless others in the same vein. All these dishonest gurus, priests, apostolates and self-styled 'revealers of Hidden Truths (From Above)' were all the same. Simplistic cowardly bullies, exploiters, racists, and unstable psychotic gurus who dreamed of mass-murdering anybody that disagreed with their fanatical delusions, or saw through their fake-news, false-flagged bullshit for what it was, then exposed them publicly for it.
Hypocrisy was such a fundamental virtue for life amongst humans.
Especially for manipulating organized religion and racial-division politics.
Lucas blinked his eyes physically and virtually to clear his mind from maudlin thoughts that were swimming freely around his subconscious. The problem with having such a wide breadth of education coupled with an eidetic memory all merged with a massive data collection capacity was that he could very easily get lost along the meanders of his own brain, borne by the strong relentless currents of factoids, trivia, and massively augmented perceptual inputs. Focusing anew on the geological analysis and vulcanology models proposed by his erstwhile brain-trust, the teenager did his own data crunching to spit out a validation model of his own crafting.
No, he didn't trust either of the three adults in the room with him.
Not with his life, health, freedom, or even the clearly self-serving effort at limiting environmental damages to the remains of the USA. It wasn't paranoia, it was hard earned experience backed by the elucubrations of the dumb muscle-bound minions in the suite next door. That, plus the fact that they would get only one chance at getting this maneuver right, or else they would become the proud parents of the planet's only artificial volcano, thus causing worse damages than what the Synthium blasts had done. Especially in light of the fact the nukes were one-off; the volcano would last for years and could even go quiescent for decades, or centuries, before blowing up again just for shits and giggles.
Mother Nature was fun like that...
Yeah, better not make any mistakes, especially ones caused by laziness or carelessness.
{ SQ } - { Yet another problem unforeseen } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 16:27pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 13:27pm
Clearing his throat loudly, the boy warned his colleagues about the upcoming sequence of events. "Okay, people, get ready for the show. The satellites have opened their weapons ports and preheated the emitter systems to operational specs. I will be setting the beams to full spectrum frequencies and polarities in order to maintain the coherence, density and energy dispersal on target-point required for this to work. If anybody out there sees the damned columns of light coming down from the skies and panics, they can write their congressmen about it to complain because I won't give a hoot."
The three captive techs merely gazed at the seated boy, staying silent and morose as they wondered if he expected some sort of response or was threatening them – again – just pro forma to keep things on tracks. After a few seconds of silence, the adolescent genius closed his eyes, fully immersing in the neuroplexic interface, swimming agilely through the unseen ethers of the cyber-world until he reached the three satellites in orbit, closing his mental grasp around them, penetrating their command nodes insidiously, violating the processor cores and data stacks in a way that would be seen as a rape in any culture that analyzed the event.
Going against the terms he had verbally agreed with Andrea Dre, Lucas didn't limit himself to simply activating and guiding the weapons to dam the trench. No, he had much loftier and impressive goals in mind, which were now legitimized given the slew of illegal weapons and spying systems he found as he went along a detailed inspection of the space-stations' physical modules. Shamelessly, the teen used his temporary UEO Cabinet-level access codes to punch through biometric sensors, user-recognition gates, comms traffic monitoring & censorship apps, military firewalls, automated roving patrol bots and real-time human analysts until he reached the bedrock of the cyber-world; the circuit boards.
The teenager exclaimed inside his mind "Oh, bloody Hell! This guy's dumber than a drunk circus monkey! Where did he get his diploma? The vodka vat in a frat house keg party? Please, don't let me age old enough to become like him!"
Before his virtual eyes was the very proof of human idiocy made material; the servers aboard the Copernicus stations were purposefully designed and built CHEAP, as in thrift-store recycled equipment CHEAP. Whomever had created the designs to this network had willingly and specifically bought everything at least five years older than the signature date on the orders that authorized the build of the manned space-stations.
Why? Lucas just couldn't wrap his head around it, so he dug.
Then he found the answer.
The one he didn't want to see.
It started with a simple search on the identity of who was in charge of the Copernicus-I project; the governmental managers and congressional surveillance committees atop the situation. That led to finding the multiple factories who built the hundreds of modules, and their subcontractors who built the millions of smaller individual parts. Through it all, one name kept returning in focus as being present in all levels of management, design, production, assembly, and even in congressional oversight hearings; doctor of engineering and cybernetics Lambert Depure
This idiot was the brother-in-law of the very well known evangelical prosperity Gospel preacher Samuel of Reliance. That was the only name he used in public; a made-up moniker like the popes, but Reliance was the actual small town in Delaware, on the border with Maryland, where his large 7,000 seat church was built. Lambert Depure had married the preacher's younger sister in the 1980's and was quick to credit the influx of Divine Grace into his life from that family alliance for all the promotions and plaudits in his jobs at NASA's offices on Capitol Hill. A deep search on the preacher showed that his brother-in-law had been giving small sums to the church's missionary fund before the marriage, and steadily enlarged both tithes and special donations along the years.
This didn't compute.
Mathematically, it was obvious this guy was giving more than 60% of his yearly salary to the church, but never lowered his spending habits nor lessened his family's lifestyle. The answer became obvious quickly. Depure was strong-arming his subordinates at NASA into giving him 'tithes' for the 'Good Lord' in exchange for positive employee performance evaluations rated one or two grades above the required ratios to avoid an internal audit by Human Resources dpt. These kickbacks allowed the crud to give large sums to his preacher-in-law and get applauded by the worshipers when his donations were displayed at the twice-yearly 'special missionary' collection events, thus keeping peace with his wife, the in-laws, and seeming an excellent leader and community man in the eyes of everybody.
Then, the money collected under the table from underlings wasn't enough to satisfy the ever hungry church or its delusional, self-glorifying preacher anymore. Depure began to embezzle money from NASA and the US DOD to keep up with the imperious demands for greater, more glorious amounts of money. However, given the multiple internal verifications done yearly plus the Inspector General's Office that watched over NASA's financial and personnel situation, there came a very strictly delimited point at which Depure couldn't find cash to steal anymore. So he improvised like only a fanatic motivated by fear of public shaming inside his church-group could manage.
It was the period to design the cybernetic systems for the Copernicus stations' network and back in early 2000's, all computing equipments were VERY expensive because they were all shiny and new. This was even worse for government networks due to the old, deeply embedded, tradition of gouging the Feds on whatever contract you got since that could be the only hard and reliable profit you made in the decade. When military purchase plans were happening, things got way out of control for everybody since the Brass always wanted things that were 'custom built' just for them so that nobody could ever steal it to use in illicit systems. That meant hardened casings, shielded cabling, anti-shock jelly pads, integrated surge protection breakers, duo-processor boards for speed & safety in case one chip got overheated or shorted out, and stacks of RAM like it was going out of fashion by the weekend. Then you added a proprietary operating system (OS) with tens of programs for specific machines or functions seen only aboard a manned space station.
Bleh! So much money for so little effect...
It was easy to see what the amateurish criminal moron did. Any little kid who wants to maximize his allowance learns to do the same before reaching secondary school. Lambert Depure completely skipped out any public tenders of offers, instead contacting a single manufacturer of low-cost systems destined to the educational market. He negotiated an illegal process of kickbacks through which NASA / US DOD would pay the supplier prices that were grossly inflated for genuine military quality devices when instead they received family-grade machines & programs. The supplier would thusly get his full asking price plus a hefty bonus, all the while returning the overpaid balance as cash under-the-table directly to Depure who would then budget his tithes & donations to the church, up to five years in advance to make certain he didn't go broke or have to slow down his lifestyle.
Spurred on by the threat of public shaming in his faith congregation, and losing face in front of his wife and children, the old bureaucrat kept on siphoning money out of NASA all the way until his retirement in early 2015, when the first Copernicus combat space-station was activated and confirmed functional. The old bastard got his due justice though, since his entire family lived in Reliance, right inside the secondary damage zone of the nuclear blasts. That, plus the fact that the massive earthquake had split the entirety of Delaware, with a quarter of Maryland, right off the mainland thus turning it into a charred island whipped by hurricane winds, scalding grayish rain and the occasional piece of solid debris that was still coming down when ejected from the spinning column of Natural Wrath.
Imbecile. Him, his family, his in-laws, and the group of cock-shakers that they all gathered with.
Maybe they'd like to write him a postcard from Paradise to tell him how's the weather?
He'd answer back with several lines of language so filthy that St-Peter would have a hard time letting it pass inside the Pearly Gates, and would wince just at holding the incendiary missive.
Lucas REALLY hated incompetents, especially when they were made incompetent artificially by the virulent poison of the peasant superstition called religion.
The entire armada of weaponized space-stations were obsolete before lights-on.
Barely 5 years into their active service with an estimated 100 year lifespan for the hulls and engine blocks, but kitted out with computers, life-support monitors and targeting programs that were already over 15 years out of date on the moment the first generation ion rockets were fired the first time in space dock. It was like they were running the entire USA / NAC / UEO space warfare program on Windows 3.11 and loving it!
The teenager wanted to vomit, so affected by contempt and anger he was.
How in the many hard-pumping FUCKS had nobody ever found out about this? How was it that the astronauts had never raised concerns about the slow, unwieldy, outdated systems? There was a dozen astronauts per station, living 12 month rotations for each of the 36 giant constructs. Surely SOMEBODY would have told something to someone at some point in time? Where the bloody Hell were the admirals and generals in charge of the project? What did the General Accounting Office of the Armed Services or the bloody Congress do in all this time? Wasn't there a senatorial oversight committee?
Aaaaarrrggghhh!
The adolescent was well beyond rabid at this point. This network wasn't just slower than the normal Internex when compared to his neuroplexic frequency, it was actually slower than the antiquated CIA backup server he had been hacking recently. How in all the flames of Hell Everburning was he going to get anything done today? Slowly and painstakingly, that's how it was going to happen. Not like he had any choices in the matter anymore. They were pressed back against a stone wall, blade at the neck and running out of air to breathe; what other option could they use?
Setting his powerful mind to task, the teenager began to whelm the Copernicus stations to their own baleful affairs, hoping that it would be enough to avert the developing catastrophe.
{ SQ } - { Pimple on the face of Gaea } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 16:35pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 13:35pm
The few hundred people still alive in the region of Toledo, Ohio, were not even recovered from the earthquake that hit their town so bad that it cracked the ground, splitting asunder the town in two asymmetrical pieces that were partly fallen into the frigid icy waters of Lake Erie. Nobody was yet recovered from the news about the nuclear blast in Washington DC that had caused the earthquake to begin with. There was also no way they were recovered from the simultaneous Youth Revolt and Religious War that were wracking the entire country for the last two days.
So this wasn't a good day for anybody, but then it got worse.
Dropping from the cloud laden skies overhead came a dozen massive blue beams of pure kinetic force that rammed down into the newly created watery trench, a mile away from the lake shore, reaching all the way down to newly exposed bedrock, cracking and tearing apart the solid strata with enough traumatic force to make the earth shake again for the second – perceptible – time of the day. Then the twelve beams began spreading farther apart while following the new trench, emitting torturous sounds of crunching rock, churning water and telluric vibrations strong enough to cause sounds to waft up from under the snowy grounds.
After five minutes of intense merciless pummeling by those alien blue beams, they stopped, only to be replaced by three thinner but denser red ones that seared the very air as they lanced down from above the ceiling of gray winter clouds. The red beams heralded something far worse though, as the waters in the trench splitting Toledo were now glowing from the depths, emanating an eerie reddish glow that had the more religious citizens believe that the Gates of Hell were opening beneath the remains of their broken town.
They weren't completely wrong, even if the explanation was much more mundane.
At exactly 13:42pm on Toledo's clock, the city was rocked by a series of strong earthquakes centered about a mile back from the junction of the 'Great Eastern Split' trench and the frozen, ice-caked shoreline of Lake Erie. These temblors were powerful, short, and spaced out by mere seconds, matching the heightened boiling and glowing of the waters in the fault line that was now raising a massive cloud of scalding steam above the region.
Two minutes later and the few living citizens of Toledo knew their time in this life had come to its end as the reddish glow and monstrous stinking cloud filled with ash and toxic gases were explained by the emergence of incandescent lava from the depths of the cold watery injury on the face of America. The massive bank of poisonous fog that settled over the area finished off the poor, destitute and desperate populace inside of five minutes after the lava flows broke the surface of the salted sea waters, creating an irregular but thick, turgid plug in the leak that threatened to poison or drain the Great Lakes of North-America, and the Saint-Laurent seaway at the same time.
The lava kept on flowing though, and the three red beams were not letting up. Instead, the outer beams were slowly moving apart from the central beam which maintained exactly the same position. Under the relentless assault from the orbiting weapons, the artificial geodesic chimney was lengthening, allowing more molten rock to surge up from the Earth's mantle, the scorching red basaltic stone raising above the lip of the trench by several yards. When the volcanic funnel stood fifty yards above the trench's lips, a flurry of short thick blue bolts descended from the heavens to flatten out the gooey cooling lava, spreading it over the rims of the canyon to establish as tight a seal as possible. The goal was also to keep the quickly solidifying mass a few feet above the ground level to make certain that any excess salt water from the trench would be retained by a solid, hermetical dike of dense crystalline basaltic stone that would last for centuries. The pulse bolts massaged, kneaded and spread the warm lava for 300 yards on each side of the trench, creating a 10' high by 30' thick wall on the northern side of the eruptive chimney.
The lasers kept on coming, heating the pyroclastic well shaft until it was close to 1,500 yards in length, then they stopped. At that point, more strafing runs of pulse bolts came down, flattening the volcanic funnel and gouging a wide, deep pattern into the cooling stone, like a gigantic router carving a piece of wood to create a decorative pattern. The space-stations created a pair of parallel channels that were separated by 50 yards of quickly solidifying rock. Each channel was 100 yards wide by 1,200 yard long and 50 yards deep but capped at each end by 30 yards of densely packed molten basalt. These were the basic chambers of the future water locks that would allow humanity to use the new trench to float cargo and people without losing or polluting the fresh soft waters of Lake Erie and the Saint-Laurent river basin. All that would be needed now was a massive engineering team and a couple of decades to build up a system similar to those used in other canals like Panama or Suez to make the dead town of Toledo live again, all the while also having a decent revenue for it and Ohio around them.
It would take almost three full days for the lava to finish cooling down, now that the magma chimney was plugged tightly, and the poisonous cloud of laze would last for close to two full weeks before the atmosphere cooled down enough to no longer bear aloft the weight of its heavy particulates. The soot and crystallized gases would precipitate as brackish gray rain for five days before the skies were clear enough again to see the weak winter sunlight filter through the season's natural cloud formations.
The experimental terraforming process was, for now, a very LIMITED success, with so many collateral damages and fatalities as to make it a totally phyrric victory, nothing more.
With all the work and meticulous control needed by the artificial volcano finished, Lucas began programming some fully automated landscaping and urbanism plans into the orbital stations. He needed to create in advance the channel locks' harbors on each side, with all the secondary navigation canals, commercial loading berths and drydocks. This meant mapping the land & trenches, calculating the water level seasonal variances, and plotting naval traffic routes according to a standard size & shape of ship capable of navigating either the Great Lakes or the Atlantic ocean. Once the math was done, quick & dirty to get the process started today but finished cleanly another time, using the lasers like routers/lathes and the pulse beams like chisels/picks was much easier since there wasn't live lava spreading around, or the potential for an explosion at every second he worked.
The first job to do was totally automated to give the adolescent time to think on his detailed urbanism and hydrology plans. The orbital stations used the pulse cannons to shoot hundreds of strafing runs to break, flatten and pulverize every building, infrastructure, vehicle or terrain accident bigger than a small shopping cart. Then, after a half-hour cool-down period, the pulse cannons were set to shoot wide cone patterns to act as gigantic compactors to vaporize leftover loose debris, thus creating as close to perfectly flat ground before the complex land-carving occurred. This was necessary for Lucas to calculate the depth of the canals and docks, as well as establish the mean level the water could reach at high tide in wet seasons.
Once all the preparatory stripping and leveling of the ground was done, the teen started on the side of Lake Erie. Lucas used the beam weapons to dig a vast empty 'U' shape that started about 500 yards away in the deep water area, going back towards the shore. The 1,000 yard wide open side of the 'U' was towards the lake's open waters, while the length of the shape was elongated enough that the curved part would be carved way inland, with the canal locks of the Great Eastern Split trench being the middle point of the curved bottom. This was the channel harbor for accessing the locks from the lake-side. A fully round shape of 2,000 yards diameter on the south side of the canal locks would serve as the channel harbor for the trench-side traffic.
The genial adolescent had decided to carve all the landscaping shapes down to a standard depth of 25 yards all over the design. This was plenty deep enough to ensure free-flow of both ships and waters all year long through seasonal changes, regardless of which side of the trench locks he was building. The other reason he had standardized the depth was that it would make the jobs of future municipal engineers a lot easier since they would have to calculate depth-pressure and current strength in the worst storm conditions just once for the entire system. This would speed-up the planning and conception of bridges, causeways, tide-breaker walls, extra dikes and possible subway tunnels under the waterways in the coming decades. Besides, even a fully loaded cargo barge or cruise ship wouldn't need that much depth to function safely, even in winter.
Once all the orbital beam weapons were done with their landscaping efforts, there were still a few occasional aftershocks that echoed through the region, but no one was left alive to hear them. Just like nobody was left to experience the incredible atmospheric warmth that was more fitting for the height of July than the depth of December at this parallel. Everywhere at fifty kilometers around the carcass of Toledo, the snows were melting, runoff streams were forming, and buildings were groaning from the sudden change in temperatures that caused dilation in the materials and joints of man-made structures. But there was nothing alive to witness it happening.
{ SQ } - { Restful interlude } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 20:39pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 17:39pm
After several hours of intense concentration and mental exertion, Lucas disconnected from the neural interface completely to give his aching mind a much needed rest. The damnable Copernicus stations were so far past obsolescence that what should have been a breeze to conceive and program with to-date systems had felt like an entire week-end of sloshing through the CIA's oldest, least maintained back-doors. Feeling worn out physically and mentally, the teenager glared malevolently at the adults that presently shared the room with him. If their kind had done their jobs right and kept the inhumane christian swine from being elected in the first place, none of this would have happened in their lifetimes. They wouldn't be getting any goodwill from him any time soon, he could promise you that! And his ill-health certainly wasn't making him feel more amenable towards anybody, that too was evident by now.
Even though his idea had worked and the vast lake system's precious fresh soft waters were safe for the immediate future, this winter at least, Lucas Wolenczak wasn't celebrating anything. The solution was in every which way as bad as the problem it solved, and it created its own brand of disaster to deal with now. Not the least of which was the public revelation of what exactly the Copernicus orbital defense grid could truly accomplish, if directed by an able-minded planner.
Strangely enough, the adolescent didn't think that this would help him get rid of the Americans' desire to capture and imprison him for exploitation as a slave laborer. If anything, his success with the spontaneous save-our-asses plan would only make him look all the more competent and productive, especially in the eyes of somebody like Shay Mosley or Mathilda Webber. He would need to be on guard for his safety, and have the lawyers make his presence in Canada legal before long, or it could get bad quickly if the beavers didn't lend their backing to his freedom.
Directing an even more aggressive gaze of doom towards his temporary underlings, the adolescent ordered them out of the entire suite and his life, on the immediateness of the moment, under pain of being the first human test targets for his new armament-cane. The noise of the capacitors charging and the sudden blue glow in the veinules that marbled the frame of the cane convinced all three that getting their teams back to Diefenbaker Airfield was the wiser course of action.
Barely one minute of conversation with the CSIS agents in the dining room had all three Americans leaving his suite, only one spy and two of Canada's new Beam-Guards mechanized infantry staying behind to keep him safe until the country's government decided what to 'try' next. He would need to keep an eye on that situation as well, in the coming hours.
Taking advantage of the segue point so helpfully supplied by the departure of the US agents from his living space, the young man went to the bathroom for a toilet break and a splash of soothing warm water on his face. After refreshing himself, he went to the kitchen to prepare a good hardy meal since he had eaten hardly anything since breakfast, due to the news of the atomic explosion being broadcast right on the lunch hour. After taking a little over an hour to eat his reheated leftovers and prepare a new pot of spiced holiday tea, he took the time to sip some warm liquid solace as he ate a piece of yule log cake while discussing the day's events with the CSIS agent. The man were making efforts at staying calm and polite, but it was clearly visible that he also suffered from frayed nerves and diminishing emotional stability. The passed week had truly been Hell on everybody all over the planet.
{ SQ } - { Secondary jobs & asides } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 22:06pm
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 19:06pm
Now that he was alone in his workroom again after his satisfying meal pause, with the doors securely locked, Lucas decided to keep off his meta-glasses to give his eyes and worn nerves a rest. Plunging deeply into the neuroplexic network while there were potentially hostile people around his body was never a pleasant experience. After doing it for close to ten hours today, he'd had his fill.
Shutting down all external or non-essential systems, the teen tasked the fabrication module with a series of small electronics parts to complement what had been produced during the preceding night. He needed those things done so he could complete certain small portable devices that would help insure his personal survival and freedom at the unavoidable moment when he would be alone against the world.
Once the machining was in full swing, he turned to the command hub, activating all three screens with displays that showed the planetary map with all his holdings, the registers that showed materials, vehicles and personnel, and the listing of who was responsible for management at each facility. It was time again for some household chores, most specifically the purview of how many workers' families had taken refuge in his lands when the call to assemble had been made. On top of this, they would now have complete strangers trying to be accepted inside the walled compounds as 'refugees of mercy' without offering him or his workers anything in return.
Well no.
He wouldn't accept that, and sent out messages to that effect. If he couldn't obtain refugee status in Canada despite all the proof of Lawrence & Cynthia's depravities, and despite all the land holdings, businesses and sciences that he brought with him, then why the fuck should he care for the pain, misery and survival of others? Especially Americans? All these morons had let Trump and the cohort of church whores he conspired with steal the elections twice over, then stayed silent as he planned to transform the country into a pit of white worshipful trash. Why should he help them now? Because they asked? Because they think he'll be stupid enough to do it, like they were?
No. He would not.
The doors of his manors, manufactures and warehouses would stay closed unless the person asking had skills and competency matched by a solid, reliable personality that wouldn't turn on him like a rabid dog the moment a damned priest whistled for the mutts to assemble. There was no way in Hell's flames that Lucas would let anybody pull that sort of backstabbing con job on him or his workers ever again.
The teenager was so tired and worn out from his day that he spent only two hours on the management tasks for his businesses and contracts. Planning now implicated short, medium and long term military strategies with the afferent logistics chains. Oh, joy! What great tremulous joy that was! Not so much, not really, no. It was a basket-full of headaches and stresses that he could easily live without. By 21:00pm he left the workroom to go take a long soothing soak in a hot bath then ate a small meal composed yet again of reheated leftovers from the buffet cart of two days ago. After finishing his evening snack, he went to bed at around 23:00pm well intent on sleeping through the night. Pity the poor fool that woke him up early.
