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'?
TENTH CHAPTER; Un-holIdays of late 2020
NCIS home base return
(NCIS LA – opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 11:00am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:00am
OSP – Spanish House
Los Angeles, California, USA
Taking advantage of the fact the conference chamber next to the operations room was empty until the meeting, Marty Deeks sat back in his chair, letting the backrest take his full weight as he raised his face towards the ceiling, gaze vacant as he was lost inside his tumultuous mind. People would soon be coming in, Hetty having called for an 8:30am post-mission briefing with the full team. That, and they needed to talk about what happened with Mosley and Wolenczak too. Marty sighed despondently as he thought back to the hectic night they had just lived.
The Canadians had packed them up and punted them across the border so damned fast that it was a miracle they had been allowed back at Diefenbaker Airfield to get the DXS jet for the trip. The flight over had been done in the dead of night, passed 23:00pm, short and dreary, with every member of all teams suffering bad cases of fright, anger and melancholy all mixed up. The four hour flight saw them arrive back in their hometown around 4:30am, but they weren't sure they were all that happy about what they were returning home to.
Upon arrival at the John Wayne Airfield in the dead of night, the DXS field agents had taken their SUV's back to their own enclave, a small agglomeration of homes and three storey housing blocks that Mathilda Webber had kept under wraps until the lay of the land was fully revealed. The four agents headed into the mountains to meet their families and get some rest for the coming day, which would be hard for them as for everybody else.
Their NCIS colleagues from the New Orleans team had been routed straight off to the National Guard barracks on the airfield site so they could rest before taking a berth on a morning train headed east to Florida. The two agents would share a private sleeper cabin all the way to NOLA where they would disembark. At this point of time, nobody knew for real what the situation in that city was, or if there was any reason to go back left alive anymore.
The Los Angeles team had been hustled back to the OSP's usual command center in the center of town, the Spanish House, where him and Kensi spent the night. They had shared a small single bed in the basement's emergency shelters, all night spent clung to each other in fright of what was coming towards them, and gratefulness at being alive. Again, nobody knew what fresh horrors, violence or news of dead friends the day would bring, or if it was worth fighting anymore.
The faux-wood armored double doors opened to let in Sam Hanna who was clearly pissed about something already, and given the man was a genuine SEAL with all the training and expertise, you could just feel that nothing good would come of it. Some unlucky bastard was gonna get his head taken off soon, if the black man's face was any indicator of events in motion. He stood undecided just inside the room, but Marty knew he'd take the foot of the table as usual. Before the doors got the chance to close, the team of Eric Beale and Nell Jones rushed in, short-stopping right quick before they rammed into Sam's back, then wisely using a series of quick gestures and facial ticks to decide on sitting away from the angry soldier's reserved chair, just to be on the safe side of things until he calmed down. As the mechanism was pushing the two panels back together, someone triggered them to stop and open again, letting in Kensi Blye and Henrietta Lange who were walking side-by-side silently, an air of funereal gloom hanging about them.
Hetty took her usual place at the head of the table with the large plasma screen behind her to illustrate the points in her briefing. She set her expensive italian briefcase, covered in brown stallion leather with bronze rivets, on the table besides her to pull out the files and items needed for the conference. As she was finishing her setup, the doors opened again to let in Grisha Callen and Anna Kolchek who were the last people needed for the meeting to proceed.
"Well then," Hetty spoke in her firm but soft tones, "Let's get this shindig on the road. Firstly, I would like to welcome back our agents from their trip up north, despite all the nastiness that resulted in the interim. If you could, mister Deeks, give us the abstracted version of the trip?"
Marty blew a breath out, despondency in each gesture and emotion that showed on his body language as he ran a hand through his long shaggy blond hair. With a long inhale to fortify himself, the young man said without preamble: "It was a booby trap from the start. Not from Wolenczak, that was evident on contact. The kid was open and genuine with everything he said or did. It was the Canadian government that had all of us by the short hairs. They hid from Wolenczak his dual citizenship until they could benefit from keeping him up north, then they admitted his fan-dangled pseudo military title because they absolutely needed to keep him on their side of the border. He learned about that from his lawyers only because some court order from Toronto was overturned, about six hours before we heard it. From then on, we weren't in our jurisdiction anymore, so we came back. Or, more honestly, the beavers punted us out as soon as Diefenbaker could put the plane on the runway."
Hetty blinked owlishly at his story; short & sweet didn't cover the vast gaps and humongous details that weren't being addressed. Steepling her fingers in front of her, the older woman made a face of professional detachment that was purely artificial, as she tried to determine the mood behind her field agent's sudden blunt aversion to cooperation with her.
"Mister Deeks, while this meeting is indeed called a 'briefing', there is in fact no need for such pronounced lack of detailing in your account. Please expound on the situation." she ordered in her dry sarcastic wit, making a few people smirk or chuckle at her répartie.
Marty wasn't in the mood. He hadn't been in the mood for much of anything since they had left the Daleminton yesterday, and he didn't foresee that changing anytime soon.