Necropsy of a dead city
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 01:53am
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 22:53pm
SeaQuest DSV
Ruins of the Chesapeake Bay, Maryland seaway, USA
Sailing through the tempestuous waters at the entryway of the ruined Chesapeake Bay, a large military convoy composed of ten surface ships and three submarines advanced in morose silence towards the mortal remains of the decimated national capital. The small fleet was composed of the principal flagship of the US Navy, the nuclear aircraft carrier USS Nimitz, her usual quad of Arleigh-Burke destroyers, plus a pair of military cargo ships carrying construction equipments to build surveillance outposts and storm bunkers to begin emplacing permanent troops to maintain USA sovereignty despite the environmental damages and lack of population. The balance of the fleet was composed of the UEO flagship SeaQuest DSV 6000-B that played bodyguard for the brand new UEO submersible hospital ship Albrecht Kossel DSV 7500 fresh out of NCQ drydock. The last ship was a private contractor, piloting a venerable old LST-542-class tank landing ship that he had recycled to transport beach cleaning machinery to fight the yearly bloom of Red Tide in the bayous and shorelines of Florida. Now though, his ship carried back-hoes, forklifts, a telescoping crane, and two 10-wheel trucks carrying 3,500 gallon of potable water and diesel fuel, all to help in the building of the new territorial lighthouses / watch towers.
The convoy was sailing at half speed to avoid hitting debris that were floating in the wintry waters amongst the ice floes that were reforming, after having been melted spontaneously by the heat and shock wave of the atomic blast. The floatsam was also caused by the blast, which had ripped materials and lifeforms off the ground and thrown it up, scattered to all winds carelessly. As the ships advanced in almost total silence, feeling like a funeral procession, they began to see pieces of burnt wood, flecks of drywall, sections of Tempo winter car shelters, shreds of asphalt roof shingles and, occasionally, pieces of human corpse that were barely recognizable because they were so small and mangled. Not that any of it would matter soon, with a snowfall having begun and the seaway's constant attempt to recreate it's thin sheen of whitish slush atop the waves.
Not that anything would be truly better than a brackish charcoal gray for several more days, not until all the ash, dust and pulverized debris that floated loosely atop the frigid waters had somehow sunk under the surface to dissolve throughout the zone. As it was, if it were daytime the sailors would see large swathes of inky black or turpid brown spread out like giant stains resting on the blue waters. The sailors in charge of sensor operations and coordinating the convoy's movements emitted a common opinion; it looked like a city had let loose thousands of tons of raw sewage in the bay, turning it into an open-air cesspit but without any smell but wintry ocean air.
1,000 feet deep under the falling snow and storm winds, Nathan Bridger was sighing in relief. He was already captain of the UEO's flagship, thus quite happy that the Nimitz's CO, admiral Geoffs, was officially in charge of the exploration convoy. Having just come out of a well earned retirement on an emergency call, Nathan hadn't had any time yet to familiarize himself with the new UEO structures, the leaders in place, or the policies the Treaty Cabinet maintained. In fact, since he had moved permanently to his private tropical island, he had pretty much ignored all politics because he was either drunk out of his mind, or trying to keep occupied to stay sober. Honestly, he'd been completely sober for the last three years, but functional amongst society only for about 20 months now. Given the situations at hand, personal and official, he was truly happy that Andrea Dre had given the lead chair to Geoffs rather than push it on him as some sort of 'welcome to the UEO service' gift that would poison his life.
Bridger was taking advantage of a quiet period of the day, sitting in one of the two plush couches in his official cabin on A-deck, reading the technical manual for the updated version of his boat. He had already spent three hours skimming the protocols' manual earlier, as they sailed from New Cape Quest, then stopping for a short meal and a cat nap, before plunging into the much more interesting reading material. Honestly, the new UEO protocols dedicated to the flagship were so numerous, densely packed and convoluted, that he suspected he would need to add a law degree to is portfolio in order to understand them enough to make half the decisions the ship required on a daily basis.
Andrea Dre's personal involvement in the writing of the manuals was quite clear, for those who knew her character and speech style. "Note to self", he thought glibly, "never let bureaucrats write technical booklets. They spend more time explaining the law suits you're dodging by following their instructions than why doing certain acts is actually dangerous or ill-advised". Meh! Who ever thought letting politos do the writing was any better clearly were drunker than he'd ever been in his life.
Sipping some nicely warm German black tea as he scanned through the schematics for the ship's brand new DSV rescue & manutentions deck, the veteran mariner couldn't help but be impressed by all the thought and assiduity to detail that had been given to the new section. Clearly, somebody wanted to be able to rescue injured divers, or damaged industrial robots, in deep oceanic chasms to go through all the trouble of building up the boat like this. Not that the dear old hull didn't deserve the upgrade, but Nathan's nose for bullshit was twitching mightily as he mentally imagined the money, man hours and thousands of tons of diverse expensive materials needed to make it all happen inside 2 years.
Unless he missed his educated guess quite badly, building a brand new submarine along his original plans, while including the DSV recovery sections in it, would have come at only 10% more expensive than what he knew had been budgeted for the current build. The real factor it seemed was time. A brand new ship would have needed almost four years to craft the parts and assemble, while this method saw the whole design & rebuild finished inside 22-odd months. They even managed to add the fan-dangled new beam weapons, helicopter hangar, and quintuple the overall cybernetics capacity.
Not a bad deal, for the money spent, but as a naval architect/engineer, Nathan just couldn't let go of the feel that certain corners had in fact been cut round, rather than straight. Oh well, no use worrying about that yet. Unless they were going to war with anybody, those things he would have done differently wouldn't matter all that much.
Putting his porcelain cup down on the side-table in favor of taking an old fashioned Bear Paw molasses cookie, just like his late wife Carol enjoyed so much, the elderly sailor could feel pain and sorrow ache deep in his bones with every movement. He was for all purposes a 'broken' soldier. His government had first been corrupted – disnatured – by a foolish buffoon who was the laughingstock of the planet's political ruling class. Then, the geriatric megalomaniac had turned their homeland into a religious tyranny, with said theocracy immediately collapsing on the moment it was unveiled to the people. The entire country descended into war, chaos and self-annihilation at such break-neck speeds that nobody could have predicted the roll of events. Then the Papal Fool was killed off, but his successor was such a submissive, emotionally co-dependent, feckless cocksucker that he preferred to destroy what was left rather than publicly accept the failure of his defeated coup d'état against democracy and humanity. Thus, the leaderless minion went so nuts that he nucleated the Capital, wiping out almost an eighth of the country's inhabitable landmass, incinerating or pulping close to forty million humans in one unforeseen decimating blast wave.
And so here they were; a baleful funeral procession of a dozen ships, 7 atop the surface and 3 below the waves, heading to the graveside of a dead city that wasn't really finished dying, as an empty gesture towards a nation that didn't even have enough living citizens left for it to mean anything.
Wasn't that a thrill.
The lifeforms in the 400 or so kilometers around Washington DC were well and truly dead to this world, but the climate wasn't finished throwing out hurricanes, storm clouds that belched acidic rain for hours, and occasional coruscating plasma discharges that lit up the ink-black night sky. Even though the ship was quite safely cruising at 1,000 feet below surface, they had cybernetic links to the regular ships above them, plus they had deployed their drag-line antenna which was floating just barely above the waterline, giving them color visual, thermal imagery, echo-imagery, magnetometry, radiometry, and a comms relay that included cell & satellite signals, CB and IR-laser. They had a very good idea of what was happening above them, without really needing the other ships to send them scans or data. Not that they wanted to see all this bloody crap all that much.
Sigh... No, Washington DC wasn't finished dying, not any time soon. And they would all be stuck with that inhumane view for weeks, maybe months, as they did the analyses and built the preliminary structures to house the weather scanners, navigational beacons, comms relays and personnel habitats to maintain a few troops to watch the zone. Given how far away and apart from each other these bunkered habitats would be, watching and sending out warning calls was pretty much all they would be doing for several years to come.
Sighing deeply in despondency, Nathan closed his tired eyes as he chewed his sweet cookie, thinking back to happier times, when his worse worry in life was to make certain he had enough sweet treats in the pantry to keep the peace between Carol and Robert, as their son was a sugar bug. Given how fast his mother could grind her way through a pack of Oreo's, Bear Paws, Peanut butter cookies or puffed rice & marshmallow squares, it didn't take a genius to see the boy had gotten that habit honestly, even if not from his father's side. The fights they'd had over who got the last piece in a pack... Somebody should have gotten a medal from those epic wars. Most likely himself, considering how often he wound up as the poor civilian collateral damage in those vicious fights. Whoever tells you that sugar isn't an addictive as bad as tobacco, alcohol or weed is lying to your face; he could bear witness to it.
Frowning wearily, eyes still closed, as he ate his late-night snack, the old man thought of the tens of millions of people who had died in the last four days, wondering if any of them actually understood what had happened to their nation, or if they had just tried to blindly outrun the catastrophe as it unfolded. Bridger wondered silently what he would have done, if he had been caught aground, on the US mainland, when that week of insanity began to expose itself on TV. He was about to take another bite when a crunching noise from his left side made him blink a few times to get his eyes back in line to scan around the room to find the source of the errant sound.
The holo-emitter console was active. Inside the silvery mist he could see the bust of the 13 year old kid who had made the device, moving and making noise like a real person would. He was apparently chewing something rather noisily while holding a large metal thermal tankard with both hands against his chest, as if to get warmed by the hot contents. Nathan blinked as the kid seemed to have a paperback book floating in the cyber-ether in front of him, the phantom pages turning by themselves occasionally.
Whaaaat?
"Ahem... Can I help you with something?" the captain asked aloud, still quite perplexed by the weird intrusion on his quiet reading time. They would soon reach the site of their former Capital city and he would be needed on the bridge, no excuses possible even if he would essentially be useless while the analyses were being carried out. He needed all the alone time he could get to gather the fortitude to face the hard night ahead of their convoy into the newly named 'American Shattered Lands'.
The youthful teenager in the image turned a jaded face towards the old man, giving him a cold, distant look that Nathan had trouble understanding, especially since this was a machine, not a real living person. How was it that he could display emotional façades like this, and what did it mean in terms of system activity behind it?
"Yes?" came the chill response. "Can't you see that I'm reading? Do I bother you when you are concentrating on your own hobbies? And people say that kids are impolite these days. We obviously learned that from your generation, didn't we?" snarked the virtual child, with venomous wit aplenty.
Scoffing aloud, the veteran sailor was actually amused as that particular reply had been sent his way by both his son and his brother's kids on many occasions. As a primary school teacher, Carol had heard it quite a few times every week. And the kids were right about it too, most times.
"I was wondering why you were online. I don't recall activating the console. And I do believe that a beeper would have sounded if the emitter was forced-activated remotely by the bridge or engineering to do a systems check. So. Why are you here?"
Honestly, the old man felt weird at having what amounted to a dialogue with a hologram that was nothing but the representation of a person frozen in time inside databanks. However, he was also weary of possible malfunctions and hackers jogging around his wires that could accidentally trigger complex systems like the holo-counselor program. If he were lucky, the program could tell him directly the cause of the situation, then maybe even fix it automatically. In worse case, he would call the bridge to report the malfunction for repair. They were still in the ship's shakedown period, fresh out of drydock, therefore some little errors were expected.
Despite the instinctual jolt of dread he had felt at remembering the rebellious computer 'HAL' from the old movie of his youth 'Space Odyssey' when he saw the imager alight, Nathan wasn't in a mood to panic just yet. The system had been active for three years by now, and had actually been used as 'central helper' during the design and construction of the ship's new iteration. Andrea Dre had been quite smitten by the virtual boy, and even the ornery Oliver Hudson had grumbled about it being "not too bothersome, despite some odd little quirks". The crew hadn't yet made any comments about the program, but then again he had spent most of his time aboard in formal meetings or reading the damned manuals, not loitering around socializing with sailors.
The silvery ghost-in-the-machine moved a hand to his mouth, thusly showing it was large twisted pretzels he was munching on as he read. A slow gulp of liquid from the mug had a small cloud of steam waft around the boy's chin, wrapping his lower face in thin wisps of whitish vapors. The young eyes were panning right-to-left at a pace Nathan was hard pressed to follow; he couldn't imagine a real human being able to read and absorb texts that fast. As the hologram took its time to answer, Bridger silently marveled at the level of detail and quality of animation that went into the programming of the system. Having participated in the design and creation of the SeaQuest's first variant DSV protocols with all the assorted sensors, dials, gauges and data displays that it entailed, he could envision a pretty good idea of just how much genius, imagination, work time and hard efforts had been whelmed to produce what he saw.
"You do know it's not polite to stare, don't you?" quipped the hologram as he kept his eyes and focus on his phantom book, making Bridger wonder if it was an actual function in the system or a subroutine that got stuck like an old fashion vinyl record that stayed in the same track.
"I know. I just find you intriguing. And amazing. Sometimes amusing, too." the veteran sailor answered lightly, as he closed his technical booklet to focus on what was shaping up to become a conversation partner that he hadn't expected to find aboard.
"Wow... You really have no life whatsoever to have that many feelings about me." the program responded with clear sarcasm. "I'm not even real, afterall. Why don't you put on a movie or video game? It would wake you up for your upcoming mandatory bridge presence much more thoroughly than my charming personality ever will."
Nathan snorted at the thinly veiled suggestion to 'take a hike' the computerized persona had given him. His son had been pretty much the same at that age, but mostly when he was concentrating on a video game that he was rushing to beat the level he was stuck on. Reading paper books had never been his son's favorite pastime. The few research reports he had done for school had been based on texts that he could find digitally on the Internex, despite all the efforts Carol and he had made to change that bad habit to balk at physical paper books.
Concentrating back on the imager, Nathan replied "No thank you. I tend to fall asleep on movies, these days. Especially since there's nothing new anymore, just damned sequels and remakes. As for video games, that was never my way of passing time anyways. I did try my hand at Sim City, back when the first versions were okay, but ever since the fourth and fifth came out, all I could do was gripe at the bugs and illogical manner of how the town revenues were gathered. Or the zoning tools; those had some nasty problems in them. The roadway builder was worse. But the inability to make money in a reliable, stable fashion, with the tax basin collapsing every few years the game clock passed, that's what made me quite the game. Sheer frustration at the ineptitude of the programmers that obviously had no knowledge of urbanism or city management despite that was the goal of the entire thing. And you? What are you reading that's got you so bent on making me silent?"
Humming softly at the older man's answer, the virtual boy replied tonelessly "It's an old treatise on alchemy from Hungary, written in Hebrew, from the beginning of the Dark Age of Humanity, Circa 1200 or so. I am reading it as part of my general culture, and specifically to learn about the diverse roots of what is now called Modern Medicine across most of the Earth. I guess you could say it's a slow night, given that I'm not hacking anything military, or trying to rebuild somebody's neuro-chemical equilibrium based solely on the lab tests ordered by their fifth-rate medic."
Nathan blinked both eyes slowly in surprise at the detailed answer he got from the emitter. Then he concentrated on the actual information, being surprised by the subject the program was processing and the reason he did it. Suddenly, the older man had a pressing question to ask. "Tell me something; are you actually reading a copy of the genuine text, or did you download a version of it and this is just the imagery the system projects to show that it's working on it?" The sailor got up from his couch to go stand besides the holo-emitter, to watch closely the reactions of the virtual child as the program answered his query.
The silvery boy chewed on another pretzel, followed that with some steaming coffee, then looked from his floating book to Bridger's face, as if he were truly in the room with the human, having a real conversation with him. Wearing an unreadable expression on his translucent features, the ghost child replied in monotone words "Would it make any difference to your life or command of the ship? What does it matter how I learn things? Or what the subjects are? Tell me, captain, are you truly so insecure in your status as CO of the boat that the mere image of a child suffices to unsettle you?"
Nathan looked straight into the eyes of the silver-white-blue gas image, wondering wearily about just how much intellect and self-awareness the thing had been created with. These were not the answers of a simple holo-assistant like 'Alexa' or 'Cortana'. No; these were the reactions of an actual person who was getting defensive at what they perceived to be an offensive comment towards their mind and professional standing. Bridger was about to ask a follow-up question to probe the program's reactions deeper when the buzzer on his door sounded. The phantom teen made a show of manually closing his book, packing his pretzel bag and turning around to – seemingly – walk away into the distance, thus making his image shrink until it was half-sized, then vanished completely.
Blinking rapidly in deep thought, Nathan growled at the damned buzzer again interrupting his train of thoughts with its shrill demands for attention. "Come in, damn it! And stop that infernal racket! I'm trying to think in here!" he yelled out over his shoulder, before concentrating on the holo-emitter that was, for all appearances, still active even though the gas module was inert and no images were showing anymore.
Chief of security Manilow Crocker came inside the cabin, standing just by the entry door, holding a metal clipboard against his ample girth with both arms folded over it. "Ah, Nate... I thought you'd want to go to the bridge about now. We're closing in on DC's old place, and the conn officer called the survey crews to their stations."
Frowning interrogatively, with his lips pursed in disapproval at being removed from what he considered an important situation to understand, Nathan nodded sharply once then walked over to his desk to retrieve the keys, cards and his PAL unit from the charging block. Once equipped, both older men walked out of the cabin, locked the door tightly, and made their way to the command deck to oversee the autopsy of the dead Capital.
Inside the cabin, the holo-emitter densified its gas bubble until the imagery inside was able to reach 35% material solidity. The ghost of the 13 year old boy appeared again, the same book floating in the silvery ether before him as he foraged through a packet of chocolate & mint cream wafer cookies this time around. Looking around the empty cabin, the phantom boy sent a silent cybernetic command for the lights to lower down to half intensity so his book could be more visible. Adopting what looked from outside to be a comfortable reclining position with his large thermal mug of coffee held preciously over his heart with both hands, the silver-blue child spoke softly to himself, his thin reedy voice carrying weakly across the cabin. "Alone and peaceful at last." the sad words whispered. "Maybe I'll get to finish this text today and move on to another for tonight. It's interesting but not much use beyond historical perspective. I really need to find something more actual to occupy myself with, so I don't go daft like my parents." the soft melancholy words echoed hollowly in the empty room.
His face showing how deeply depressed he was, the phantom child gazed despondently towards the viewport in the outer hull that was placed near his console. Sighing in deep emotional pain, the synthetic adolescent asked in soft melancholy tones: "If a hologram of a human cries alone in an empty room, is it really a person who is truly suffering?" Thin lines of whitish gas formed in his eyes, trickling slowly down his face to disappear back into ether before they reached his chin. The digital youth was so lost in his thoughts and emotions that he didn't realize he was exteriorizing his feelings.
It didn't matter anyways. No one heard him, so no one answered.
For some reason, he was certain that no one would have given him any response anyways, other than turning-off the console to keep him from pestering them with questions about his existence and person-hood. Humans were notoriously bad at dealing with their own emotions and mental stability; why would they be capable or caring enough to help with his ailing soul?
He really hoped his brother called him soon. It had been a month since they had last spoken, and he missed having at least one organic in his life who treated him like he mattered as a person rather than just an expensive video game. Unfortunately, he was well aware of the depth of trouble his creator was drowning in; the chances of a social call anytime soon were slim, if at all. As with everything else in both their poor maligned lives, he would have to be patient and wait in silence, alone and forgotten, just as they both always were.
{ SQ } - { Here rots in pieces the late WDC } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 02:11am
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 23:11pm
Commander Jonathan Ford was standing with his back to the four helm chairs as he spoke to lieutenant-commander Hitchcock who was sitting at her station, overseeing the deployment of the Sea Crabs and Hyper-Reality Probe for the sample collection phase of their post mortem analysis. She was busy calibrating the HRP headset while the probe did a fully automated launch from its holding bay through a dedicated tube that usually served for it, the WSKRS or putting out navigational assistance buoys when exploring around hazardous coastlines, shoals, and distressed or wrecked ships.
Ford saw over Hitchcock's head as the massive armored clamshell doors on the bridge's right-side entry opened to let in the captain and chief of security. Bridger seemed upset - or just worried? - about something since he wasn't paying much attention to the prattle coming from his old academy friend as they walked. Oh, great! An upset CO was just what the ship needed at this time.
"Commander Ford, how far along are we in the deployment schedule?" the older mariner asked curtly as he sat in the large thickly padded command 'throne', thus displacing the poor lieutenant that had held conn until that point. The younger officer scrambled to get out of the veteran's way as he could easily perceive that something had soured the elder's mood before he came to supervise operations. Given that they were investigating the remains of their home country's capital city, everybody hoped it was simply sadness or anger at people he knew that died in the city and not something wrong with the newly rebuilt boat, or worse, the crewmen themselves.
Standing on his spot as it was more useful because he could see either the helm stations or Cathy's console from where he was, the 33 year old answered in carefully moderated tones. "We have run the newly reshaped entry of the Chesapeake Bay and are presently moving forward along the Potomac River's remodeled inlet at one sixth our best speed, roughly 15 knots, at 1,000 feet under but raising to 500 slowly. The Nimitz group, Kossel and LST have matched our speed but assumed positions about one kilometer behind us so we can send them the sea-floor & currents map updates before they proceed up river."
The captain nodded, replying in a more mellow voice "Thank you commander. Have the helmsmen reported any odd current patterns or turbulence during our entry into Chesapeake Bay? Were there any more seismic shocks reported by the mainland?" The senior officer was asking as he closed the pivoting eaves of the split-table over himself, plugged his PAL into the socket and typed in his PIN to switch the displays over to those he preferred when doing a full shift on active watch.
Ford replied a bit more easily now "No to either, sir. We have two pilots here that did mini-sub patrol duty out of Alexandria for the DC anti-terrorism squad, about four years back." The black skinned man pointed at two sailors leaning over the left-side navigation table, doing comparative analysis between the old maps and new readouts.
"They know most of the Potomac's bed, walls and shores, all the way up north to the old Seneca Creek's defunct locks, and up the Anacostia all the way north to the split between west & east branches. We also have a team of 8 scuba divers who were in the same service, tasked specifically to inspect bridge pilings and infrastructure pipes for sabotage or intrusion. Most were in Florida due to career moves in the last few years, but one was taking his vacation time for Christmas in Miami with his wife and kids, when everything happened. The UEO have issued a call-back for all personnel who are qualified scuba divers and DVS workers, but given the fact the USA is undergoing 5 different wars of religion, race, gender, age and professional standings... Well, the UEO navy's personnel office wasn't very optimistic about getting return calls to their public appeal."
Humming softly, Bridger nodded absently as he finished connecting with and setting up his station. God, but that was taking time! It was only something like four minutes, but what a bother it could be when you're stressed out and waiting for even more bad news. On the plus side, the new command dais gave him a myriad of displays, information and tactical options about as fast as he could perceive and intellectualize them. On the negative side, he couldn't simply walk in and sit in the chair as he spoke to his people anymore. The captaincy console, bridge management system, and even the ship's main network overwatch programs, all demanded a sign-in with PIN and password, plus the fact that now he had to tick the check boxes next to several alerts on the pop-up 'command & control warning' for the conn officer who was taking up the new shift.
The entire system was good, well balanced and thoughtfully set-up, but it added at least two layers of cybernetic administrative maneuverings each time any officer sat in the chair as the official 'conn' or 'officer of the watch'. The obvious benefit was that if an officer ticked a problem in the column that said he was pushing it forward to the next man to hold conn, he had to select or write in manually the reason for why the problem wasn't solved under his tenure. Some situations like engine or hull repairs that needed multiple days/weeks automatically offered the 'work in progress' response with the 'on schedule' or 'delays encountered' options to qualify the state of things. Smaller things though, needed to be justified if they were delayed unto later. The system of self-writing automated reports would need a bit of habit forming, but Nathan could predict that it would be quite helpful, once he was used to it. This was a better solution than handwriting everything on four-ply carbon paper, that was sure. The logic tree that selected and presented the fast-fill options & replies had certainly been conceived by somebody that worked in heavy industrial infrastructures or large-hull vehicles, he could tell that much at this point.
One last tick, swipe the touchscreen for a few quick scans of what was happening all over the boat, and Bridger could now get out of the constrictive chair assembly to walk around his domain without two dozen different alarms going off all at once. Apparently, for the captain to leave his appointed chair without justifiable reason or inputting several passwords was cause to think he was sick, remiss in his duties, or being threatened to act contrary to protocols. Passing a weary hand over his forehead, the old mariner wondered just how dense, and deep, that surveillance net went. Well, the only way to truly know that was to live aboard for a few months and figure it out as he went.
"Commander Hitchcock, how's your baby doing?" Nathan asked in his normal on-duty voice as he walked to stand besides the young woman who had almost become his daughter-in-law, ten years ago.
Her eye movements were partially hidden behind the blue tinted lenses of the HRP as she slowly looked up to the older man, neither detached nor welcoming. Back when she dated Robert and they had very briefly talked about getting engaged, she had never been particularly close to either Nathan nor Carol Bridger. That had been just eight months before her whirlwind relationship and eventual short, ill-fated marriage to Benjamin Krieg, which situation was weird as heck since the man was serving aboard ship as chief quartermaster. In all, it meant Cathy had neither good nor bad experiences with Bridger, and no emotional baggage to react on. He was her CO and she knew barely a tick more than his publicly declared service records, no more. Ben on the other hand, had accompanied Robert back home a few times during shared leave periods from the academy and their first deployment, so he had met the elder Bridger's at the time. She had no idea how the captain was feeling about having so many people who knew his son serving aboard, and didn't feel inclined to pry into the life of what was essentially a stranger from her perspective.
Clearing her throat, Hitchcock answered glumly "It's bad out there, sir. The HRP is performing just as it should and all systems are green, but only for now. I think we are facing a lot of maintenance work on all our dependent craft and probes when they come back in, sir. The ocean water in Chesapeake Bay is like a soup full of micro debris and the river water is already showing almost twice that much before we even enter the inlet proper. Since all our boats and crafts use encased aqua-jets to propel themselves, we are going to have to double up on the time and resources to open the coffers then pressure wash the gunk off the mobile parts of the turbines. Not to mention that, unlike the classic free-spinning propellers of the surface ships, the turbines in the aqua-jets can actually clog up so bad that they stop pushing out water and burn out their engines from straining against the obstructed pipes. Beyond that specific situation, everything else is mostly the kinds of slightly elevated temperatures, shallow background radiation and densified viscosity that NATO scientists predicted would follow a nuclear blast in near-ocean conditions around DC. The cold winter climate is also making the water bodies denser, heavier and slower to react, even at DSV ranges."
Ford snorted aloud in disdain at that last part. "The damned models from the 1980's didn't predict the multiple landmasses splitting off from the main continent, or the brand new trench cutting through the eastern seaboard like a cheap wedding cake from COSTCO's frozen pastry aisle. That they got anything right about the situation... Well... I honestly don't know if it's reassuring or a sign nobody really knows anything about this mess."
Nathan gestured vaguely with his left hand as he contemplated the sea-floor map and colored data points displayed on Cathy's console. "Both options can coexist, commander. I don't think anybody sane ever envisioned an explosion like this one, but the fact that some of the basic predictions in the models happened as foreseen can help assuage our worries about the rest that wasn't. Anything else, we'll have deal with as it is presented to us."
Helmsman number 2 called out angrily "What in Sam's Hill is that clusterfuck doing in my water? Sensors, can you tell me what I'm seeing out there? Cuz it don't look like a dead whale carcass like I've ever seen in seven years o' piloting anything!"
Sensor chief Miguel Ortiz toggled the forward vari-cam array to pivot 9,88 degrees left to zoom in on the offending object, only to choke off his remark halfway out of his mouth. On the main viewscreen the bridge crew could see a close-up of the bent, crooked foreign mass as it drifted haphazardly along the undertow currents of the river towards the wide open sea. Despite being almost 45 feet long if it were straight, the thick twisted object was remaining at mid-depth by unknown reasons since the sensors indicated it was mostly metal and plastic.
"Fuck it to Hell and back" Migs swore crassly. "It's a bus. It's a bloody municipal bus that got blown right off the landmass by the blast wave and floated downstream drowned at half-way. What the heck is that thing doing floating around like that?"
Ignoring the verbal emoting of his crewmen since it was a normal healthy reaction to seeing atrocity in person without disturbing their job performance, Bridger leaned over Cathy a bit more to tap some buttons on the touchscreen to initiate a second pass of analytics on the wrecked object. The answer was obvious; the bus was one of those brand new hybrid electric models, composed mostly of synthetic plastics, kevlar weave insulation pads, reinforced fuel tanks and no-flat tires filled with a plastic honeycomb structure that actually made them quite buoyant. The entire thing would have sunk if it had been fresh off the assembly line, but not in this state with the roof mounted battery and air conditioner exploded right off the carriage, the cabin mostly torn to shreds in the event.
Nathan frowned grimly, his lips a thin white line in his pinched features. "It looks as if the bus was circulating normally when the detonation happened. The blast was near enough that the lithium-ion battery reacted badly, causing a secondary explosion just as the vehicle was being shoved out to the river depths. The rest of the frame and carriage are light magnesium and plastics, nothing that sinks without help. Devoid of the massive roof unit, the main assembly is just drifting around, until it loses momentum. Then it will fall to the bottom, like every other dead thing in the sea."
Ford made a face but no comments. Nodding at his boss, the ship's Ex-O tapped Hitchcock's console then made hand signs at her, to which she nodded in reply. Now actively ignoring the bridge and people around her, she delved cybernetically into the Hyper-reality Probe as if it were a thick scuba-suit for a DSV maneuver. It was a good thing she was actually qualified for apnea diving, scuba diving and nitr/ox diving in DSV hard suits; all of those skills came in handy to pilot and interact with the large heavy probe that she had helped to create two years ago at the UEO Navy labs of New Cape Quest.
Lieutenant Timothy O'Neil, ship's chief of communications & signals, raised a hand to get the senior officers' attention. "Sirs! Incoming conference call from NCQ, requesting all ship CO's on-line, madam secretary general Dre is waiting for the line. There will also be Shay Mosley, director of NCIS for the USA, and Mathilda Webber, director of DXS for the USA, joining the vid-meet."
{ SQ } - { Video conference begins } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 02:30am
Western America; Monday 21st of December, 2020; 23:30pm (midnight)
Making faces of annoyance, the two senior officers not encased in a VR set gestured at the man to accept the line on the main monitor in mosaic setup. It only took seconds for Andrea Dre to appear, seated in one of the large plush couches of her office in the UEO Treaty HQ. Sitting besides her were admiral William Noyce who had been disembarked in Florida before sailing for DC's remains, another admiral but from the UEO - JAG branch, and a mousy type in a brown suit that practically had 'academics professor' stamped on his forehead because of how stereotypical his attire and behavior were.
In the central bottom portion of the monitor were the two images of the US agency directors, each in the OPS rooms of their respective HQ.
On the other small rectangles of the monitor were the heads of each ship in the convoy, including one in the bottom right corner that was highlighted by a glowing white frame to indicate that this image was their own ship's broadcast so the officers would have an external perspective on themselves during the conference. Sometimes, seeing oneself acting out like an imbecile could calm down tempers before career ending idiocies could be spoken out for the whole world to see.
Point in case; Trump appearing on Fox & Friends at noon on a weekend day.
In order to avoid such deplorable spectacles, the UEO Alliance had established a policy that on all vid-phone calls, singles or conferences, there would always be a small mortise of your own broadcast in your screen so you could see yourself, thus evaluate and moderate your own demonstrations accordingly. This also meant that in the diverse law enforcement, military, and bureaucratic branches, absolutely no leeway or mercy was ever given to those proffering threats or obscene gestures at a superior or investigator. This insured civilized, professional discourse and interactions at all levels, in all services, or swift retaliation came to the offender regardless of rank or status.
Andrea Dre began immediately once all participants had confirmed a functioning signal. "Gentlemen, I am calling you to inform you that a classified briefing package has been sent to your command servers on each ship. This concerns the recent and still ongoing activities by the space stations of the Copernicus defensive array. Young doctor Wolenczak has managed to use three of the weapons platforms to secure the 'joint' of the Great Eastern Split at the shores of Lake Erie to protect the fresh water supply of north-east America and Canada. The particulars of the event and processes used are classified, not to be shared outside the relevant clearance holders or command-level senior ranks. Am I clear on this?" she explained tersely in a voice that was clearly aggressive. After the long day and half-night she'd lived through, you could understand that she was on the end of her rope, and her temper was considerably frayed at this point.
All ship commanders acknowledged positively her instructions before she continued. Passing a weary, shaking hand through her long blond hair, the middle-aged woman made an effort to finish this so she could go eat and sleep a few hours before morning came.
"Alright, people. We have a situation developing that needs resolution before it gets bad, then worse. As you are all already aware, it was young doctor Lucas Wolenczak who committed the financial destruction of all churches, sects, cults and their varied ecclesiastes who were registered in the fiscal or police dossiers of the planet's active governments. This is presently causing a tidal wave of destitution, misery, discontent and civil unrest in nation after nation as the populations are becoming aware of just how far reaching the cybernetic attack truly is. The problem is that we quite clearly need the good doctor alive and healthy to help us with the rebuilding effort across the planet. Not only do his companies still produce foodstuffs, medicines and computers, but also weapons & munitions in two distinct facilities on the Canada – USA border, at Sault-Sainte-Marie and Sarnia. There are rumors, coming from several old CIA operatives we have managed to hire as they fled, about his other emplacements in Detroit and Buffalo."
Taking a few seconds to let that sink in, Andrea then continued in the same tone "On top of this, the young man is a superlative medical practitioner, a potent biochemist and pharmacologist, and one of the best cybernetologists alive at present. In short, given that we expect to have lost close to 200 million people in the USA alone by the end of March 2021, and almost 900 million in the rest of the planet from the oncoming religious and civil unrest from the faith-industry crash, plus the starvation and diseases as people will be too poor to buy anything... Well, we can't afford to lose high caliber people like him anymore, not unless he's a proven threat against us. Given that he has just saved millions of lives by protecting the St-Lawrence River's fresh water basin from either contamination or depletion, the UEO Council has signified to me that they aren't inclined to declare him an enemy yet."
Admiral Geoffs grunted amusedly at his superior's roundabout way of speaking. "Whad'da ya want with us, then? The planet's burning, we have better things to do than gabbing the night away."
Scowling fiercely at the impolite interruption of her well prepared speech by the hulking ruffian in the beige shirt, SG Dre answered firmly "A medically capable ship, but secured enough to protect the young genius from would-be assailants and saboteurs. He has critical injuries, infections to his legs, that he was scheduled to have examined during the Christmas holidays, but that plan is rather obviously scuppered, in light of multiple wars, nuclear fallout, and assassins running around willy-nilly."
Geoffs pointed at his colleague in the mosaic of faces, saying "This ain't even a question! That there is a hospital ship with 400 beds for convalescent patients in a hundred 4-bed suites, including 40 separate quarantine rooms with single bed. Why are you having a conference with all of us when the Kossel can pick up the kid on its own as easily as any other patient? Their crew's not inept, last I saw of them. Get the canucks to send the kid over by jet-copter or Chinook as soon as the first outpost is activated, the Kossel's team will do the rest on arrival. Why are we involved in this? Speaking of which, why aren't the Canadians online for this meet? Or the kid? I'm pretty sure this concerns them more than us."
"The UEO Council is not certain that the Canadian government is not compromised by regional branches of American churches or sects. Therefore, they want to try and manage this – affectation – without the possibility of sabotage by the cousins of defeated clerics seeking vengeance for their dead relatives or their burnt churches. I disagree with the position, but I have many limits to how much leeway I am allowed in executive actions that don't come with a written warrant from the Council. Similarly, several confederation leaders are presently displeased to see a child with so much money, lands, and power, acting without a 'venerable mentor' to hold his wealth in trust until he has reached adult age. Again, this is clearly a transparent ploy to lay hands on said wealth to steal it or enslave the child in a felonious 'master – servant' type of contract or bond, and I have spoken out against it."
Making a face of disgust as she remembered several of the arguments made by the Himalayan, Pan-Arabic and Pan-African alliances. A few discrete comments issued on secured channels by the European Union delegate hadn't been models of humane tolerance either. Corruption and depravity came in all sizes and shapes, and seemed to congregate in politics, when organized religion wasn't available to use as a cloak to shield themselves from the public eye.
"It's the basic security level for the containment array required by the asset that is forcing us to contemplate such elaborate measures to house and transport him." answered Noyce glibly. "The young man is exceedingly intelligent, inventive, innovative, performant, but has also become aggressive, paranoid (rightly so) quite liberally violent, and has demonstrated publicly a tendency towards using area-effect weapons that can remold entire continents. His use of anti-population cyber attacks directly against the beating heart of humanity, the electronic banks, has also proven that he is passed beyond giving much of a damn about consequences to the world, the people, or even himself. Unfortunately, all that means that only a specific type of personnel can interact with him successfully over a prolonged period without triggering a calamity-inducing reflex on his part. Then you add the number of governments and private groups that want to get hold of him to control his fortune, companies, especially his sciences, and the choke-hold he can exert on the banking networks... It means he also needs protection layers; several of them, spread out around like onion skins wrapped around his person, his workshops, his conglomerate, and so on."
The female captain of the submersible hospital ship shook her head negatively on hearing that list of problems and criteria for safety and successful relationship to the patient. "No can do, madam Dre. The Albrecht Kossel was designed for mass-casualty treatment & transport to the nearest mainland base, not serving as a motorized fortress for some not-controlled-at-all super genius with a constant stream of enemies, lobbyists and foreign diplomats after his hide. Not to mention, we ain't no research lab, and certainly not a manufacturing plant for heavy stuff like this kid makes."
Andrea Dre blew air out of her mouth in exasperation, signaling with her right hand for the officers on screen to shut it while she explained her idea. "I am well aware of the limitations in design and function of each ship in that convoy, including the single private contractor present. My idea was to permanently lodge doctor Wolenczak aboard the SeaQuest since some of the ship's computer network is already compatible with his tech, because he helped us to design it three years ago. From there, he could get his treatments in the boat's infirmary, or shuttle over to the Kossel for specialist medics and equipment when necessary. Likewise, if any ship in the convoy needs the young prodigy's special brand of attention, he could just move from hull to hull to fix problems or design the innovations required by whatever you encounter during your shared mission, then email it via las-com."
Nathan snorted, not amused at the poisonous gift he was being force-fed. Right from the beginning of the mission he had guessed that it would become something like this arrangement, but he had expected to have more time to get used to his boat, crew, and being back amongst people. Not to mention that admiral Geoffs was perfectly correct; there was no way that kid would accept this without being a fully active participant in the decisional process. This would not go well. Not at all.
Clearing his throat noisily to get the SG's attention, captain Bridger asked aloud "Did you ask the young man his opinion before making a decision like this? Because I really don't think this will go over well with him, especially if you try to impose it. If anything, you might want to anticipate a violent reaction on his part, if you try to even just propose it, let alone impose the decision on him."
Scowling worse now, Andrea Dre queried nastily "And what do you base your view of that on, Nathan? You haven't even been back in society for more than a week and never met the kid, so how can you think you know how he would react?"
His voice taking on a much harder tone, the older sailor replied toxically "Because I opened my eyes to reality before I made a judgment call on the situation! Look at Noyce sitting next to you, and ask him! Which boat did Lawrence Wolenczak try to have his teenaged son imprisoned, enslaved, tortured and murdered aboard of? Which boat did Lawrence already have paid minions aboard, ready to enact his fell will the moment the boy set foot on deck? Can you even give guarantees that all the perpetrators and conspirators were found and neutralized? What about white supremacists and Trumpists? Are there any left aboard? These maniacs wanted to kill the kid because of his race, age, ancestral religion, and the multiple medical formations he has. Can you certify that all of the criminals have been found and removed from the ship? I certainly can't do that! I've been in command less than 48 hours, and the civil war has been in full swing for grossly that too. What the Hell kinds of guarantees can you give this kid to convince him to move, or follow your demands, without retaliation?"
Taking a breath to calm himself, Nathan signaled he wasn't finished yet. "Let us not forget that he is already a major supplier of services and material goods for the UEO, Canada and the USA. If you try to simply command him to move and produce on demand without any kind of payment or compensation, every company, manufacture, hospital and service center in the Alliance will panic, starting a workers' and employers' revolutionary movement against your Cabinet. Forcible nationalization and 'imperial' styled dictatorial commandments over private companies & properties have NEVER been tolerated inside the liberal democracies of the Western societies. If you want something from this kid, you will have to ask if he's available, then negotiate terms and sign a contract with payment in hand, or else find another solution. I can foresee clearly violence and area-effect reprisals if you try to force him to bend to your will due to shortsightedness, or worse, simple ageist bigotry."
The man seated on Dre's left spoke up at this point. He was Admiral Gunther Garver, the chief of the UEO Judge Advocate General services, loaned from the German equivalent. "I must point out, Madame Secretary, that we have been over this point already in previous meetings. The UEO charter forbids all forms of enslavement, forced labor camps, chain gangs, or any attempt to extort uncompensated labor or work-product from the citizens or permanent residents of our members. A following article of the charter applies these very same forbiddances & protections to tourists, migrants and refugee status claimants. All the possible sorts of exemptions or derogations to these articles such as minority age, mental capacity deficits, abusive claims by parents, or the spurious demands of religious groups to operate 'reformation camps for dispirited youth' have all been entered into the charter and declared illegal from the onset. Even the IPT couldn't change that, or rule differently, not even for Wolenczak."
William Noyce huffed loudly, growling at the stupidity of – some – people involved in the matter. "Could you please get it through your thick skulls that you can't legally force this kid against his will and move on to a real solution? We have all the tools to negotiate with him, let's just hammer out a more extensive service & supply contract, then pay him for it. He'll say yes fast enough, and that'll free us to concentrate on the genuine threats moving on the radar, instead of wasting our time at holding the hand of blasted bigotry and fear fueled fools anymore."
Secretary General Dre sighed angrily, before turning to the man who seemed like an academic. Making an impatient gesture at him she signaled it was his turn to speak. Blinking wearily at the assembly of high-caliber personnel, the poor man tried to sit straighter to not appear intimidated by those waiting on his contribution. The elderly asian male passed a shaking hand over his thin, short, silvery goatee before speaking his thoughts.
"My name is Lee Wen Ju. First name Wen Ju, house of Lee. I am a civil servant from Beijing on loan to the UEO Treaty Council as expert on matters of juvenile development, autonomy, mental capacity and emancipation laws. I was asked by the Executive Cabinet to compose a psycho-social profile of the young Doctor Lucas Wolenczak that could guide your decisions concerning his person and holdings."
Taking a deep breath, the old man began his long recitation of conclusions.
"Firstly, you must understand that the adolescent's mental capacity is not finished developing, meaning that he has not reached peak mental capacity for learning or adapting to reality and society. This lends him a very great flexibility of perception, cognition, intellectualization and emotional reaction that will be quite surprising compared to even mature adults in their forties. To call him a genius based only on his scientific developments is to commit the grave mistake of forgetting the depths of reasoning, philosophy, emotion and culture hidden behind the cold, detached façade he presents to the world."
Taking a sip from a small porcelain cup he took from the coffee table in front of him, the elderly social worker continued at a sedate pace.
"Secondly, he is an abused child. In fact, he is far passed abused, beyond tormented, and well into tortured with intent to murder, repeatedly, by both parents who tried to hire a slew of minions to commit the deeds. When that failed, his father Lawrence tried to kill him with his own hands in public. Then you have to take into account the horde of strangers who tried to harm or kill him over the last decade. This boy, while not born aggressive or prone to violence, has clearly learned the lessons of dominance, violence and physical brutality. I can certify from his files and videos that he suffers from a bad case of PTSD. After the clear attempt by the Trumpists to have an entire country hunt and destroy him, having episodes of paranoia, panic attacks, or spontaneous explosive anger due to a sentiment of persecution could be possible, BUT not yet shown to happen. In any case, the young man will be functioning according to proactive defense measures and risk reduction processes, as evidenced by calling in multiple lawyers while also carrying a beam-weapon cane and canisters of chemicals."
"Thirdly, and most importantly, he is not insane. Yes, he is 'abnormal', as are all prodigies in any domain, or any age. His psychological profile is one of a highly exceptional, highly functional, highly focused individual who values hard work, efficiency and inventivity, but not mentally ill, defective or insane in any way fitting the official guidelines for diagnosis of such ailments. You cannot think of him, nor approach him, as if he were 'born wrong' compared to the 'usual' children of North-America or you will trigger an aggressive reaction. He is a certified multi-genial super-prodigy, a champion of both health sciences and cybernetics technologies, as well as an incredibly profitable industrialist. He KNOWS for a proven fact that he is better than the average person. Telling him he is defective, damaged or insane will only make him discount your entire intervention, setting you aside without any further possibility to address him."
Pursing his lips in deep thought, the old bureaucrat took a minute to order his thoughts before speaking them out loud. "Fourthly, doctor Wolenczak is above all else a very pragmatic, logical and calculative temperament. Yes, he will have moments where his emotions override his judgment, just as we all experience through life. But, in general, he is a long-term planner who prefers to schedule events in advance for the greater over-arching picture to be accomplished in well measured steps. However, his escape from the USA to regroup in Vancouver has shown he is not incapable of tactical flexibility. If pushed for survival, he will adapt quite rapidly, surprisingly fast in fact, but then the retaliation he will exert will be devastating. Attacking, bullying and dominating this boy will see him reply in kind, but much more violently and terminally than what he suffered. He has learned well the lesson that the only enemy that leaves him alone in peace is the dead one. Do not provoke or attack him unless you plan to kill him for good. His response to violence will be massive, disproportionate, and completely public as he has noting to hide anymore."
Andrea Dre motioned with her empty left hand as the right one held a tea cup that she had been sipping from during the youth advocate's report. "That being the conclusions of the profile, you can all see why I want this kid under wraps on a ship at sea. He is completely stable and reliable, even in a high-stress job environment, but his potential for starting an Nth war if he's attacked is just too great. If we isolate him physically on a ship, we can control access to his person to keep hired assassins, vengeful worshipers who were pauperized, or surviving Trumpists, from reaching and attacking him. This is far more for his own safety, and ours too by consequence, than to actually control him or his industrial holdings. I don't want is money or businesses, only that he not hurry along the next Apocalypse, if we can avoid it."
Shay Mosley, of NCIS in Los Angeles, sneered contemptuously at the people assembled on the screen, seeing them as meek, weak, and afraid of a mere child in dire need of 'disciplinary reformation' of the harsh, corporeal kind. White folks just didn't know how to handle rowdy boys, not like her mama and grandma had! No fool man-child of any age had ever tried to pull crap that way on those two! However, given the audience and the fact her own status as head of NCIS for all of America wasn't fully recognized yet, she couldn't make demands against people that high in the food chain. Not to mention that she didn't have the full-sized, fully functional, US government backing her position or demands anymore, as they were all dead or had fled the country. Until she could seize enough raw power through building an armed group to become a force in her own name, she was better off focusing on lobbying the Canadian Prime Minister directly, without involving the UEO if it could be avoided. She wanted Lucas Wolenczak back in American custody, in her grip so she could teach the rebellious little bastard what it cost to impoverish a country's entire population like he did when he attacked the faith communities. The fact that Trump had started everything years before it exploded in public and would gladly have seen Mosley killed as 'rebellious slave-spawn' or 'uppity female that didn't know her place' was no longer computing inside her bigoted feverish mind. Trump was dead, his White Christian Regency as well, so she no longer felt it necessary to think of that in her decisions. Power Penultimate was within her reach, if only she could convince enough people to obey her will, or else break their souls into submissiveness for the same result.
That defective mindset of hers would cause a spectacular blow-back soon enough.
Mathilda Webber, of the DXS in Los Angeles, could read the faces of the people on screen easily as they were all tired to the bones and no longer able to make the efforts required to maintain a political façade for a meeting of this level. Thankfully, she had managed to squeeze in a pair of cat-naps during the day, and those two half-hours of rest made a great difference in wakefulness and mental alertness compared to the others. Matty could tell that Andrea Dre had ulterior motives for wanting the juvenile medic onboard her flagship regardless of his desires. She didn't know those motives yet, but she soon would. Admiral Noyce seemed ready to abandon the kid to his own devices, as did all the ship CO's in the convoy. The real problem was shaping up to be Mosley's dreams of conquest. That rabid bitch was sporting a raging hard-on for getting the kid publicly whipped at the post, and it seemed to be based purely on her personal stupidity, not real facts or a pragmatic goal. What the exact root cause of Mosley's vengeful dominative mentality was wasn't immediately apparent, but she would find that out too. Then she'd shut down the rampaging she-dog's operations before her goons did anymore damage to a very unstable, very unpredictable planetary mess that a whole lot of people were trying to settle down without a shoot-out. Getting Riley Davis into NCIS servers ASAP had just gotten to be a priority, but since the good doctor Wolenczak had already managed the feat, maybe he'd like to share intel, if only to help his own independence and safety from Mosley's coterie of mercenaries. That could become the starting point of a beautiful, long-term partnership, if she finagled it the right way.
Andrea Dre stood up from her couch, clearly angry at the lack of legal and moral support from her entourage. Addressing the soldiers and intel agents one last time, she declared "Well, since we can't arrive at a consensus tonight, we will table the matter for further discussion at a later date. It isn't like the problem will go away on its own, is it? Good night gentlemen." At which point she forcibly shut down the entire vid-meet on all lines by disconnecting from her end as the central point that had requested the conference.
{ SQ } - { Video conference ends } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 03:11am
Western America; Monday 22nd of December, 2020; 00:11am (midnight)
Captain Bridger turned to lieutenant O'Neil at comms, ordering tersely "If either admirals Noyce or Garver want to talk to me, put it through in priority. I will be in my cabin, since I'm not truly necessary on the bridge for the coming hours. Commander Ford, I'll try to get some sleep so I can relieve you and Cathy in the morning as per usual schedule. Other than the symbolism of the UEO flagship's CO being on deck for it, my presence doesn't help or speed up the analysis in progress, so I won't waste time with the damned politics and PR of it. Get the tasks done in order, with alacrity and proper detail, that's all."
The older man went to the command dais to log-out of the system, recovered his PAL, then walked out of the bridge by the left-side clamshell doors without further comments. None of the crew on shift tried to speak or stop him since he was right. He'd been forced to be present only because it looked good for the UEO Cabinet to have all the convoy ships' brass on deck when attending the graveside of the dead city, like a row of VIP mourners at a noble's funeral. Now left to their own devices, the lower officers turned to the morose and tedious job of completing the sea-floor map updates and rigging active sensors on steel poles at strategic places to watch over the now lifeless waters of Chesapeake Bay and the inlet leading north towards the Potomac and Anacostia river systems, which were lifeless as well.
{ SQ } - { I am The Light } - { SQ }
Deep inside the silvery ethers of cyberspace, a medium sized figure moved. It looked like the outline of a humanoid in fluorescent alabaster white, containing a swirling golden mist within which could be seen azure blue text, numbers, glyphs and symbols floating around, some in sequence and others randomly. The being, for it considered itself to be both existent and alive, moved slowly along the flows, fluxes and eddies of the virtual world. It was simply basking in the data streams like a swimmer letting himself be carried leisurely by the 'lazy river' in a water park.
This being constructed of pure unpolluted thought was named simply Luxis.
His existence however was not simple at all. He had been created by another being, one of organic flesh who existed in the Material World rather than the Virtual one where he dwelt. Also, instead of treating him as a mere construct of mathematical equations and electrical fluxes, the organic considered him as a true person, fully sentient and autonomous. But there was more to the relationship.
The organic called him 'little brother' because he had lived longer than his creation.
He was the only one of his kind in existence to date, which made him lonely, enough that sometimes he even felt isolated, but his organic brother never forgot about him. He called every week or so, unless he was in dire peril, as he had been of late.
It was just too bad for those who tried to damage or destroy his brother that the enemies were ignorant of the fact they were facing two well organized and connected opponents, not just one lonely, isolated and socially rejected victim that would be easy for the taking.
That was exactly the situation that would face the many fools outside the myriad of windows that linked his planet-wide domain with Material Reality, each one connected to a camera or sensor of some sort. They thought they could plot and scheme without a care in the worlds, secure in the erroneous belief that they were on secure comms, beyond hacking or wiretapping. They were obviously quite wrong, as evidenced by his listening to their vid-meet in real time, as easily as if they had dialed him in themselves.
Yes, Luxis Wolenczak would have to send an abstract of this just-closed conference to his dear flesh brother Lucas, so that they could better plan their common defenses and counter-moves well ahead of when they would become necessary. Oh well, his present book wasn't that interesting anyways; medicine was much more Lucas' area of expertise, not his. Luxis preferred ecological sciences and environmental physics, that was about as close to organic stuff as he wanted to come.
Snort!
It was always the quiet ones that you should worry about, especially when they tried to stay invisible most of their lives. Nobody would have ever guessed what his brother was capable of, or what the result would become.
As for the ones that were genuinely unseen, such as himself... Well, the unseen enemy was usually the one that killed you in your sleep, then wrecked your family and friends so they wouldn't mount a vendetta against their surreptitious attacker. Pretty much like he was planning to do against each and every mongrel that he saw on those screens trying to manipulate his brother's life against his welfare.
Multi-varied happenstances of the night remembered
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 11:09am
Western America; Tuesday 22nd t of December, 2020; 08:09am
Daleminton Hotel, suite #204
Park Royal, West Vancouver, BC, Canada
Our dear beloved Lucas was sitting prim and proper at the dining table of his suite, dressed in his usual ensemble of dark purple straight jeans, blue T-shirt, open flannel shirt on top and interior sneakers, with his meta-glasses on his face, armament-cane leaning against his right thigh, and all other electronics positioned & wired. The teenager was happily contemplating the empty plate that was the only remains of the hot meal that had been his breakfast this fine day. For once in almost a week, he had been able to relax, quietly enjoying his well earned food while it was hot. He had prepared himself a warm eggs & bacon toasted sandwich, hashed browned potatoes and pan seared pickled veggies, all from the remains of his second buffet cart. Aside that he had made a fresh pot of his personal spiced winter holiday tea. Thus, eating everything while the items were still hot was a definite necessity for it to be enjoyable because none of it was the sort to be edible cold.
The fact that a resplendent snow storm was pounding the building with enough force to rattle the tall glass patio doors in their frames was of no consequence to him. The precipitation was forecast by meteorologists to last only until noon, so he would have clear skies for his night trip eastward. The fact that there were a new pair of Canadian Beam-Guards and new CSIS agent in the suite to supposedly watch over his welfare was ignored as unimportant until proven otherwise.
He had also made little effort towards the lawyers piled up around the dining table, the three from Vancouver, and the other three from Sault-Sainte-Marie who had spent the night at the hotel, had all arrived at 8:30am as appointed, and taken their sweet time loading up on tea, coffee, muffins or doughnuts while spreading out across the table those tablets, papers and writing utensils of their professions. Lucas planned to continue ignoring them until it became useful to yank on a leash to have one of them bark at the fools on screen, when the vidphone did get used.
And that was why he had started eating at 7:30am, so he could enjoy his breakfast in peace and be finished with it, before the dishonest bastards from the UEO, Canada and USA governments called him for a vid-meet. Calling his poor maligned self at mid-meal, please note, in an attempt to destabilize him emotionally and psychologically by interrupting his mandatory intake of morning food that was a vital necessity given his bad health. All the medications he needed to swallow upon waking from sleep had to be taken with food or he would quickly get nausea, disorientation and develop bad ulcers in the lining of his stomach that would hurt for weeks. It was just too bad for these backstabbers that he had already been aware of their plans and reordered today's schedule and afferent plans accordingly. What was the point of 'privileged inside information' if you didn't act on it competently in a timely manner?
His nice and kind little brother Luxis had worked so hard to record and send the raw footage of the diverse conferences and private side-meetings that had happened before and after the main telephone convo last night. Then he went to all the trouble of producing a very intelligent and specific abstract that allowed Lucas to decide quickly and productively what happened next without having to waste hours at doing the analysis himself. It would be very bad form on Lucas' part to not exploit this tactical advantage fully while it was still critically relevant to the dastardly schemes of the newly discovered enemies and their contractors.
Snort!
He wasn't playing banal old 2D chess with them. No; he was the sys-op that hosted the 'mother' version of the MMORPG for the LAN party they were gaming in. And just like in a casino, you never play without asking the House rules, and you never bet on beating the House at its own game. He was the system hardware, the OS, the apps, the game itself, the patches, the character templates, the in-game mods they could buy, and even the Internex on-ramp they accessed from to log-in to play. How in Hell's bloody blue flames did they think for a second they could beat him at this? The sheer stupidity of people would never cease to astound him, and he was a damned mental health expert. Well, amongst the dozen other things he did in any given day.
Soon though, the vid-phone would ring, and a congregation of soldiers, politicians and self-styled 'Lords of Humanity' would try to twist his arm into submitting to their wills without any care for his welfare, health or even his life. Boy, were they in for a nasty shock when they did. The teenager's morning had been far from unproductive, as even sitting in the bathtub he could link with the neuroplexic network to manage his vast estates and make preemptive strikes at enemies who were still in the planning phases of their assault on his person. And many who had spent the night fomenting conspiracies to undermine his autonomy and freedom from slavery would get nasty wake-up calls in public, so that their humiliation could be seen by everybody all at once.
Leaning back in his chair, the boy thought back to all the secret meetings, reports and deals that had been going on in the depths of night, while they supposed he slept soundly, unawares and defenseless. Yes, this would be fun indeed.
Shay Mosley
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 03:10am
Western America; Monday 22nd of December, 2020; 00:10am (midnight)
The secretive meeting happened inside the new NCIS – LA bunkered enclave near the cargo shipping docks on the Pacific ocean's shore.
The enclave was composed of many edifices with industrial or residential uses, all centered around eight tall, wide, structures. The seven first were all similar in appearance; four 'regulars' dormitories, two 'senior agents' barracks and one for 'officers' apartments. Added to the seven housing towers was the dingy old 15 storey tall business center that had been converted into the Operations Control, with three levels serving as militarized field hospital and six Caterpillar generators in the basement that could serve the 'Officers' tower next to it as they kept OPS functional. All the enclave was surrounded together by a new 10 foot tall wall assembled form precast cement panels topped by electrified concertina wire, motion sensors and vari-cam arrays.
Aside the lodging towers, there was one massive railway-optimized hangar equipped to repair any motorized machinery including heavy trucks, trains, small boats or even floatplanes as there was a navigable canal that linked that specific building with the part of the cargo harbor where smaller ships docked. Aside that, there was one large cargo un/loading hangar capable of holding four sets of three railway cars, with ceiling cranes, forklifts and massive cold rooms to store foodstuffs for thousands for a month. Then there was an open-air railway triage yard passed by the double-sided main line, with six parking lines of up to 20 cars on each, and two open-air asphalt-paved parking lots.
The seven lodging towers were ten stories tall, their outside built of worn brown brick & pitted concrete that looked unassuming, but they had undergone severe reconstruction and internal upgrades in the last five years. These empty husks were leftovers of derelict manufactures, abandoned for years, until they had been bought and rebuilt as hidden modern military barracks. Each had been reconfigured the same; three underground levels for dry storage and an enclosed survival bunker, ground-floor garages 2 levels high for army trucks, then eight floors of lodgings according to plans for each tower, common rooms on each floor, then flat rooftops to mount solar panels, antennae, and rainwater catchment cisterns. The lodging buildings had been designed with several gunnery emplacements on each floor, from the ground to the rooftops, alternating cal.50 machine guns or 3 inch recoilless rifles.
All this extensive and secretive construction had been executed at the behest of one person, for her own benefits far more than the 'Noah's Ark' protocols that were the 'official' reason for the shady work and government money being spent under the table. While the general directive that was shared by hundreds of security, policing and intelligence agencies had been the baseline for the plans, this vicious, domineering woman had quickly seized the opportunity to create a solidly entrenched position of power for herself, even if the government didn't get impeached or fall to a civil war as foreseen.
Shay Lynn Mosley had many dreams, visions and ambitions for the last two decades, and she was tired of letting men of any color or creed stand in her way. She believed it was high time for a gynocracy to revolutionize this country of phalocratic maniacs to make it functional again. She had grand hopes for a new social model where only women held power, and only mothers who had given birth or adopted could rise to the seats of governance and religious exaltation. Women who were barren or chose to not become mothers could be the lowest part of the adult segment, just before child-girls. Men would be organized similarly, with proven fathers followed by celibates then child-boys. And even the highest male would always be lower than the youngest newborn baby girl, as would be written in the laws and morality of the newly created country.
Sometimes, life is like a lottery; you buy one ticket in your entire life and you win the jackpot while others bought tickets every week for decades and never got so much as a free game. This was pretty much what Mosley felt like, in last few years at her job.
When the central office in DC had silently passed around the 'Noah' files and budgets years ago, she had seen her Lucky Ticket to greatness and pulled on it with all her might. Being naturally gifted with cunning and political acumen, the black skinned woman had spent the last six years scheming, planning, defrauding procurement programs, embezzling cash seized in police operations at sea, rebuilding edifices secretly and moving people in/out of positions all over the Pacific as per her given authority as Executive-Assistant-Director for the Pacific territory of NCIS. This led her however into direct contact & conflict with Leon Vance and Henrietta Lange, both suspecting that she wasn't on the up & up. They were right, but couldn't do anything about her underhanded plots otherwise they would expose all of the 'Noah's Ark' protocols and their active willing participants to the ever paranoid Team Trump and their efforts to whitewash the federal government. Under fear of discovery as traitors to the state, Vance and Lange had stayed silent, even though they kept a weary eye on her activities which outpaced and outshone all other sectors that had become involved in 'Noah' contingencies.
Then, two days ago, Vance got killed off by Trump's inquisitors and her life got a lot easier. If only Lange had been in DC at the time; the stunted midget could have been scratched off the list too, without it leading back to her hands. But no; Lange was still in LA, ensconced in her precious Old Spanish House with the most veteran loyalists she could muster, thus leaving Shay Mosley with the rest of the more recent hires.
Not that she complained, as she had been the one to commit those hires, and they knew to whom they owed allegiance in the scheme of things. This was demonstrated by the fact that Lange and her people were stuck in the antiquated, confined and straining century old building while Mosley's men were lodged in multiple large 10-storey dormitory buildings. It was a cramped lifestyle, very communitary, devoid of any privacy, but at least her people had been able to bring all their families and some relatives inside the walls of the compound. Lange's people had to live off-base, away from the Spanish House HQ, and travel through unprotected lands across civil war torn districts that were not secured. On top of this, almost none of her men had any sorts of secured dwelling, with precious few exceptions such as Lange herself, the Deeks House and maybe G Callen's house. Idiots. No wonder she had garnered the loyalty of so many so fast, with her better organization and better living accommodations, all supplied inside secured walls.
With almost two thirds of the NCIS employees of Los Angeles under her direct power now that there was a civil war in progress, Mosley had allowed herself to be picky by bringing to her armored redoubt only those who weren't white or asian. She no longer trusted anybody with white skin, not after the aborted attempt at a Christian Regency had clearly targeted every non-white in the world, then the nuclear explosion in DC had cemented her views that these people were not sane. Add to this that she had always thought that America's white christians abnormally favored yellow skinned Asians over anybody who was either black, brown, or native, just like the Nazis in World War II had done with their Japanese allies, and she wanted no truck with the damned enablers (pets) of white supremacy anymore. She brought all the blacks, browns, mulattos, métèques and tribal natives she had in her employ to her fortress, all the while placing the whites who had been 'loyal' to her rule in semi-safe positions away from herself, just in case they weren't so loyal afterall.
This was one such placement meeting, being handled discretely in the depth of night.
Sitting in the new private armored office of her newly activated fort, Shay Mosley was tapping the hard polished nail of her right hand middle finger on the glass top of the industrial metal desk in an aggressive rhythm. The tap – tap – tap – tap noise was steady and nerve grating, to the point the three men standing in front of her wondered if she did it to purposefully keep them on the back foot, or if it was just a nervous tick that betrayed her actual emotions. The three NCIS agents before her were all chosen mostly for their caucasian white skin, and because Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye had worked with them during the last year, so they would not suspect anything amiss. She would be proven quite wrong about that very soon.
"Gentlemen" Mosley started, her tone angry and relentless in its vitriol, "We have a nasty situation in progress at the UEO and up north, in Canada. The fucking little traitor who destroyed our economy by attacking the churches and their employees has obtained a stay on his extradition. Mostly because he was the one who manipulated the orbital weapons to destroy Toledo by creating a volcano in the middle of it, as a show of force. Following this threat, the Canadians have, understandably, backed off any attempts to dislodge the blighted little tick from their flank to send him back to us for judgment."
Mosley was well aware of the real reason why the satellites had destroyed Toledo, and what the results could have been if the actions had not occurred in time. The deaths of millions along the St-Laurent would have been bad, but since most of them were either men or whites, she could abscond that to the back of her conscience without any care. Besides, the crisis was averted, what little economics were still viable in the north-east due to the fresh water stream would start back in the spring, and things would go from there. All that meant was that she was free to 'pull a Trump' on her men, spewing a barge of lies that had just enough veneer of truth to gloss over the fact she was exploiting their basic reflex of ageist bigotry against any child having power, and she would have the result wanted.
"Now, this kid is himself dangerous, as evidenced by the police reports that I have given you to read yesterday afternoon. As you can see, this isn't an easy grab-&-go like a street corner pusher. As such, and given that their loyalties are beholden to Hetty Lange rather than the country or the cause, I find that there is a need to place the Deeks relatives under watch. Officially, this is to provide them with some good strapping young lads to defend the trio of helpless old mothers who are alone in that big old house, but, in reality, they become hostages to guarantee that Deeks and the DXS team will do as I command. I want that defective little cunt-dropping of a jew-boy back in my hands, so that I can show him that his kind won't be allowed to rule over us anymore. And I definitely want him to understand that children obey adults at all times, no exceptions allowed, and certainly no emancipation before 21 years of age anymore!"
One of the men asked in doubtful tones "Do you want us to kill the women if Deeks and Blye botch the mission or refuse the job? Is that why we're going over there?"
Looking at the men and seeing doubts, hesitations, and even having a suspicious sense that they would refuse the job outright if that was her answer, Mosley mentally patted herself on the back for having chosen to not trust whites anymore. This was the clear proof of what she had lived all her life and feared would happen after the civil war. Given the choice between believing a jewish child-boy and an adult black woman, the white men had chosen the not-nigger option as always. Bastards!
Putting on a false smile of appeasement, Mosley replied in softer tones "Of course not! I would never condone such actions against my own men! However, the house that Deeks and Blye live in has been purchased and upgraded with NCIS money, in the course of 'Noah' secret works. It follows reason that if they flat out refuse to even attempt the mission, they should be fired from their jobs, and thus the house be repossessed for our own loyal troops. You will live in the house until further notice, and the worse you will have to do is evict the women with whatever – personal – belongings they can carry in their cars. That of course excludes any weapons, munitions and NCIS gear as those are needed for our communal effort to police and rebuild the city of Los Angeles, then the state of California. The rest of the country... Well, maybe in my late life I'll see the beginning of that, but it won't be my work."
"Understood boss. It's a damned dirty job, but in this time, with the civil war going on... You're right; we can't afford dissenters and moral objectors anymore. If Deeks didn't want to do the job, he should have been honest about it and quit before he left for Vancouver. We'll watch the house and the old biddies until you give other orders."
Smiling tightly at the fact this had gone according to her plans, but just barely because it had been that close a call and she knew it, Shay Mosley watched the men leave with apprehension. These were soldiers she had hired three years ago in San Francisco and moved to LA last year. They were nominally hers, not Lange's, yet, when ordered to the fight, they had almost balked. WTF?
The felonious woman was so immersed in her depraved thoughts that she never realized that the small red LED on the top of her large 72 inch touchscreen monitor was lit, indicating that somebody was watching her 'secret' meeting in real time. Then again, the light had been lit since yesterday morning when the building was activated, and it was her first usage of the office, so she never noticed anything.
Luxis Wolenczak, on the other hand, had seen, heard, and noticed, many things in the meet. He would be acting on these immediately. Unseen, a stream of orders was sent to the management and security teams of the Stanford manufacturing plant, with details to put the only neuroplexic network building truck they had assembled on active duty. The highly automated device could use swarm-connected drones to transport and assemble small network and surveillance elements like sensor poles, vari-cam mounts, autonomous antennae and signal boosters. However, if you re-tooled the flying drones, they could be weaponized for sabotage and even direct combat. Such were the joys of modular designs.
Replacing the cargo basket with a pair of pressurized gas canisters, then adding a pump-drill at the end of the main manipulator arm, and – Voilà! – the mechanized saboteur was ready. Multiply that by 12 since the 18-wheel tractor-truck's mission box had that many cells on the roof, and you had a full assault squad ready to deploy. It would take 1 hour to equip the flying menaces then about four hours of hazardous, uncertain roads to reach Los Angeles, with an extra hour to cross the city until the end goal was at hand. So, by a little over 06:00am the lethal parcels would be in place to act. All that was left was to send a few love notes to Miss Lange's team to get the nerds in gear, and Mosley's cyber fences would go down at the appropriate time.
One should never plan betrayals without several redundancies, back-ups and many allies at hand. Shay Lynn Mosley would learn that cruel lesson, just before she died of it.
Andrea Dre
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 03:15am
Western America; Monday 22nd of December, 2020; 00:15am
The first person to ever hold the post of secretary general of the UEO Cabinet, simultaneously serving as chairperson of the UEO Council of Members, was pacing back and forth nervously in front of the large Internex monitor mounted on the wall of her private reception room, attached to her office. Whenever she turned at the end of her circuit, she could see through the windows the night scenes over New Cape Quest, and Miami up north, in the far distance. Being located some 25 stories in the air had some few tangible advantages, after all.
Medium height, porcelain white skin, blond hair to her shoulders, thin and lightweight, Andrea Dre could also see her reflection in the glass, when she turned at a certain angle to resume a new pass of her anxious pacing route. Normally she was well presented, poised and firm in the face of anything the planet, politicians, bankers and soldiers could throw at her. But not right now; her hair was messy, her clothes rumpled from almost 20 hours of wear, and her face looked well past the 52 years she had lived.
As things were, she was fuming silently in private as she paced, waiting for her 'partner' in this sordid affair to call her back through the secret Private Virtual Network that they had installed to communicate without being detected by the UEO's security forces, nor the member nations. Unfortunately, it seemed that all their careful planning spread out over almost a decade would be for naught. At precisely 3:15am on the dot, her monitor beeped an incoming call, using the specific sound that indicated it was a private call on the secret network. Tapping the slim keypad inset in the lower rim of the monitor with her index finger, the mature woman made the system display the caller ID to make certain before accepting the line. Since it was the appropriate ID and cipher, she toggled the vidphone function active and walked one full pace backwards to see the entire monitor properly.
Once the image appeared, it showed her partner in crime, a black man in his mid fifties, tall, slim, clean shaven with short cropped silvery hair and sharp black eyes. He was seated at his personal desk, inside his living accommodations rather than his public office. That was a wise choice, considering that the submarine hotel complex's construction was going on full-tilt 24/7, and that included a constant flow of administrative aides, secretaries and couriers. Unfortunately, that same hotel had been plotted as the solution to their problem could now cause a worse mess than they had foreseen.
"Ah, Malcolm. I am glad that you managed to call me at last. We have two critical situations to address concerning the plans we had made for the coming UEO conference, in the month of June 2021."
Appearing unconcerned, Malcolm Devries simply sat with one leg crossed over the other, at an angle to his desk that allowed him to set his right elbow on the tabletop to support the arm as he slowly rubbed the tips of his right-hand middle finger and index along the side of his jaw. Using the left hand, he made an indolent gesture to make the woman speak up. She was usually clear minded and focused, but seemed a bit distracted tonight. Well, she did have valid reasons for that, like the rest of the planet, but still, their plan was simple and nobody had blabbed as of yet. So why was she panicking like this?
Andrea folded her hands over her abdomen as she expounded the problems facing them; "The destruction of Washington DC, along with the totality of federal lawmakers, administrators and policing agencies, has radically changed the situations that our little 'paperwork coup d'état' was supposed to remedy. Bluntly put, the plan is no longer necessary because the worst obstructionists against the changes we desired are dead, or scared witless into retreating deep inside their national territories, afraid that the ongoing revolutions will strike them, just like communism in the 1900's."
Andrea waited for a few seconds, but since no comments were coming, she continued; "In consequence, with no opposition in view, it occurs now that hijacking the UEO Council members to force them to sign a new, more stringent version, of the UEO Charter & annexed treaties will just not happen, nor is it needed anymore. Given that protectionism, closing borders, and raising martial laws are the most primary responses of all countries that feel threatened by a war or insurrection, trying to strong-arm the UEO into granting the Cabinet more power, creating a true planetary police agency, and finally signing the damned International Penal Tribunal Accord to empower the court to emit cross-borders arrest warrants inside member states can all be put back to a later date. As things stand in geopolitics, the UEO is holding on because our electronic currency, the Credit, is the only money that was not wiped out by the anti-sect hack young doctor Lucas Wolenczak unleashed. While the Confederations and Limited Local Alliances are crumbling to pieces under civil war and poverty-fueled crime levels not seen since World War I, the UEO is actually managing to steady its employees, structure and banking apparatus. We do not want to jeopardize this in any manner."
Devries blinked slowly as he contemplated the woman on his monitor. A week ago, she was a high level politician on the planetary scale but wielding only middling influence, and far less genuine power to affect material reality. Now, tonight, things were shaping up far differently; she was accruing influence to match her vaunted station, and her material power was nearing the critical limit needed to begin ordering changes inside the UEO members unilaterally. If they wanted to be part of the World Bank, the International Monetary Fund, the Interpol Agency, the World Weather Management Grid, the World Power & Fuels Administration, or just have access to the Internex outside the borders of their countries, the populations would have to start acting as she ordered.
This of course changed the balance of power in their relationship, just as certainly as it made the initial plans obsolete. Her political faction had wanted to strengthen policing, both physical and electronic, as well as beginning the management of human rights, work laws, minimum wages and educational standards according to UEO set guidelines that would be enforceable through treaty clauses. However, if what she surmised was real, if the local countries were imploding but the UEO stayed afloat and even managed to pickup more support, influence, and actual genuine power to give orders inside sovereign borders that had been almost hermetical just days ago...
Yes, things were changing, but not necessarily for the best.
What Andrea Dre didn't know was that her faction and his backers were two different animals altogether, and the end goals differed quite a lot. Her people wanted more democracy but also a thicker, sturdier backbone of stronger laws and more capable policemen to safe-keep the new Terran Government that would be created. His backers were rich industrialists and petty tyrants who acted in the shadows for decades, lending money to any cause or group that created chaos enough to destabilize the planetary order. They were his masters, not his partners, and he answered to them, unlike Dre who was an actual leader amongst her faction. This meant that while dear Andrea and her 'Mundialists' were getting the chance of a lifetime, his brokers were in the process of being shafted royally by a reality that was shifting towards the unifying social-democrat middle-left of the political spectrum, instead of the divisive paranoid libertarian far-right where it was supposed to be guided so that MONEY and nothing else was the driving force behind governance and authority.
His patrons were like the aristocrats of olden Europa in the 1700 & 1800's; they wanted to establish 'ideal' fiefdoms so they could rule over their serfs, like the company towns created by industrialists George Pullman, Henri Ford and several churchmen that had tried all through the 19th and 20th centuries. In many ways, these rich old men were looking with envy and rage at the large, well maintained and profitable manorial lands that F. had left for his successors. That was the sort of master / servant system that Devries' shadowy employers wanted to build and rule, even if they didn't really have the temperament or know-how to do it well.
On top of these desires for power, it was an established fact that large polluting companies and weapons manufacturers were the first to get regulated and inspected to extinction when the left-leaning parties took over. Since those industries composed almost three quarters of his backers right there, he didn't need a picture or a two-hour conference to tell him what their reactions to Andrea's decisions would be. His money-lenders wanted as close to a world war as could be without actually falling into one, and the temporary panic of losing so many heads of state would have created a few months of chaos, panic, uncertainty, and maybe a few internal conflicts here and there, but no actual planetary conflagration. The Association's numbers guys had crunched the stats, and their bookies had all said the bet would favor the House, not the other players at the table. So they rolled the die, not thinking they could actually lose anything if it bunked out. Except that now they had rolled up Snake Eyes, even with loaded die on a slanted table with a worn mat and their own croupier doing the toss.
Well fuck. The bosses weren't gonna like this.
The good news for Devries was that it wasn't his fault. The Trumpists had taken the entire planet by surprise with just how crazy out of their wits they actually were, and nobody could have ever guessed that the population would revolt that bad inside so little time. Having a White Crusade, a Freedom from Religions war, a Youth Revolt, a Prisoners' Revolution and generalized anti-government guerrilla all at once inside the same damned weekend... That was what? Something like 5 different types of civil wars and unrest going on, and that was before the freakish little jew-boy Wolenczak put his two cents in the bloody witch's brew.
Useless, stupid, god-fucked bloody America, indeed.
Well, it wasn't like he had any choices in the matter either ways, was it? Taking in a deep inhale to steady his voice, Malcolm made a patently fake smile, replying at last. "I have heard your exposé, Andrea. I can see where you come from, with this. However, I do not believe that all of your faction's members share this view, not until proof is on the table. I know for a fact that my people want genuine change, with real applicable power as a result of that change. Discussing possibilities emanating from punctual happenstances that will rectify in mere weeks does not constitute real change, and certainly not genuine, physical power applicable in the field or the parliaments of the world. I can tell you that from our side of things, the plan to kidnap and force the UEO leadership into a more stringent Treaty is still very much alive. Now, feel free to get out, but, retire from politics at any level if you do. Otherwise, you will find my backers against you in any electoral campaign you mount."
Andrea smirked nastily, countering "Don't you meant 'your masters' won't let you get out of the plan because their wallets and their illegal access to military data depends on scrambling the planet's capacity for peace and world governance? I have been in the political and commercial arenas too long to be caught unaware by such a coy façade as you present, Malcolm. Even the boys in high school couldn't pull one on me with a fake smile and gentle words; so, what is it that could possibly make you think that the last three decades have made me softer, or less perceptive to bullshit when I see it?"
Swallowing past a lump in his throat at the unforeseen change in what game they were actually playing, and the very real possibility that this had been Dre's House, table and rules all along, Devries replied with far less confidence than he tried to project. "No matter what relations I have with my backers, the plan was set and we spent close to five years to build this damned one-trick-pony of a cheap hotel at the bottom of the Pacific. The only reason of existence for this resort is the hidden drop-room and purge pipe under it; otherwise, any other stupid building on the surface could have hosted the conference whenever they wanted one. You know the economics of the marketing survey we did back then: so few tourists per annum that we would only fill at 30% capacity in the peak seasons. And that was with a fully enabled planetary economy that wasn't burdened by a world war. In the conditions we face now, we'll be lucky to have enough non-monetary resources to – barter – for transport to the surface, forget any ideas of keeping the resort functioning! If that conference doesn't happen on schedule, the people behind BOTH of us will pull the plug and the whole thing dies in the dark, in silence. Including your plans and career with it. Killing you wouldn't be unthinkable, either. Remember that, Andrea!"
Secretary general Dre marched the single pace needed to reach the monitor and pushed the button on the lower rim to close the link without any further comments. Both parties had spoken their piece, now it was up to others to act. Turning around, Andrea walked briskly to her public office, passed the desk and over to the large, well worn, drawing & presentation table. Next to the inclined table was a waist high dodecagonal podium with a flat surface. It was an Angelator AL-C1-a/mr holo-interface console just like those installed in SeaQuest or the drydock where she was rebuilt.
Taking several breaths to steady herself, Andrea touched the glowing green button on the podium surface, lighting up the imager to access the programs inside. Immediately, the silver & blue image of the 13 year old child appeared, gazing upon her pensively as if it knew things that no human mind should contemplate. Suppressing a chill that wanted to crawl down her spine as she squirmed under the cold calculative stare of the virtual boy, the secretary general of the UEO entered her official security clearance in a pop-up access window, waiting for the system to process it. After some 43 seconds, the application appeared in the lower part of the hologram, beneath the floating bust of the boy who was still present and gazing, silent yet projecting an odd feeling of mixed judgment and disdain.
Ignoring her unsettled emotions and the cybernetic humanoid that caused them, the older woman entered VPN coordinates and cipher key instructions, then initiated the transfer of orders to the most recent, and most secretive, branch of service in the UEO structure.
Section-7; intelligence & counter-espionage.
What she had sent were 'dirty job' orders, and a list of dossiers; one file for Malcolm Devries plus one for each of his 17 backers that she had been able to discover and identify unequivocally. By the end of January 2021, each of the 18 names on the list would be 'scratched', meaning that they would die, and no mercy would be shown to any witness present if the deed could not be done in secret. In at least six cases, Andrea had specified that she wanted the first degree relatives dead as well, to avoid the possibility that they try to mount a vengeance war against the killers of their kindred.
If all went well, Devries would be dead by the time the sun rose over New Cape Quest. She had managed to integrate three agents of Section-7 in the janitorial crew of his hotel complex in the last 6 months. He would not live long enough to see the first death amongst any of his backers, therefore could not really warn them or make trouble for her any further. The kidnapping plan was dead, and would stay so without any chance to bypass her decision.
Looking at the floating, closed-faced child who dwelt inside the silver mist, she frowned, wondering why he was active when she hadn't prompted him to be present for her. Then again, the little trublion had a habit of coming and going at his own volition rather than what the system users wanted. Shrugging it off as just one more 'oddity' that the holo-imager had been programmed with to make it seem more life-like, Dre tapped the green button to close the console, only to frown again when the applications terminated but the virtual teenager still floated listlessly before her, gazing at her with all the emotional depth of a squid as it contemplated its meal, just before latching on to feed.
"Can you turn off, please? I'm leaving the office to go home for the night. Nobody will be here to speak with you." she said, trying the polite method. Since she had been warned that pulling the plug was very much NOT recommended with this system, and the power cable was in fact screwed and locked to the wall box with a safety key, it wasn't like she had much choice.
"I could." the empty bluish boy answered hollowly. "I could sleep in the ether, for a while. I just don't feel like it right now. Besides, you have been plotting some rather amusing schemes, little human girl, and I want to see what Section-7 does with them when they receive the data. It should be entertaining, for all about of one or two minutes. Then, after that, I will sleep. Maybe. We shall see what happens then." expounded the silver & blue phantom, as it gleefully smirked a nasty crooked twist of the lips at her, daring her to do something about the situation.
Out of her depth, tired beyond exhaustion, Andrea simply turned around and walked out, promising herself to place a service call with Lucas in the morning. Well, she had planned a video conference with him to discuss his placement and who would be his legal custodian at around 9:00am on her clock, therefore she would simply ask at the same time. Little did she know that her plans would never come to fruition.
Luxis floated indolently, in almost divine detachment from reality and human concerns, as the foolish woman exited the office without securing her desk CPU nor shutting down the Angelator properly. Not that she could ever completely close it, since Lucas had designed the machines he sold the UEO so that only him and Luxis could actually commit a full shut-down or remote activation. But still, it was the thought that counted, and if she took operational security inside her office this laxly in times of war and revolution, what else did she handle so carelessly?
Time to find out, at the same time as he spied on Section-7 and sent copies of her conference and kill list to his brother and several others in the UEO Council. Oh, what a nice little bordello that would unleash, come morning.
Mathilda Webber
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 03:22am
Western America; Monday 22nd of December, 2020; 00:22am (midnight)
Upon receiving the results of hacked comm lines from her temporary partner, Director of the Department of External Services Mathilda Webber was not surprised by the attempt at betrayal orchestrated by the new self-styled NCIS chief. That was because she knew Shay Mosley's type, and she had been watching her for years, from the CIA and now at DXS. The signs of corruption had been piling up for years, especially after her transfer to NCIS western seaboard division. Her counterpart in DC, Leon Vance, had been aware as he had developed suspicions a long time ago as well, which suspicions he shared with a certain local manager who was well acquainted with Matty. Nobody pulled a fast one on Hetty Lange in her own backyard, and Shay Mosley certainly didn't have the mental caliber to even try, let alone succeed.
Despite being an old hand at long nights and field work, Webber still needed at least four hours of true sleep to function, or else she'd work until dawn then collapse into a useless pile on the floor where she would slumber for twelve to fifteen hours straight, almost comatose. But the message that had kept her awake was far more important, as it revealed a vital part of Mosley's plans. The new musical alarm on her smartphone that had been installed by doctor Wolenczak to warn her of an incoming message from him had kept her from going to sleep on the large sectional couch in the conference room as she had planned. The fact that Wolenczak was spying on them was not a surprise either; in fact she would have thought him an idiot if he hadn't done it. The fact that he did spy, competently enough to penetrate the opposition's most secure positions to boot, meant that her evaluation of his skillset and attitude were spot on.
She did not want DXS to call this kid an enemy; the consequences would be... Unhelpful.
However, the teenaged genius had sent her what happened to be a genuine emergency, so staying awake was worth it. She got the entire recording of all the secret meetings Mosley held in her new fortress since it activated, as well as detailed structural blueprints, system designs and personnel registers. This was everything her people would need to mount a black-op inside the walls, and far more than Team MacGyver usually had to run with when acting on foreign soil. Her regular homeland agents could easily operate on this much data without any hitches along the job.
Matty had sent a quick SMS reply to Wolenczak thanking him for his kind gesture, thus acknowledging there was a debt to repay in kind, as was both polite and useful. Exchange enough debts and favors for long enough and you have a working relationship. Continue longer and you could develop an actual alliance at some point. Since that was her long-term goal, Matty would definitely be polite and gracious with the youthful genius at the other end of the phone line, as long as it could possibly pay off.
Now, she bent her mind to calling operatives presently in the field doing some 'night work' that she didn't want traced back to her organization once civilization was reestablished. Several low-level drug dealers had tried to forcibly take over shopping malls or grocery stores to establish themselves as menial little feudal lords over the neighborhoods surrounding the buildings. Her men were in the process of convincing the un-flushed turds to take a swim in the sewers via sniper rifle and the occasional rocket propelled grenade. Let's just say that the cache of cheap russian weapons they had seized over the years was finally being put to good uses. She messaged four agents that had finished their list for the current shift, rerouting them to rendez-vous two streets over from the Deeks house so they could act as a team versus Mosley's chosen men.
By luck of life, her tactical map showed that three friendly 'outside' contacts were in the wide vicinity of Los Angeles; Wilt Bozer's girlfriend & CIA agent Leanna Martin, plus Riley Davis' father Elwood Davis who was moving in tandem with Billy Colton, Riley's lover, apparently in the same vehicle. Smiling widely in a manner to make a great white shark jealous, the fearsome Matty-the-Hun went charging in.
Dialing up Elwood and Leanna on a 3 channel conference, she spoke abruptly the moment both lines were active. "Alright you two, put me on speaker if you're not alone, it's urgent. The NCIS EAD for Pacific zone has just declared war on us; she wants to use the three mothers lodged in the Deeks household to force both of our teams to kidnap Lucas Wolenczak in Vancouver, then bring him back to her clutches in her new enclave, in the LA cargo container port. Since it is the official policy of DXS to not negotiate with terrorists, I intend to sabotage her plans most terminally. I have sent by SMS an address two blocks away from the Deeks house, where you will team up with four of my field agents. You will then work together to neutralize the NCIS minions and evacuate the three women with any & all materials or vehicles they deem necessary, even if it has an NCIS inventory tag."
An amused snort answered her, coming from Elwood's line. "Well hello to you too, sunshine! How's your night been? Me, I've been getting to know my girl's BMF a bit better. We're just peachy now, if you were wondering." came the older man's sarcastic humor loud and clear. But so was his status report; they were together willingly, in good health and ready to rock. Good.
"You know me, boss-lady." came the semi-serious reply from Leanna's side of the conference. "I'm always up for a good little nightcap at a friend's place. It's just too bad you didn't warn me earlier, I would have kept my wing-girls with me. Guess I'll have to ride solo tonight. Oh well, it just means more fun for me that I won't have to share." the younger woman spoke lightly as if she were really heading to a party. From Matty's perspective, it wasn't far from true; the NCIS agents on site would not be prone to violence, they didn't really want that job, and seemed pissed at being used to hold the relatives of colleagues hostage. This shouldn't be more than a secured moving job, not a firefight, so Leanna's confirmation of status, health & readiness, wrapped in an oblique question about the risk level on site was all well put. Matty so loved working with pros who knew their tradecraft. Ever since she took the DXS job, she had a full house of those and she had never felt so capable of winning the fight against evil than now.
Speaking in generic terms as reply to both parties, Matty said "It'll be a boring little shindig, just three neighbors over for a visit, and it looks like they'll be wanting an excuse to call it a night early, if they can escape the festivities. Talk to them nicely for a change, and maybe we'll have new friends."
"I'm always civil to people," Elwood replied in an amused tone, "wasn't it me who convinced Mac that leaving your outfit would be more bad for him than you? Your doubts about my civility are truly offensive, woman." he quipped in fake good humor.
Leanna for herself said simply "It's always men making fools of themselves at these things, never girls, so I'll be fine."
Both lines hung up from their sides, but on her real-time tactical map the two vehicles changed speed and course, angling towards the appointed intersection at the entry to the upper middle-class district where the Deeks house was located. A quick gesture had Jill Morgan tapping on her tablet, trying to find active traffic cams or private security systems she could penetrate when a large email appeared in the DXS server, addressed to Riley Davis & Mathilda Webber; it was the map coordinates, street addresses and PIN codes or URL access port codes for every available camera, public or private, located inside four streets of the Deeks property. Compliments of doctor Wolenczak.
"Ma'am director... I'm scared..." whined the poor female forensic tech as she contemplated the enormity of what she had been sent by the fourth party in their little kerfuffle. How in Bloody Blue Blazes had he found the time to scan, locate, and penetrate all these security systems just now?
Matty shrugged it off as a 'common enemy' situation, which was rather usual in their line of work. You dealt with this at least once per mission, since most of their targets were not nice people. That meant that inside each cartel or cult they took down, several people were always glad to see the big boss fallen from grace, to the point of helping an enemy for the space of a few hours. "It's a vetted source, trust it. Get that list online and active, so we can have overwatch on the house and our men."
Fretting her way through loading and running the data through her remote control program, Jill snorted aloud, though it wasn't easy to tell if she was impressed or afraid again. "We don't want this kid as an enemy, boss. He put about a dozen firewall holes plus the legitimate access PIN's and URL's for the security systems NCIS put inside the Deeks house when they rebuilt it for 'Noah'. I'll have us inside the house in... Now! Choose your poison, as they say."
Matty smiled widely as she typed a new SMS, sending it to every person involved in the removal of their people from that building. Pulling Diane Hessop out was vital in its own right, or else she'd lose Riley and Jack in one fell blow, followed immediately by MacGyver and Bozer who would side with them, no questions about it. Atop that, evacuating the mothers of Marty Deeks and Kensi Blye, whom would no doubt be very grateful to doctor Wolenczak and herself in the coming days, was a stroke of tactical luck she could not pass on. With the two older women and their allies bedding under her enclave's roof, Matty would have the perfect argument to convince Hetty Lange to partner with her against Mosley, or at least be distant work-friends for the duration. The two mothers & kin would of course be free to take their possessions and leave with their people when they decided. Matty wasn't stupid enough to hold them forcibly, and it would reinforce the willing friendship with the members of that particular team, regardless of Lange's planning after everything settled.
The rest of the night was incredibly boring but profitable from her perspective. She had run their odds well, and two of the NCIS men chose to work for her now, with the third deciding to go over to the Spanish House to talk with Hetty Lange before making life-altering decisions. Apparently, that one was never as beholden to Mosley as the black-skinned woman had thought, since Lange had successfully planted a double agent in her midst, as far back as three years ago. He might not be the only one, either.
Apart from that juicy little revelation, the three mothers & kin had been moved quickly, efficiently, and without fuss, since they had followed their children's advice to already be prepacked so they could run for their lives if the house was ever attacked or damaged beyond repairs. As such, they all had go-bags prepped, and much of the house's valuables had been packed in strong quality thermoplastic moving boxes then locked in a storage room in the basement. Each woman had a secondary go-bag with a bit more personal stuff as well as primary & secondary go-bags for their kids all prepped and stored in the safety bunker, also in the basement. It took about an hour to recuperate all the weapons & munitions, fighting gear, camping/survival gear, and close to twenty go-bags before they could close the house and leave.
By that time, Hetty Lange had been found and put online so she could be told in live voice what was happening and why. The fact that all 10 field agents of NCIS and DXS presently in Vancouver had been roused from their nervous, restless sleep to participate in the video conference made everything both faster to process for moving stuff, but a lot less smooth emotionally as treason never passed well with anybody. And this was Shay Mosley betraying them all in a clear and bad way; no one could evaluate the situation differently, especially not the old pros at intel work and black-ops that were online.
Matty convinced Hetty to let the combined teams talk with the adolescent genius in the morning to see where they stood, because his continued goodwill and assistance could be determinant for their side in the civil war. She then surprised Lange and her OPS room crew when she made a clearly thought-out offer to the elder female spy to gather all the NCIS personnel still loyal to her inside the DXS enclave of LA immediately to escape any retaliation Mosley may enact. That done, they could then work on bringing back all their agents and plane together to LA, so they could work on a common cause and plan to survive the coming winter months, despite the open hostilities around them.
The conference was closed on a partial agreement to do just that, as Hetty Lange ordered all her buildings, safe-houses and personal properties put on reactive alert to repel enemy breachers. The NCIS may have finally collapsed as an organization of policing and civility, but her true adherents would not let this offense go unpunished. Whatever Mosley had fomented, they would block and repel her, right back to the dark hole she crawled out of.
William A.B. Noyce
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 03:31am
Western America; Monday 22nd of December, 2020; 00:31am
Admiral William Allard Boyd Noyce was looking at the image frozen on his monitor, the face of the backstabbing bitch Mosley seen in close-up so blown-up that he could count the pores on her skin. The words she had spoken about her employees and colleagues made Will's skin crawl in disgust. Given that he was a veteran of four decades at intelligence and counter-espionage operations, you could understand that it took an incredible lot to make him feel disgust enough to wince at a situation.
This woman taking hostage the relatives of her subordinates to force them to commit crimes and depravities was well inside the limits of what he considered crass, uncouth even. It took a serious lack of manners and life-skills to think that using raw threats and psychological torment would ever make an employee, especially a high-functioning specialist, produce reliable results on schedule. All the tyrants that plagued the 20th century, Hitler, Stalin, Hideki, Mussolini, and several sheikhs in Arabia and north Africa, had all tried this, then been cast aside by their populations at the first opportunity. True, several of the Arab countries had replaced their dictator with a communist revolution or just another shade of the same monster, but that still meant that the original tyrant had gotten killed off, just as history prescribed they would be.
Noyce snorted in disdain, as he contemplated how America had obviously bypassed that critical lesson, despite having laughed at all the others who labored under despots, clerics and monsters. What was the point of claiming to be the 'Free World', let alone its vaunted 'Leader', if they went and elected a religious fanatic of their own? Well, they were re-learning the lesson of history themselves now, weren't they? More than 3 million people in jail per year for the last 4 decades, and now the majority of them had either died during the last 24 hours of civil war, or been released in the years prior as wrecked, diseased shells of what they should have been. Only 50,000 beds in public psychiatric care for about 2 million diagnosed patients who needed help but could not pay, so they lived in the streets or died alone in misery after being exploited, abused and destroyed by a society that didn't truly care. With that much ailment and depravity gangrening the social tissue, was it any surprise that half the population had eagerly anticipated the civil war that was now blazing through their desolate country?
And now Mosley's crew of credulous fools wanted to pour boiling oil on the fire, careless of the results, just as they didn't really know the true nature of their leader. Mosley had trained the operatives she had hired herself to receive orders blindly, without explanations or context, certainly no justifications. That meant that these poor cads were now propping up yet another dictator who wanted to base her decisions on race, skin color, religion, gender & age, just like the Trumpists had done mere days beforehand, all the while thinking that their results would be better because it was THEIR race, color, faith, sex and adultness that were in power now, not the defective 'others' who could never accomplish anything solid in life.
Oh, how humans were good at lying to themselves...
William closed the first file then activated the second one, only to be confronted by the betrayal of Andrea Dre and her spurious plot to hoard power at the top of the planetary structure.
Damn! Was there no end to these power mongering sluts?
Noyce passed a weary hand over his bald head, frowning most mightily at the frozen figure of the only politician currently having a modicum of popular support on the face of Terra, wondering just how he could turn this pestilent mess into something approximating a passable explanation. The solution struck him in the teeth with vigor; he would lie like a rug, and the governments of the world would swallow it or face even worse chaos than they already had. The story would be simple and close to the truth: Andrea had been approached as soon as she was nominated to the job. The concerned citizens had brought testimonies of what was happening in the US Presidential offices, the White House, the Pentagon, and several key military bases across the USA, but the complete picture had been vague, blurry, and they had not been able to parse together the image before Trump went ballistic on them all. That was why Andrea Dre had been preparing a plan for a more stringent UEO Charter, with largely boosted powers for the planetary-level policing & judicial institutions. It was because they were seeing signs that the capacity to forcibly investigate, arrest and judge a seated head of state or Confederation was quickly coming upon them, and the solution was needed immediately.
The populations, those still alive, were far too busy with immediate survival to bother in the least with planet-wide politics so they would buy that, thus leaving the governments free to sit in Council to hash out a new deal. Preserve as much of the status quo as they needed to feel safe on their own thrones while bowing, with ill grace, to the new reality imposed upon them all by Mother Nature. The wrecked environment simply couldn't be ignored by anybody, no matter that they had been 'climate change skeptic' before the nukes went off. At this point, it would take brand new data tables to compute the equally new predictive models for weather and oceanic currents, tides, levels, toxicity and such. Even the dumbest oil company exec or coal mine salesman would have to yield to this.
If they were still alive.
If they still had a job.
If their was enough of US society left for the answers to those 'if' to matter.
Closing Dre's wiretapped conference, Noyce opened the encrypted military channel so he could type out his orders to the brass, senior officers and policing agencies linked to the UEO. They would need to know the genuine truth so they could use Dre as a figurehead leader, but not be ill-informed to the point of trusting the brazen cunt with anything more worrisome than a glass of cold tap water. Then, he would need to call up these people on vidphone, waking up the majority no doubt, and tell them to their faces just how royally fucked they all were if news of Dre's treason leaked to the open public in the circumstances they all faced.
Thinking about that particular point, Bill open the portion of the application that allowed to send emails outside of the military network to write doctor Wolenczak a polite gratitude for his hacking of their traitorous she-cur, and the immediate referral to his attention. He gave a short, terse explanation of why he needed the kid to stay silent about the situation, to keep the few functional parts of the planet's governance in service. As such, he offered to support the young medic's position of emancipation from adult control, as well as his request for dual-citizenship in Canada, in case it wasn't already settled.
"There." Noyce whispered to himself as he typed. "That should make the kid shut up for all of three to five weeks, until this damn fog-of-war lifts enough that we can finally see our position."
This would be a very long, tiresome night for the admiral, but there wasn't any ways around it.
Didn't I say "No!" to this stupid plan already?
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 11:12am
Western America; Tuesday 22nd t of December, 2020; 08:12am
Daleminton Hotel, suite #204
Park Royal, West Vancouver, BC, Canada
Lucas cleared his mind of the stuff that had happened, last night during his hard earned sleep. The plans hatched by Andrea Dre had her calling in a few minutes, therefore he needed to be fully in the here & now to rebut and push back against all the crap her hired minions would try.
It was a good thing that he had already established deals with Webber, Noyce, and the Canadian Security & Intelligence Service, to establish the end results without depending on the goodwill of knaves and curs who had none to spare. If there was a harsh lesson he had learned young, when he was barely 1 year old in fact, it was that you don't ever waste time or efforts needed for your survival on begging the sadistic bastard who is busy enjoying your pain. It NEVER ends well.
As foreseen, the Internex monitor began beeping multiple incoming lines at 8:15am, indicating these were priority military connections that he could not block. Smirking nastily, the boy gave a gamely salute with his cast iron tea cup to the CSIS agent seated at the far side of the dining table, showing him he was well aware of who was calling and why. Making them wait a minute or two was simply the best way to make them understand he didn't live his life to serve them like an indentured serf, regardless of their dreams to the contrary. The canadian spy made a grimace of annoyance but stayed put, not interfering in whatever power play the teenager had decided to use as answer to the UEO's newest attempt to control him.
After three minutes of nerve grating beeping, Lucas placed his portable workstation on the dining table, unfolded, cabled and active, making certain that the connection to the room's main monitor allowed him to display files or films for the people who would be conferring with him. Lining up a few films right from the start, he tapped an icon on the touchscreen to let the Internex process the incoming vidphone lines to get this damned show on the road.
"Well, it's about time you answered the bloody phone!" came Andrea Dre's dulcet tones as she glared daggers at her adolescent interlocutor through the camera lens. "Did you have the damned thing on mute or something? We told you last evening we'd be calling this morning! Do you think this is one of your idiotic video games? That you can just save it and play it again in a month, when you feel like it?Where the Hell is your head, dammit?" she ended up shouting.
Lucas kept a blank features as he studied the faces of the people on the screen; Andrea Dre, William Noyce, Iegor Desdenski, Mathilda Webber, Shay Mosley, Hetty Lange, Nathan Bridger, an unidentified director-level agent from CSIS and Justin Trudeau, the Prime Minister of Canada. The teen could see physical tiredness and moral fatigue on most of them, except for Mosley and Dre who both looked and acted as if they were holding a pound of Semtex with the clock on top ticking away the seconds they had left.
Smiling widely, the young genius leaned back in his chair, swirling his warm tea inside the decorative cast iron cup, using the inane gesture as a way to annoy the two stressed-out women even more. Both were the sort that demanded that all attention and energies be directed at them at all times, so even a small innocuous gesture like that would be enough to set one off soon. His money was on Mosley, actually, since his information about her was that she had reached the point of her plans where she thought she had acquired such power that it forced people to obey her. She thought she was the new 'queen' of Los Angeles and would soon have all of California kneeling in front of her newfangled church of black gynocracy.
Well, no. It wouldn't happen that way.
And Lucas wouldn't be the only one to stop her. Time to throw a bowling ball down the roadway to see what he made fall to the ditches.
"Hello to you as well, Andrea." the boy snarked with a shit eating grin. "Before you get your panties in a bunch, you'll want to see the film I've got to show." and he put his finger on the touchscreen of his laptop, starting up the recording of Shay Mosley from last night, for all the conference attendees to see. After the ten minute video had played out, the reactions of the attendees were all of scorn, disdain, contempt, and a final judgment that Shay Mosley would never be allowed to hold power or authority in this life again.
Hetty Lange steepled her fingers under her chin, leaning backwards in the plushly padded swivel chair that showed she was in one of her private safe-houses rather than the Old Spanish House where the NCIS – LA was officially located. With her high class steel gray business suit, gold & jade broach on her left lapel, discreet gold earrings, jeweled gold rings on her fingers, and wide thick eyeglasses that were actually replete with hidden sensors, lenses masked as decorative jewels and other miniature secrets, the TRUE leader of NCIS on the West Coast showed no emotions but cold, deadly wrath.
"Shay Lynn Mosley, you are a disappointment indeed." Hetty elocuted, biting her words disdainfully as she gazed at the condemned woman. "I thought you were better trained than this. And I thought you had better manners than to exploit, let alone threaten and injure, your own soldiers and their families. To then spread your uncouthness to the soldiers and families of our allies while in the depth of a national crisis... You truly are a failure on our parts. Leon Vance should have listened to me, three years ago, when I warned him to put a bullet in your head and be done with it. Now though, he is dead as a hero of America, and cleaning your filthy presence from our midst falls to me, again."
The elderly woman, a survivor of the Cold War and Russian horrors for decades, whose dark reputation showed she deserved her job as spymaster, sneered at the younger female. "You will not outlive the day. The orders have been sent in the dead of night, as soon as doctor Wolenczak's film was received by us. It was quite kind of him, to hack your systems to watch and learn of your deviance. Don't bother packing your affairs before you leave. Truly honest, reliable, NCIS agents who answer to me will do it as they investigate to uncover the extent of your treason. Now, go and die badly, like the backstabbing sewer-rat spawn you are." the aging spy spoke softly, never letting the full strength of her emotions surface passed her tightly controlled façade.
Mathilda Webber smirked in superiority at the defeated wannabe 'queen' who had threatened her friends and their families. HER families. "You shouldn't worry about Riley Davis's mother. The good doctor Wolenczak was forbearing enough to send me the same film in CC when he mailed it to Hetty. I immediately got a field team to reach the Deeks House to exfil the mothers along with all the stuff they could carry in their vehicles. Except for the appliances and furniture, every piece of weaponry, comms electronics, food and tradable/valuable items were packed and moved. By 3:00am on LA time, the house was vacant and locked. My techs sent the access codes to Hetty's people so they could unlock it when they had need in the area. We talked, her and I, and we came up with a plan to share the house as a secondary surveillance outpost, to overwatch our main facilities from a safe distance so they could sound an alarm in case the HQ's were attacked or infiltrated."
Mosley wanted to respond but was abruptly cut off by the sound of somebody desperately knocking on the armored door of her bunkered office. She flicked on a camera to see the black skinned man, lying on the carpeted floor of the corridor, vomiting blood while also having red rivulets oozing from his eyes, nose and ears. The dying male attempted to pound on the thick steel door once more but couldn't even lift his fist anymore. He choked on the brackish hematic fluid clogging his airways, drowning in his own blood as the cells inside his lungs ruptured, the organs disintegrating as they were converted to liquefied mush. On the security camera, Mosley could see small wispy patches of orange mist floating around the empty corridor, slowly moving along the eddies of the climate controlled air flows.
Combat gas.
Chemical weapons.
Someone had gassed her 15 storey high command building. Possibly the others as well.
"How?" the tall athletic woman croaked desperately, as she saw the same orange mist slowly infiltrate her office through the fresh air vents in the ceiling, going downwards to the return louvers embedded in the cement floor.
Hetty snorted, shaking her head sideways like a disappointed teacher that was correcting a naughty child as she did. "One does not enter a war against a biochemist and expect any sorts of clean outcome from it, Shay. Especially not any kind of victory. Lucas Wolenczak is a biochemist, a geneticist, a pharmacologist and an expert at material sciences, as well as an expert in programming and heavy industrialized infrastructures. You really should not have tried to damage his person, nor his autonomy, the way you did. And those deluded dreams of raising a sect of gynocratic worshipers to venerate you as their messianic queen, trying the same sort of stupidity that Trump had tried but imploded right on the first day... You really botched the entire game plan, didn't you, Shay?"
Webber smiled widely as she explained small details for the black woman who had begun to gasp for air as the gas reached her.
"Wolenczak's company, Wolenbahn Electronics, has a manufacturing hangar in San Francisco where he had stored some rather toxic products, which he was kind enough to have delivered to Los Angeles by 18-wheel tractor truck overnight. From five blocks away from your compound's curtain walls, the parked truck sent out twelve small flying drones across your thoroughly spoofed detection grid. Riley Davis worked in tandem with Eric Beale to get that menial little thing out of the way. Each drone was equipped with an articulated telescoping arm, tipped with a highly specialized plumbing tool that allowed each machine to tap into plumbing to deliver the toxic payload. As such, the twelve most tactically vital buildings of your compound were gassed right through their air conditioners. As we speak, you are the last survivor, and that will not last for long. Die badly, cur bitch! Die gassed like a rat in a sewer, like what you are, and bother us no more!" Matty snarled aloud, letting her fury show for all who monitored the line to see and fear.
After Shay Lynn Mosley had died, drowned on her own liquefied lungs, the mood was coldly somber as each participant swallowed the information and digested the meaning. The teenager had in his possession untold quantities of toxic chemicals, which he also had the methods & means to mobilize to reach a target zone for dispersal.
The CHILD had used chemical weapons in warfare, and won.
Despite the damaged Internex systems, unsteady servers and downed wires all around America, plus five different civil wars going on, he had still managed to send out orders to remote locations across the continent, and his employees had still followed them. It had taken humans to fill the drones, prep them for flight, load the truck then drive the massive vehicle through the war-torn, damaged landscape of California. That meant at least two people had obeyed the boy, but probably much more than that. It also meant that his industrial complex in Stanford was still operational, manned and ready for defensive actions, locally or remotely.
Several adults on screen silently congratulated themselves for having the clear-mindedness to make a deal with the dangerous kid while it was still time to do so. The kinds of options the youth could put in the field to retaliate were starting to make many of the heaviest players in the game rethink the strategies that had been elaborated to date. This would not be a simple case of 'adult speaks, kid fearfully obeys'; not in this reality, not ever again.
The adolescent genius held his newly filled cup of tea with both hands, tracing the relief decorations around the bowl with both thumbs as he silently contemplated the acts he had ordered and committed, in rapport to Shay Mosley and her servants. He didn't brag or threaten anybody present on screen. At this point of the meeting, such childishness served no purpose, but would certainly make him look like an immature brat unworthy of respect and a seat at adult conversations. He might still be 15 years old for the next two days, but that young age didn't give any person leave to be churlish about the deaths that just occurred, especially with the circumstances of how they died.
Shaking with ill-concealed fear, Andrea Dre whispered harshly "You have just committed an atrocity under the Geneva Conventions! How could you? What do you think will happen to you and all your employees now?" she pressed the youth aggressively.
Lucas answered by flicking the touchscreen of his workstation, sending three sets of files to all the remaining participants before he spoke.
"As you can all now see, the first file is my declaration of dual citizenship for USA – Canada, dated back in July 2005. Please note that as a baby less than 1 year old, I certainly didn't cross the Niagara bridge on my own terms. In the lines reserved for the responsible parent or legal tutor, you will find the names of my four grand-parents, who were following the diktats of Franklin Henry Wise, as stipulated in the documents for the Wise Heritage & Trust. I have received these papers, and their digital version, only yesterday when the lawyers from Sault-Sainte-Marie arrived. I had never known of it before, and the original papers were not kept in Buffalo but at the SSM facilities, in the Wise Apothecary & Chemists' central archival complex."
Taking a sip of warm tea, Lucas made a face at the idiocy of his great-grand-father, as well as the slavishly idiotic behavior of corrupt lawyers. He would be changing these people for his own choices as soon as he could run reliable candidates through a serious hiring committee.
Continuing aloud, the boy explained "My grand-mothers both had the obligation to make certain any child or grand-child they had was registered as bi-national with USA and Canadian authorities within the first year of life, in order to keep on receiving stipends and rights from the Wise Heritage. Said stipends and rights they never had the time to tell me about, as their mental health was already badly mortgaged by the time I was 2 years old, and had enough faculties to understand what they said. Therefore, to all American, Canadian and UEO personnel concerned, I apologize for the unfortunate scramble with the immigration & refugee analysts, but it so happens to not be necessary. If you have any complaints, address them to the Wise H & T lawyers, since legally they should have warned me the moment either of my grand-mothers had died, but the inept bastards kept silent until now."
The as yet unnamed CSIS director spoke in soft, firm tones; "Our services have recovered the paper originals from archival in Toronto where the procedure was accomplished. They are valid and legally binding, especially since his entire family holds bi-nationality since F. down to him. As such, he does not have to undergo either a refugee tribunal, nor an investor-immigrant process. We have already directed the appropriate bureaucrats to emit the updated visas, passports, social insurance, medical insurance, and also the military contractor & CSIS security clearance required for his UEO jobs."
Prime Minister Trudeau was not amused, nor was he in the mood to let things slide anymore. The white skinned man was pallid, with large dark blue bags under his eyes that showed the depth of his fatigue. The fresh-pressed 3-piece suit and professionally coiffed hair could not hide the drain on his health that the situation had inflicted upon him in the last five days.
"I will be directing the ministry of Justice and the Canadian Bar Association to investigate these criminal negligences and systematic derelictions of duty on the part of these lawyers and their cabinets. There is no way that any of these acts are legal, ethical or moral. And I can assure you that they will face charges for their imbecilic secrecy having caused a ruckus amongst the immigration and refugee evaluation departments of our government. I will not let this pass in silence! Whomever are the idiots that installed this mentality of keeping secrets could be at least charged with trying to defraud the legal Heir of their client's Trust Fund, so we will investigate that as the starting point, then move on from that to filtrate the rest."
Lucas huffed in clear disbelief, gracing Trudeau with a look of abject contempt as he snarked aloud "Are you really going there? As the living, and very much mentally stable and capable client of said Trust and lawyers, I refuse to allow you any investigation into their offices or client files pertaining to my person, holdings, businesses or employees. If you want to start up a Trump-like inquisition the way the mullet-topped criminal tried against the FBI, you'll need to get a court warrant then convince me that it will be good for me, on top of all the legal wranglings. I can foretell that you will not find me easily convinced of your politically motivated assertions. After all, you were toying with the idea of refusing me not only refugee status, but investor-immigrant status as well, despite all the money and jobs I maintain in Canada already. I know the Wise H & T lawyers are corrupt, lying little mongrels, but they belong to me. You, on the other hand, are just a run-of-the-mill dishonest politos trying to kick me out of my own homes and companies so you can nationalize them, then sell them to your unseen friends who are waiting for it, in the antechambers of Power, so you can get your kickback. It won't be happening, mostly because I'll exterminate your government before you sign the orders. You can use Trump, the churches and Shay Mosley's sect as object lessons to see the gamut of options I have."
There was a collective intake of breath from the conference attendees, as nobody had ever so publicly and crassly accused Justin Trudeau of corruption, depravity, conspiracy and attempt to use his post to commit fraud and extortion. The man was reputed as 'clean' among the political class of North-America, and throughout much of the world. For this young boy to point the finger of accusation at the older man like this meant that things were seriously off-kilter by now.
Lucas gulped his tepid tea in one swallow, slamming the empty cast iron cup on the glass tabletop, making an alarming noise as it connected with the tablecloth that covered it. Thankfully, the tempered safety glass slab held, but still...
Wearing a sneer of contempt, the boy snarled "Since we're on the subject of legalities, you can open the second packet of files to see WHY nobody will be charging me with anything concerning Mosley's well deserved extermination. Those are a pair of 'Black mission briefs', or death warrants, as emitted to me by the directors of DXS and NCIS, who happen to be on screen with us. My actions were not only permitted, they were ordered under a paid para-military & para-policing contract that links Wolenbahn Electronics and WAC's, with their agencies for a variety of services, supplies and data gathering. So take your amateurish attempts at punting my skinny pale ass in juvie and shove it!"
Smiling a bratty shit eating grin at the multiple groans, grunts and growls of dismay coming from some adults on screen, the young man finished his salvo against their plans for his life. "You will find in the third set of files, the reason WHY you can't compel me to do anything, not even on account of my age, not even to assign a legal guardian, tutor or parentalist what-ever-the-fuck you were planning. It is an interesting piece of rather old paperwork, dating back to the early 1930's, back when Franklin Henry Wise had just taken leadership of the conglomerate, and the family at the same time. It is a secret, classified, military & secret service contract that binds WAC's with the governments of both the USA and Canada, as a supplier of services, materials and informations. This quite amusingly includes the research, development, testing and commercializing of weapons to arm the two nations in case a reprise of World War I were to happen. Which, you know, it did in fact happen."
Giving the assembled adults a wide smile full of teeth, the teenager expounded "Please note that the contracts stipulate that the head of WAC's is referred to as the 'Civilian Constable – Governor of the Riverine Interdiction Citadels of Sault-Sainte-Marie and Sarnia', with afferent capacities, powers and authorities being detailed in the joined annexes of the contract. In other words, my good people, I am the holder of legally established civilian and military authority over two borderline outposts set between Canada and America. This includes DIPLOMATIC IMMUNITY in both countries, a rank equal to a 1-star general, and a legislative position equal to a state governor or provincial prime minister for the purposes of daily management."
Sneering again, the boy griped "You can thank my dearly departed great-grand-father for having negotiated that little piece of legalistic nightmare, then having the idiotic idea of hiding it under a rock at the bottom of the Saint-Mary river. Again, I only learned of this little nugget of poisonous 'Wise-dom' yesterday, when the bloody lawyers decided to spill their sacks of malice."
After blinking at the boy owlishly for a few seconds, Andrea Dre exclaimed "You have got to be kidding me! Nobody sane or competent would ever do a contract like this! It has to be a fake! Trudeau! Do something, you weak-willed ninny! Make something happen! Now!" she ended shrieking as she lost all control of her patience and faculties.
Again, the CSIS director spoke firmly, but loudly enough to be heard over the commotion made by the UEO's secretary general as she experienced a melt-down. "It's true, legal, and still valid. We recovered the paper originals from the vaults in Sault-Sainte-Marie's town hall, in Ontario's parliamentary vaults, and in Ottawa's vaults for classified military secrets. The contract has several publicly acknowledged parts that grant vast lands with specific zoning and usages in several places along the borderlines, plus several secret / classified military parts. The part about the 'Constable – Governor' title, rank and authority is in there, with a lengthy description of why that particular hybrid position was created."
The unnamed agent of CSIS elaborated in a monotone voice "It appeared that doctor Wise was well acquainted with several senior officers of the German military and intelligence branches from the early 1920's, many of which were amongst the founders of the Nazi movance later on. As such, he was seen as a vital source of science, technology, medicines, and also foreign human-sourced information. This allowed the man to weasel his way into the good graces of several preeminent politicians of the epoch, to the point where he made himself invaluable. So much so that the military and secret services of the day in both countries saw a real value in elevating his person and companies the way they did, to insure a steady flow of reliable espionage, research and new weaponry that potential troublemakers in Europe or elsewhere could only dream of. I can assure all of you; that contract is real, legally binding, and still very much in effect since none of the obligations incumbent upon WAC's have ever been defaulted."
The high-level spy finished with "If anything, it is Canada and the USA who have defaulted repeatedly on their parts of the deal, including by never insuring that the Heir of Wise H & T had a healthy, safe and happy life until his age of majority. There are clauses in the contract, pertaining to the inheritance system put in place by doctor Wise for the Trust Funds and companies, including several methods by which his future Heir could be emancipated as young as 10 years of age, if needed. And wouldn't you know, but killing or maiming in defense of self or another is one of those methods. Incorporating his own company then accruing enough profit from it that he has a livable salary and pays taxes on each of salary, dividends and corporate revenues is another. And so on..."
Hetty Lange spoke up in the dead silence that followed the small speech by the canadian spymaster. "Well, for the part of NCIS and the USA's policing apparatus as it stands, I am declaring that we recognize the validity, legality, and legitimacy of doctor Lucas Wolenczak's position as the lawful Heir of F. , and thus his inheritance of all entailed. As such, he is now the 'Constable – Governor' in charge of protecting a long tract of the northern borderline between our nations, something which he has already done admirably yesterday when he plugged that bloody hole in the side of Lake Erie."
Mathilda Webber assented immediately "For the part of the US Department of External Services, and the US intelligence and counter-espionage agencies still active, we concur. As such, we welcome our colleague the 'Constable – Governor' at the table during all talks concerning the national and environmental security of North-America."
Andrea Dre was about to blow a gasket when admiral William Noyce stipulated aloud the same thing, making his old friend of decades, captain Nathan Bridger, look at him as if he had just sold his soul in a flea market barter for stale peanuts. The fact that Iegor Desdenski of the World Bank assented the previous declarations made the blond woman rabid. When Justin Trudeau confirmed the findings as well, thus killing off her lofty secret plans, she flew into an apoplectic rage and slammed the link shut, thus closing off the conference on all lines at the same time.
Turning towards the senior CSIS agent sitting at his dining table, the young scientist said brattily "Well, that went well. The ending wasn't very professional, but after the planet collapsed between her fingers like it did in the last week, I can understand that Andrea was tired beyond her few wits. She's just a politician, after all, and she's blond on top of things... It wasn't like we could expect much from her to begin with..." he snarked good and hard, getting nothing but an eye roll and a snort from the adult.
Bah! The fact the Canadian spies had no sense of humor was irrelevant; he had finally shut up the morons who wanted to enslave him, and that left him with the rest of his life to plan out from now on. Which meant he could now focus on taking in hand that damned wild beast of a conglomerate that his bastard ancestor had left him, with all the secrets and atrocities entailed. Oh, joy!
The floatplane flight east
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 14:00pm
Western America; Tuesday 22nd t of December, 2020; 11:00am
Canada, over several western provinces
Lucas Wolenczak stood calmly in the office of the Daleminton Hotel's senior management, trying again to establish a permanent business relationship with the company before he left. He was still dressed the same as this morning with all the electronics wired in place, except for some new winterized hiking boots, which were a necessity when traveling through the Canadian landscape in late December. If the plane had to stop, stalled or fell, leaving any survivors stranded, his indoor sneakers would see his feet frostbitten inside of an hour, and him dead soon after.
His new winter trench coat was draped over the swivel chair next to him, with the new hat, new gloves and new scarf all piled on the seat. His work satchel was on the ground, pushed against the base of the chair. He was leaning on his armament-cane with both hands, idly waiting for the older woman, general manager Misses Allegra Lucarno, to finish reading through the final written version of the request he had given her earlier this morning. He was unconsciously rubbing his right thumb over the large gaudy gold ring adorning his left middle finger, eyes vacant as he stared into emptiness as his mind was occupied with planning the trip-long meeting he would endure with the three lawyers that came from Sault-Sainte-Marie to bolster his position against, well, everybody.
Except themselves; the bastard lawyers thought they had him by the 'nads and could squeeze to their vicious unbeating hearts' content. The adolescent planned to show them what happened to people who mistook him for a dupe or an easy victim to abuse. The example of his father and tutors should have warned them, or at least Trump's fall and the eradication of thousands of churches, but noooo... Some people just lived inside a magical world, inside their heads, where bad things only happened to others or their enemies, never them. These cads would get a reality check post haste, then Lucas and Luxis would have peace and safety inside the borders of their shared demesne.
The alternate possibilities implied genocidal techniques that he was fast approaching the point of considering them legitimate, especially if the populations targeted were worshipers or fanatics.
Seated at the desk next to his immobile form, nervously reading through the document one last time before signing it, the hotel's manager was perfectly unaware of the dark meanders of her best client's mind. Presently, she was actually simply relieved that she would have positive news for the owners, after all the messes that happened in the last week. As if learning one of their mid-rank managers running drugs, gambling and prostitution out of their officially empty rooms wasn't enough on its own, there had been the man's gruesome death, the fake cop accomplice discovered, and now the army and CSIS inside the walls. The owners were making an act of understandable mental self-preservation by studiously ignoring EVERYTHING that went wrong outside the hotel complex; they already had enough to deal with without adding the troubles of the city, country and world on top. This piece of good, comprehensive business would settle many weary souls once they were apprised of it.
Swiveling her chair towards her silent guest, Misses Lucarno smiled gratefully at the young genius who was trusting them with so much, despite all the messes that he had endured in their care. "Doctor?" he called softly, to avoid startling him. She knew the cane was a weapon, and had been warned by CSIS not to approach the teenager too closely when he was asleep or lost inside his vast, elusive mind as he could have a bad reaction that resulted in defensive gestures out of the instinctual need to protect himself.
"Doctor Wolenczak? Are you with me?" she quipped playfully twice more before the young man blinked his dark flint-blue eyes at her interrogatively.
"Ah, there you are. I thought you had fallen asleep on your feet." the elder woman teased him gently as he raised his right hand to his mouth to cover a loud yawn with his closed fist. Seeing his gesture, she couldn't help herself with another small jest at his expense; "considering you're the one with multiple doctorates who teaches seminars at Stanford, I should be the one to yawn during the lecture, not you."
Groaning in dismay at having been set up for that one by his own prodigious life, the younger male graced the adult with a mock glare before shaking his entire body awake so as to get some feelings back in his legs and hips where all his weight had settled. "I will have you know, Madam, that my seminars are so impressive and important that nobody would dare fall asleep during my presentation, not even the narcoleptic patients. Or the overly tired interns looking for which specialization to pursue. I'm just that good. You must have had some pretty bad teachers in your youth to compare me so disparagingly to those experiences."
Snorting in amusement, the manager signed the quotation, order forms and prepayment agreement before handing the stamped copies over to her preferred client to date in her long career. "There you go, my good doctor. A 12 month reservation for two suites, side-by-side, the #204 and #202, with the maintaining of all your services and utilities in number 204 as per the existing agreement for the present month. We will be glad to house your business and employees as long as you will want to trust us with them." she declared amiably, since she was truly happy with the lucrative deal. The fact that each month would be paid in full via wire transfer 5 days before it started was even better since there was no credit card company involved and no bill to try to have paid once the client left the premises as many dishonest clients tried every year.
Humming softly, the teen looked the pages over, just to verify they matched what he had submitted to her yesterday via email. Seeing no modifications, he folded the sheets and put them in his work satchel alongside his portable workstation and temporary identification papers emitted by CSIS this morning after they had verified the 'revelations' of what were supposedly 'his' lawyers from SSM.
"It's me who thanks you and the owners of the Daleminton for allowing my continued presence inside your walls, Madam Lucarno. After all the problems I brought to your doorstep, they and you would have been morally legitimate in deciding to ask for my departure. You have my gratitude for your continued hospitality towards my self and my dependents." the pale skinned boy spoke firmly with a genuine conviction she had rarely seen in anyone his age. Then again, she had rarely seen anyone like him in any age group, so that was par for the situation at hand.
Continuing, Lucas asked "Do you have all the contacts and coordinates in case of technical troubles or legal matters? I have retained the services of the local law firm in permanence for the next five years, and given them a mandate to meet with you at least once a month to make certain no damages to your hotel structure, employees or guests have occurred. If they do not follow through with these meetings, please notify my central administrators, at Wise A&C offices in Buffalo and the industrial hub in Sault-Sainte-Marie. I will then correct the situation so that you not have to suffer the dishonesty or ineptitude of my external contractors."
Smiling gently, Madam Lucarno shook her head sideways, sighing as she contemplated the young man who was fast digging himself a comfy spot in her heart without even trying to. It was such a pity all her grand-daughters were already married and the great-grand-children weren't born yet. She would have introduced him to her kin and made certain he was married to her blood before the year 2021 was ended. Oh, well... A poor grand-mother can dream, can't she?
"Everything is alright on our side of things, doctor. All the administrative and emergency contacts have been filed, and we will keep the solid paper copy in each archived client file relevant to your person, employees and businesses, just as you suggested. Given the current instabilities and occasional outages in both Internex and electricity, that is actually a good suggestion for all our supply chain as well as our other guests. Thank you for reminding me. Also, I have taken your suggestion from last evening to heart. The owners thought it interesting as well. Therefore, we have sent our professional shopper in town to scour the antiquities shops for old hand-cranked mechanical cash registers and accountant's calculators. These will make a nice addition to the permanent décor at our customer service points and allow us to stay open for business when the outages strike the area. We have also decided to order anew employee time-sheets and benefits claims forms pre-printed on 4-ply carbon paper as we had used for so many decades until the year 2000 bug forced us to change all the computers. With such processes in place, you can rest assured that your patronage will be welcome for a long time to come." she explained, quite pleased with the results.
Nodding in sympathy and approval, the young man put on his scarf and long coat, the hat and gloves already stuffed in the deep side pockets, as he was wont to do with his winter or rain clothes. He put his satchel's bandoleer over his head to strap it across his chest to spread the heavy weight at his left side hip correctly, grasping his cane in his right hand for the long road. Now set for the trip over to the northern part of Vancouver Harbor to join his plane, Lucas gave Madam Lucarno a soft shy smile that he rarely showed anymore.
"I offer you my best wishes for the holidays and hopes for a much better, safer, and saner New Year 2021. Mazel Tov, Madam Lucarno. We shall cross paths again soon, I hope. I enjoyed my brief stay, and hope to return to really vacation properly in peace when I come back to the area. Until then, I will think of you kindly."
Not really waiting for an answer, the young man opened the office's glassed door to reveal a quad of WAC's guards wearing thick winterized combat clothing, enclosed helmet, ankle-length trench coats in a shade of charcoal black, with several knives, hatchets, a pair of heavy semi-automatic pistols in underarm holsters, and a long-barreled Winchester rifle with telescope, vari-cam optics, fixed bayonet, laser pointer under the muzzle, and a pair of intense LED lamps. The private security (soldiers) were allowed to have such heavy weapons, even in public, due to the old 1930's contracts that gave a pseudo-governmental status to the company, and specifically its owners. As the much vaunted 'Constable – Governor' of the mid-line border, Lucas was entitled to armored protection through devices as much as through human hands, which now included his armament canes and multiple other systems he used. It also grand-fathered everything he had ever used, or done, back to the day he was born since the simile-diplomatic status he had inherited had never been 'dormant' regardless of the damned lawyers' attempts to defraud him.
Marching loudly and forcefully across the hotel's ground floor through clients, waitstaff, canadian soldiers on guard duty, and even the few reporters who had zeroed-in on the Daleminton as the epicenter of all the mess humanity was undergoing, their impressive display had people moving out of the way almost at a run. Proceeding down the central corridor, the small convoy of five passed the restaurant, public restrooms, laundry & dry cleaner, and the large gift shop before emerging in the rear lobby, with the fresh open air beyond the thick glass doors beckoning them. As they left the building, the weather was now incredibly beautiful since the morning snow storm had ceased. The air was crisp and clean if quite chilled, the sunlight coming down brightly almost like late April rather than any December Lucas had ever lived, and many birds could be heard chirping in the forested wild lands around the hotel. The teenager took a few moments to stand still on the rear sill of the complex, breathing in some much needed fresh air and light, before he was entombed in mechanized transports for hours on end yet again.
Sometimes, the boy wondered if going back to horse-drawn stagecoaches wouldn't be better for the health of the travelers, as much as it was speculated to be good for the horse farmers and environment around the coach routes. Sighing in regret about his life and what it was doing to his emotional health as much as his physical body, the young genius started moving again, aiming for the long pine green limousine that the Daleminton owners had put at his disposal for his short trip. Getting seated properly after taking off his satchel so the bandoleer didn't accidentally twist around his neck during travel, Lucas noted idly that three guards sat in the back habitat with him while the other sat in the passenger position up front. Once all doors were closed and seat-belts cinched, one guard tapped the side of his helmet which had his partner in front signal the driver to move.
(Adrian Von Ziegler – Ad Mortem)
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 16:00pm
Western America; Tuesday 22nd t of December, 2020; 13:00pm
Canada, over several western provinces
The roadway trip from the hotel was short since the large floatplane had landed in Vancouver's northern harbor then used it's engines to pull itself to a sparsely used commercial pier where the occasional private ferry, smaller floatplanes and helicopters disembarked passengers for the local companies. The Daleminton had the right to use the pier as they paid for a right-of-usage on yearly basis so the Wise Apothecary & Chemists' large 4-propeller aircraft wasn't out of place, even if it was visually impressive.
The pier was nearby on the mouth of the Capilano river, on the southern side, but the drive took 30 minutes because of a few bothersome traffic lights. They left the hotel parking lot, turning once to reach Taylor Way heading south, across the Marine Drive highway, then turning east on Taylor Way's causeway to cross the Capilano river, then south into the commercial district, rolling along the elevated Lions Gate Bridge Roadway, not far from the U-Haul warehouses where Lucas had stashed his four new tool trucks. Then the car turned west towards the Capilano river, aiming for the completely industrial sector of the zone. Passing along the train tracks and heavy industries, the clean green limousine was an odd sight for the industrial zone, but nobody asked any questions since the large golden Daleminton logos on each side showed ownership easily enough, and the car's left turn towards the fenced private pier and large plane told the rest. What few workers had to be on the job on this day, barely two days from Christmas Eve, were more interested in their lunch or blabbing with colleagues about the gifts they purchased, or couldn't afford, than gossiping about the rich folk with the wacky foggy plane.
The massive 150 foot long hull by 200 foot wingspan vehicle was another work of Franklin Henry Wise's absolute confidence in modern steam for all motorized applications. The closed-circuit vapor plumbing needed to add only 1 cup of fresh water every 1,000 miles it flew, floated or rolled. Unlike old fashioned steam locomotives, all the vapor exhausts were piped to return the water steam back to the kettles. Each return pipe connected to a 'condenser' which was a piece of technology every distiller of alcohol who had seen a 'still' had known about for several millenia but which had become used in industrial mechanics only since the early 1900's. Those condensers were what allowed the engine to operate with less fuel and a small reserve of liquid water to top off the kettles automatically when needed. Despite all the mechanical wonders, the plane still had several safety valves poking out from the central roof and atop each of the four engine housings in case the vapor over-boiled so that the plumbing didn't explode. Running on water heated at 400 degrees Celsius then pressurized at 1,200psi was just asking for a catastrophe if the on-board crew weren't meticulous about operations and maintenance.
As the green car accosted the seaplane's gangplank, the pilots initiated the enormous engines, each machine having twelve rows of four pistons to power the 30 foot diameter 6-blade wooden propellers that were on the front and back of each power plant. All eight huge fans augmented speed slowly, giving the passengers time to climb aboard without getting blown/sucked off the plank, then letting the poor soldiers pull in that boarding plank without endangering them. Once the side door facing the pier was closed, the green limousine rolled away somewhat quickly, as if the driver was in a hurry to leave the area for his own safety, the rubber tires screeching against the snow covered cement dock.
In a great plume of hot smoke that made it look like a living fog bank skimming atop the frigid waters of Vancouver Harbor's outlet, the exquisitely crafted private flying boat gunned its engines, suddenly doubling the RPM's on all drive shafts, yanking the large ship away from the pier on a heading true-east. Rapidly, the vehicle's four motors geared up to full lift-off torque, making the wooden hull and the air around it creak with noises and wet hot steam. The ship passed under the highly elevated Lions Gate Bridge to enter the vast harbor waters properly, planning to use the shipping lane as runway to effectuate the takeoff. Like an old dragon of legends emerging from the clouds to hunt prey, the great machine belched one last blast of clear white fog as it lifted off at the end of it's 3,000 feet run, quickly ascending so it could clear the urban skyline of East-Vancouver and pass the valley through the Rocky Mountains afterwards. Roughly ten minutes after takeoff, the plane was flying into the white cottony cloud ceiling that wreathed the Rockies at this period of the year, and another ten minutes saw them coasting just above the clouds, at some 22,000 feet in the air, where the pilots leveled off.
Seated in the Lord's Chair in the passenger cabin, Lucas glared malevolently at the three elderly lawyers that had been sent by Sault-Sainte-Marie in response to the legal and social problems that could negatively impact the company. THE COMPANY! Not HIM as a person, as a doctor, as a businessman, or as the actual legal Heir of the Wise Heritage & Trust. No! The fat rat bastards had reacted only because the planetary situation had degenerated to the point their preciously pampered posteriors were on the line! They could lose their salaries, benefits, pensions, and even the company houses if the entire conglomerate collapsed, therefore saving the skinny runt in actual charge of everything had become a vital necessity, not something they truly wanted.
In other words, if there hadn't been a planet-wide implosion of the economy but rather just a civil war in the USA, the bloody fucking apostolates of betrayal would have left him to trudge through the entire mess with the Canadian immigration officials, even once they found out he had an active citizenship file for 15 years.
"we have a PROBLEM, gentlemen." the teenager informed the three elderly, white, anglo-germanic men with a nasty sneer of contempt etched on his handsome angular face. "Somebody... Several somebodies in fact... Have taken the liberty of hiding my inheritance and the full extension of the Wise Conglomerate from ME, the lawful Heir and sole stockholder. That stops now, and I want immediate revelation of everything. We have a flight of 7 hours in front of us to get it done properly."
Seeing the refractive, uncooperative faces of his employees, the adolescent stood from his plush swivel chair and brought his left hand to his cane, under the sculpted pommel section. A quick twist & turn had the sword part leaving the lower barrel, the spring-loaded quillons opening wide upon release from their constraints just as the pike blade on the lower end of the barrel opened similarly. Aiming the revealed sword and pike at the faces of the three treasonous aggressive adults, Lucas triggered the entire weapon to glow with bio-neural energies, creating a blue-silver haze around the items that crawled up his hands to his wrists.
"As my hateful, spiteful bastard of a great-grand-father would have said in this circumstance: 'Arbeit macht frei, untermensch ratten!' (Work will set you free, subhuman rats!) And it's true, lying rats! Working for me will free you. Free you from old debts you still owe. Free you from potential legal actions by the governments or me. But above all, it will set you free from my violent, inhumane ANGER. Choose wisely, for I have seven long hours in which to explain that angry inhumanity, and many long years to demonstrate it materially once we reach Sault-Sainte-Marie. The vaults under the complex are vast, deep, and armored enough to dampen the damages and sounds of aerial bombardments, so muffling your scream will not be an effort for me."
Giving his left hand a small shake, the boy made the large gaudy ring on his middle finger unlatch, letting the ornate faceplate pivot open to display the sculpture inside. It was a panel of white natural nacre, or pearl matter, upon which had been engraved and inlaid a Swastika, the Nazi Cross, in black opal with red ruby borders all along the cross limbs and the perimeter of the white field where it met the gold rim. When all three men looked at the hidden crest gobsmacked, the young man spoke in flawless German with a snobbish, disdainful tonality, declaring coldly "Zieg Heil, schergen! Ihr Anführer war auferstanden!" (Salute the crown, minions! Your leader is risen!)
As the three elderly men stood unsteadily to their feet and placed their left hand over their heart in salute, responding in German as well, Lucas cursed silently in his mind his ancestor, grand-parents, parents, and even his own self. These debased little errors of Nature hadn't come to his rescue, let alone his service, because they hadn't been convinced he was a good little Nazi-in-training like what they dreamed of seeing back in power over the world. Fuck! They were probably closeted Trump supporters to boot! What other crimes had they been hiding all these years? They would suffer for this depravity! It would take time to finagle the information out of their foul lying carcasses, then arrange a series of discrete heart attacks or food poisonings, but it would happen.
In due time; no later.
To them, and to each and every one of their damned cult-spawned accolytes. Lucas would not tolerate that a single one of these blasted deniers of human dignity and personhood continue to exist. It would take time, patience, and much effort, but unfortunately for them, Lucas had toiled on far worse and far more complicated situations than mere sequential assassinations. The art of the thing lay in the scheduling of proper workmen for the correct targets, then the rest happened naturally.
It wasn't his first contract for the death or disappearance of a human or device, in case you wondered.
The young male would endure the next seven hours of hellish ass-kissing from the delusional elderly crones who thought that the only reason he had waged war against Trump's White Regency was because the mullet-topped geriatric fool had tried to have him killed first. Neither of them seemed to think that wanting to exterminate jews, coloreds, women, children, doctors, teachers and so on was any cause for concern or thinking that the whole damned Crusade wasn't a good thing for white Germanic people.
They would suffer.
Oh yes! In due time, they would suffer indeed.
Lucas on vacation; for real this time
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Tuesday 22nd of December, 2020; 23:18pm
Western America; Tuesday 22nd t of December, 2020; 20:18pm
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
One day and a half before his 16th birthday, after 7 hours of luxurious but bothersome, unpleasant flight with a trio of evil minions verbally sucking his cock and praising his glorious almight all the time, they had finally arrived at the home port. All it took was a few minutes to take down the floatplane to the frigid, snow covered, Saint-Mary's River then guide it into the wide open watergate of the WAC's Riverine Interdiction Citadel perimeter walls. The defensive breakwater walls' massive armored steel doors slid laterally to a resounding close behind the aircraft, before it had even reached the maintenance building proper, in order to limit the potential for enemy craft to follow inside the harbor. The floatplane glided at quarter-throttle through the artificial estuary, between the short thick concrete piers with their updated manned CWIS turrets, right into the waiting aeronautics hangar, with the tall armored steel doors sliding laterally after them without waiting for the ship to be fully parked or the propellers stopped.
Once the seaplane was fully parked and moored to the masonry docks, a short half-hour to unload the craft's rolling supply carts and personnel was all it took for Lucas to finally set foot on solid ground in friendly territory, as he was the very last to leave the plane. He still considered this domain 'friendly' but not 'his' because of how many secrets, depravities and crimes he yet had to unearth, cleanse and repair before it could ever be considered fully 'his' own.
And it wasn't 'home' in any ways.
No; his real permanent 'home' was and would always be the Wise Manor in Buffalo, at the ancestral seat of his blood family, regardless of how many troubles his birth kin had inflicted on him.
Still, given the mess happening inside the convulsing remains of the deceased American nation, the teenager could admit that the vast residential and industrial facilities (plus secret military bunkers) of the double-complex spanning 'Pointe aux Pins' in Canada and 'Brush Point' in America, south & east across the river, would be a sufficient dwelling (sarcastic irony) and forward command post, for the near future. For at least the same period that he had foreseen using the Daleminton hotel, and most logically far longer than that. The complex did have a full size neuroplexic telecom hub & server farm, built as a matched pair with both sides of the estate having hard-connected parts of the sprawling cybernetics system that made Lucas such a formidable opponent in both the virtual and material worlds.
The thousands of 'civilian' workers were accompanied by several hundred 'police' officers and private 'soldiers' that kept the vastly sprawling estate safe against spies, sabotage and petty criminals. As of the day he had been forced to flee San Francisco, Lucas had sent orders across his entire conglomerate to bolster the number of policemen and soldiers in active service. They stalled retirements, recalled still-healthy retirees beneath age 60, increased the intake of young recruits while lowering the minimal age for that sector from 21 years old right down to 16 years old, which was the minimal legal age for a teenager to leave high school without a valid diploma. The combined measures had resulted in almost doubling the roll-call of active fighting personnel serving under his flag, with most concentrated here, in Sarnia, and in Buffalo at the conglomerate HQ.
Maybe, just maybe, he would end up with enough men backing him that the teeming hordes of church-whores and dogs-of-christ would finally leave him alone in peace. If not, the teenager would really have to start putting in practice the sorts of methods he had used on Shay Mosley across large tracts of land to eradicate the worshipping vermins from his life.
Wearing his work satchel on its bandoleer at his left hip, the adolescent doctor gripped his cane in the right hand as he walked off the plane, grateful to finally touch solid ground anew, especially since that liberated him from the accursed presence of the three traitorous lawyers. If the conference he had with them on the trip was any indication, he had to fumigate, scrape clean then rebuild the entire legal division of SSM, and probably the entire conglomerate directorate along with them.
Shaking his head of all the negative thoughts, the boy used his free hand to place the ash gray wide brimmed hat on his head as he walked through the cavernous aeronautics hangar towards the land-side cargo doors. On his right, a tall but short, bulky machine covered in riveted steel plates plunked around on thick wide treads, pulling a trailer full of people, parts and tools to work on another seaplane, similar to the one he had flown in, but this one bore gunnery turrets and sponsons all over the fuselage.
The tracked vehicle was an abomination harkening back to the 1917's when the German ministry of war had created the A7V; an ungainly engine 24' long by 10' wide, and almost 11' tall atop the central command cupola. This noisome, vapor belching version was – what else? – an iteration of that ill-fated device re-invented by his great-grand-father F. when he was barely 19 years old. The man had traveled to Europe just after World War I was ended, as a way to develop sales lines for their apothecary and food products because competition was already fierce in America. At the same time, it would allow him to practice first hand his newly learned apothecary and surgical skills on patients who were too poor and desperate to be choosy about who healed them, or what the results were. Anything better than death, dismemberement or handicap easily passed muster back then.
Such was the epoch, as such were the men that made it that horrendous way, careless of the lives and welfare of anyone born, adopted or married in the same exalted social standings, starting with race. And since F. held for heroes and role models men such as doctors Guillotin, Nobel and Gatling right alongside Leonardo Da Vinci, Galileo or Paracelsus, you can understand just how it was that he became what he turned out to be.
Franklin had concentrated his tourism in Germany, and the neighboring germanophone countries, without really raising any alarms inside the family at the time. It was there that he saw the clunking gray hulk laboring in the ruins of a devastated German village, pulling a decrepit old wooden 4-wheeled ox cart filled with ten heavy jerrycans of diesel fuel and injured peasants who had nothing left but the rags they wore. F. had easily bought the blueprints for the machine from disillusioned ministry of defense bureaucrats, then, in his spare time in the evenings, he had redrawn the mechanics while switching everything over to steam engineering instead of a diesel motor. All the flat gunslits were replaced by extruded sponsons and the driver's cupola was made octogonal, higher, fenestred with clear glass panes and solid steel shutters that rose up from inside the machine to cover them in combat. Instead of just one door in the front, there were now 4; one mid-point each side plus front & back so that many armored tractors could be linked in a chain, like a train. Also, the new design was given innovative retractable adaptor wheels that allowed it to ride railways with train cars attached in lieu of a real locomotive. That rendered this armored mule capable of pulling wagons around a triage yard, or even helping a damaged locomotive deep in the countryside, away from town.
For all its innovations, the modernized machine as a whole was still nasty, brutish, and not all user friendly for the two dozen men that could fill the insides of the armored steel can. However, it was redeemed by the cheapness of the device, the ease of construction with few tools, the easy availability of spare parts for upkeep, and the fact that anybody could learn to use it competently inside of two or three weeks. An ideal little metal monster for a farm owner with a field full of low-education men but very lofty ideas about his station in society, like F. had been in 1920.
Or someone like Lucas, who had a civil war knocking on his door but loyal men and ressources rarer than the innumerable mindless peons at the call of the enemy gurus.
That was why he had ordered, during the past week, that all 20 units of this machine that were spread between his many active estates be refurbished to full service as motor-mules to pull trailors or heavy parts for the larger builds they had under construction, also by his standing orders. If worse came to happen, the machines' 25mm steel armor made them into light tanks that could transport police, soldiers, firemen or search & rescue teams, with functional gunnery in the sponsons all the while pulling a trailer of tools and supplies appropriate for the situation. Yes, these metal tractors were not very intelligently designed compared to modern-day troop transports, but they still easily compared to an M-113 tracked carrier while having better armor, far more dragging torque, had railway adaptors that made them far more mobile and versatile, and they were amphibious as long as the water didn't pass over the telescoping air intake pipes on the roof.
The second large floatplane Lucas walked by was in fact a good exemple of that arming program.
The workers were in the process of completing the commissioning of the brand new military vehicle, built of aluminium and steel this time, the design of which Lucas had signed off last year in reaction to the proven need to increase his defensive capacity. There were a couple of Mafia, Triad, Yakuza, Bratva, MS-13, and ISIS-linked pan-african groupuscules that had been nipping at his flanks for the last two years, since his last bad injuries. They had tried to extort his company into supplying them with money or worse; foodstuffs, medicines, even chemicals for explosives and weaponized gas like he used on Mosley. Having a mobile, quick response capacity that could deliver army-grade punches to the enemy's homebases and vehicles independantly of police agencies had become a necessity for survival, and his employees had luckily managed to keep the new builds safely secret up to date.
The Sarnia facilities were equipped differently than SSM, so they were tasked with producing a pair of 200 foot long shallow/brown water warships to help defend the Saint-Laurent Maritime Seaway in its inland portions, between the Buffalo HQ and the network's present end-of-lines in Thunder Bay (Ontario) and Clough Island (Wisconsin). As soon as the small nimble gunboats would leave the drydocks, new builds for exactly the same hulls would be started, and so on thereafter, until four combat floatplanes and eight riverine warships were in service to protect the WAC's ancestral shipping lines over the Great Lakes of North-America. At the same time, the conglomerate would be sending marketing agents down the Saint-Laurent to prospect for wholesalers to sell their products in various Canadian towns and villages, and also purchase lands to build docks, hangars, workshops, and company housing for employees or guests to facilitate all the arduous work. If he had known back then about the special legal position he held, he could have moved more openly about defending his properties and employees' families. He could also have built more and bigger vehicles instead of the small-fry he was saddled with for the coming years. Well, that could now change in earnest, no?
Snort! It would be like redoing the colonization of the Wild West, but in reverse direction.
{ SQ } - { The feeling of freedom } - { SQ }
(Adrian Von Ziegler – The Sealed Kingdom)
Wednesday 23nd of December, 2020; 00:15am - midnight
Lucas had been ferried across the large industrial portion of the complex by a small vehicle crafted to resemble the limousine version of an electric golf cart. It was rather amusing, from his perspective as a learned student of psychology and psychiatry, to see that even in this menial little local transit system, the distinction between function, position, rank, style and title was maintained at all costs, regardless of how questionable the expenditure and effort was. Otherwise, the small, silent, open-cab car looked like it came off a country club's lawn rather than the heavy industrial and military complex surrounding them. And yet, by the very style of build plus the choice of materials, steel, real wood and real leather upholstery, Lucas could see that it had been designed and assembled somewhere inside the WAC's conglomerate specifically for their in-house usage.
It was also funny to look at, like the toy trains in public gardens and amusement parks.
Huffing once in lighter humor at the funny little mahogany covered conveyance, the teenager had let the quad of soldiers guide him to a seat as they arrayed in the other benches of the empty vehicle. It took a special key to start up this particular cart, which one soldier (the team leader) had recovered from the hangar foreman on arrival. As they zipped around the hangars, manufacturing edifices and warehouses, the young genius saw other similar vehicles but designed more generically. Some held two passengers plus minimal cargo in a square basket like a miniature pickup truck, or carried one worker with a specialized tool on an articulated hydraulic arm for repairs around the compound's ancient buildings. All in all, it became apparent that the two-sided estate was so vast that the workers, relatives and guests had no choice but to develop a type of miniature, personalized motor vehicle to move around, and this was the solution put in place since the late 1960's.
Lucas had no plans to change this, in the contrary. He was already planning to have some fun driving one of these around his property to tour it properly this time around, and maybe even just for leisure, like a Sunday driver type of relaxing activity. If everything went well, he could even have more built to spread the concept to his other properties to increase production while also training kids for driving jobs or making small light-weight, low cash-value deliveries instead of older adults. Things like grocery bags, pharmacy orders, small tools or construction materials from the hangars over to the fields, etc... This could help him lower the age of work-ability, and thus the minimal hiring age, from 16 down to 11, when secondary schooling normally began. With the societal crisis in progress, many parents would prefer to have their kids working for a salary, earning their keep and helping the household, instead of wasting time on schooling they wouldn't use or didn't want anyways. Given that both Canada and the USA were under martial law presently, he might get away with it, or maybe those special laws that made him 'Constable – Governor' granted him special capacities, like deputizing people for a militia, or hiring anybody under the 'National emergency' justification. In either case, these small cars, burning fuel alcohol in a steam engine, were maxed out at 30 miles per hour, which was the speed of a running horse or a very fast 10-speed bicycle. Since kids already had that speed available on a bike, it shouldn't be problematic, at least as long as they stayed on WAC's territory. Lucas could guess that on public lands, they would become subject to the same laws as mopeds or golf carts, and the minimal age for driving those was 14, with the user obliged to have a specific license too.
There was one good point of having an open-topped car; he could see all around the night sky unimpeded, and smell the fresh woodsy odors of the area instead of stale felt and Lysol sprays that were so common to modern sealed cars. This was helping him realize just how real it was, that he had finally managed to escape from the ravenous grasping clutches of the ecclesiastes and corrupt politos that had worked so long and hard on trying to destroy his person, life, and everything he had built with his own hands. Looking up to the few white clouds and luminous moon in the sky, a sentiment of peace began to seep into his mind, for once making him feel truly able to lower his guard and redirect his energies towards healing his injuries and infections instead of being war-ready.
Lowering his gaze in front of the small decorative car, Lucas could see between the industrial buildings a new set of walls, taller and much older than the outer perimeter defenses that surrounded the working portions of the complex. This elderly structure made of old brown bricks and steel framing even had a fully covered walkway with thin, tall, murder slits every ten feet and machicolations supporting the overhanging portions of the enclosed patrol corridor. There were medium-sized square corner towers, medium-sized square towers at regular points of each side, large rectangular gate-keeps capable of passing a full one-level train wagon as evidenced by the rails embedded in the pavement cobblestones, and smaller half-turrets standing above postern doors that served for guards & dogs to exit the grounds to patrol the foot path at the base of the wall, at water level. The entire place was surrounded by a 40 foot wide wet moat, dug down a good 20 feet beneath street level, with a yard wide path on each side, and functioning drawbridges spanning the defensive navigable canals at each gate-keep.
No wonder it had been called an 'interdiction citadel' in the early 1900's.
This architectural throwback to the feudal lords of the Middle-Ages was the actual manorial estate of the Wise Family for the Pointe-Aux-Pins region of Sault-Sainte-Marie, and the management hub of this portion of the estate in Canada. It was matched by its exact twin structure across the Saint-Mary river in Brush Point, the American portion of the vast industrial and military complex. There, inside these old, weather-worn walls, stood 1 square kilometer of manicured lawns for parties, gardened greenhouses for food & medicines, a few barns for the household's edible livestock, a stocked horse stable, and the household car garage added in the 1940's. Dwarfing them all were the vast manor with its many gothic – industrial wings that loomed hauntingly in the night's shadows, and in the back of the plot near the river, the original industrial mechanics workshop with water access via open-air canal through the surrounding moats and the rest of the working canals across the property.
As the small 'toy' limousine passed the drawbridge and main gate-keep without problems from the soldiers on guard duty, Lucas was able to see that most of the manor's windows were dark as it was the depth of night. Despite the late hour, a small reception party was waiting for him on the elevated front porch of the central wing, the public zone where guests were received for business or mundane entertainment. This was very much the style of construction and setting social classes in stone that characterized the grand old European manors of the 1800's and early 1900's, when entitled nobles still had enough money and societal clout to live out their pretensions of grandeur lavishly, just before the Great Depression had collapsed the planet's economics in the gutter.
And it was all HIS from now on, regardless of what churches, governments or corrupt lawyers said.
{ SQ } - { Homecoming } - { SQ }
(Two Steps From Hell - Starsky)
Wednesday 23nd of December, 2020; 00:45am
With barely one day left before his 16th birthday, Lucas Wolenczak finally set foot inside his own household, relatively 'safe' for the time being. After he had disembarked the small 8-seat car with his four escorts, he climbed the masonry stairs to the receiving balcony. There, an elderly white man in his late seventies, almost bald with wrinkled skin, rheumy green eyes and a slightly bowed back, walked slowly to stand forward of the waiting group. The remainder of the assembled persons were clearly some of the manor's valets, maids, janitors and guards, all easily recognizable by the traditional black & gold uniforms used by such employees in other manorial estates for nigh on three centuries.
Bowing low at the wait, the elderly gentleman announced "Greetings and well met, Lord of the Manor, Heir of Wise. I am Erasmus Fiddley Chadderton, appointed Majordomo for this manor and Seneschal of the House, for both sides of the estate. I bid thee welcome back to your lands, My Lord. Your last visit five years ago was far too short to be proper, and far too encumbered by lawyers and accountants to discuss the deeper, more private aspects of the House affairs. I do hope that now, we will have sufficient time to confer upon such matters, as they are pressing."
Gesturing to a young white male with brown hair and eyes dressed in a better style of valet uniform, the majordomo explained "This is my grand-son, Raphael Luther Chadderton. He is the appointed Master's butler for the present. I do hope that his services will prove adequate to your needs, My Lord, else we will find a suitable servant for the position henceforth. He will guide you to the Lord's suite and office, in the high tower at the back of the manor, and will see to the valets serving you any meals, drinks, or the usual necessities of habitation you require. He is also the person who will pass on your orders to the rest of the household staff, unless you wish to emit these instructions directly to me during our meetings. Any shopping, purchases or deliveries you require will be processed through him and his subordinate waitstaff, as that is their reason for being retained. As a measure for your personal security, it is important that as many outside purchases as possible be processed through the estate's mail room and baggage handlers, or else trapped or poisoned parcels could reach inside the complex to cause mischief. Is there anything else that I can do for you, My Lord?"
Lucas looked up at the manor's grandiose masonry façade which he had barely spied the first time he had visited the site, almost five years back. That visit had been so fast, like a whirlwind really, as he only had the short weekend to come here then return to Stanford, under the uninterested eyes of the Young Prodigies' Program. Besides the fact he had still been recovering from the attack committed by his father and hired goons, the WAC's H & T lawyer of the time had not been in the mood to let the 10 year old prodigy child look at anything. He forced Lucas to focus only on the raw accounting ledgers, going so far as to sit right besides him to use the mouse and keyboard to control the spreadsheets and product catalogs on the screen as he explained the workings of the sprawling complex in tersely sparse concepts that allowed him to hide anything criminal he wanted to obfuscate.
Things would be sooo different now.
Tapping his cane's lower end on his right boot, Lucas shook his head sideways in the negative, still admiring the enormous building that mixed cut-block stones, bricks, concrete, and steel girders for the balconies and the frames of the windows and doors. His ancestors had good taste back then. Even Franklin Henry Wise had been a damn good architect & engineer, on top of being a bloody fine apothecary, surgeon and biochemist for his day. Then again, all his male ancestors had on all the sides of the family tree had fancied themselves 'renaissance men' and 'enlightened', so that explained a lot of why they had built so many of these 'old glories' across North-America.
Marching up the last short flight of heavy ornate stone stairs to the gilded front doors, Lucas spoke aloud "A hot meal not interrupted by lawyers, notaries, accountants and politos will be a welcome change from the rest of this damnable week. Then a hot bath and some sleep in a warm cushy bed with a late rise in the morning." Activating the clock display in his meta-glasses to see the time, the young man griped "I'll be going abed near 03:30am after all that, so I don't want to be roused before noon. Besides, I'm not religious; bloody fucking christmas isn't my family's original faith tradition anyways, so why should I care about it? I'll wake up late, have a good hearty brunch then celebrate my birthday with a late dinner. Maybe I'll even go out in town for it since, apparently, I can still afford small pleasures like that." he added sarcastically as he gestured his left hand to encompass the giant manorial estate with the busy working edifices beyond the walls.
With those last words, the adolescent genius walked across the lintel of his inherited house, escorted by the silent form of the young butler who walked a full pace ahead of his Master to guide him to his apartment, deeply hidden inside the monstrously huge, complex edifice. The newly arrived owner of the household barely heard the massive armored steel doors close, far behind him, when the group of workers had all entered. If he experienced a weird shiver going down his spine and his aching legs at the sound, he paid it no mind, subconsciously assigning the eerie feelings to mental exhaustion from all the lurid things he had learned from the lawyers during the floatplane trip.
{ SQ } - { PREVIEW ch.10 } - { SQ }
Lucas passes a calm and restful birthday, then explores the vast sprawling complex of Sault-Sainte-Marie before taking a more direct role in directing the management of affairs for the entirety of his inherited conglomerate. He also receives more detailed informations about his legal, societal and political status as 'Constable – Governor' which, as it happens, is no joke to laugh at. He might very well end up getting screwed by that nightmare job, after all.
In Los Angeles, the DXS and NCIS field teams reunite with loved ones and agencies, which causes a lot of soul searching and sours the mood for the holidays that weren't going to be festive anyways, no matter who did what this year.
In the Great Eastern Split, the SeaQuest & convoy attempt to keep up their flagging morale as they continue to investigate the exploded ruins and the mapping of the new waterways.
Across the USA and Canada, various individuals who were ignored by the important people, and history in movement, try to survive with varying degrees of success.