"Fine. You want the nitty-gritty minutiae, you'll get it. Cry about it on your time afterwards." the blond policeman griped as his already unstable mood soured fast. "We got on the plane with our 2 colleagues from NOLA and the DXS field agents. We then saw the horrendous displays of the Roseanic chapel live on TV, just before we got up in the air. We spent the flight split in two groups; mine, deep in legalese, and the 'reaction' team that was planning the armed response, in case it got that far. It got that far, but we were already outgamed, outgunned, and not even in the right game anyways, long before we put our feet down in BC. The Canadian and USA Governments had been hiding from Wolenczak his full legal, social and political status since he was born, and his felonious parents were in on it willingly. Because the higher ups had lied to everyone and sundry, we were caught in a crossborder crossfire that had us pinned down on all sides. And it was readily apparent that the beavers most certainly did not want the kid doctor to have access to all that money and industrial capacity. They most assuredly did not want him to know he was legally equal to a state governor or provincial premier, with the ability to write and enact territorial laws. They especially did not want him to know about his judicial role, or his rank equal to a career naval admiral, and they dreaded the day he found out about his diplomatic status."
Deeks made a face of tiredness, passing a hand over his mouth before dropping it back to the tabletop in front of him. "Then, after all that exploded in our first meeting that morning, we saw on TV the nukes kill off DC and crack the continent. Wolenczak kicked us out, then about 15 minutes later had the beavers grab three of us to assist in a project. We later learned that he had decided to plug the leak in the side of Lake Erie all on his own, after somehow bullshitting control of the space stations out of the UEO's hands. That, or he hacked through them like he already owned them, the details are a bit blurry on that, since, you know, nobody told me the backroom stuff. As soon as the new crack in the lake was fixed, all 8 of us were trucked back to Diefenbaker AFB where the canucks locked us in individual debrief rooms to interrogate us for a few hours. We were let go only to be escorted by armed guards straight to the plane and shipped off the runway, back to the US, at flanking speed. The End."
Director Lange nodded minutely as she set her hands palms flat on the tabletop before herself. "The resumé that mister Deeks has just given us may seem somewhat abbreviated but, in fact, is concordant with the statements made by the NOLA agents and the DXS team. Our people really walked into a political minefield set in place by the corruption, and criminal conspiracies, of several WAC's lawyers who were receiving help from elected officials and public functionaries on both sides of the border. That is why Lucas Wolenczak ran off to Canada instead of staying put in San Francisco a week ago. If he had known about his diplomatic (immunity) status and multiple capacities under the North-American Mid-Line Treaty of 1930, he would most certainly not have ran anywhere but to his lawyers, or the US Department of Defense, to lay a binding formal complaint against POTUS for his jurisdictional infringement."
Hetty paused for five seconds before continuing; "As it was, my confidential informants in Ottawa (yes, I have some in that city) are telling me about a great deal of political kerfuffle going on in the Trudeau cabinet, since this corruption seems to reach all the way up to the country's Prime Minister himself. There appears to be a history of bad blood between the Wise family and the Trudeau family that was quite virulent back in the early 1900's, but was forgotten since the 1980's. Evidently, someone thought to revive this dormant feud in early 2000's as a means to obfuscate the laws and legal forces while they tried to steal, defraud, and extort, from the Wise Heritage and WAC's conglomerate. Evidence suggests that their limited successes have been thwarted, and whatever ill-gotten gains they accrued will be returned to their victim, or be billed out of them via judicial penalties. I will post updated information on the case as it becomes available on the general data boards on NCIS servers. We will no longer speak of this in our live conferences, as this part of the mess has little bearing on our situation."
Deeks surprised the other agents by snorting aloud his disagreement at their leader's words.
Hetty pursed her lips, wondering what that was about, so she asked. She had an idea, but having confirmation was always nice, when one was dealing with spies, black ops and betrayals.
Marty sat straighter in his chair, putting his elbows on the tabletop so he could join his hands to set his chin on top as he spoke slowly, giving himself the time to articulate his thoughts before voicing them. The points he wanted to make were all germane to their agency's situation, but they had so many damned complexities to deal with that it wouldn't take a lot to become mired in small useless parts, all the while losing sight of the big picture.
"Okay, first of all, you can all bet that we'll be talking about this in our briefings from now on, at least three or five times a week. Lucas Wolenczak as a person has, until the two governments negate it, a title that puts him in the crux of industrial, military, judicial, law-making and diplomatic institutions across the board, at all levels of national, state and municipal authorities. His legally bound zone of activity is not only vast, but also fluid and exportable in real time along with his industrial endeavors. This means that as of now, with Washington DC nothing but a hole in our bad memories, he may very well be the senior-most military and jurisdictional officer still in post. That would accidentally give him genuine material authority over all policemen, firemen, ambulances, hospitals, national guard, standing military, and the courts of the land, until a new government can be constructed via elections. All in all, if ANY of you think we aren't gonna spend time talking about this kid and analyzing his activities, you're delusional. The only reason we don't call him 'Boss' right now is because he's so drowned in his own internal messes with his inheritance and companies, plus the Canadian mess, that we're flying dark under the radars. But, mark my words, it won't last for ever. This kid is a workaholic perfectionist with eidetic memory, multiple genius-level competences, severe control issues and a nasty, aggressive self-preservation instinct that's already triggered hard years ago."
Looking at Hetty straight in the face, he elocuted quite darkly "If I were you, I would count my days of freedom preciously and enjoy them fully before the Lord Master comes calling. He won't be bearing glad tidings and gifts of friendship. Wolenczak is a mathematically driven utilitarian who will reduce you to a set of stats, like an RPG character sheet, then manage your job, career and life from that data spread, regardless of whatever you can try. And trying is pointless. The people of Toledo who had managed to survive the first onslaught of the civil war could tell you that, if any were still alive. You get in the way of what the Doc thinks is the most efficient and expedient manner of handling a task, and you'll be processed down to serve as axle grease for your troubles. Or maybe greenhouse fertilizer, cuz with the climate changing hard, he's gonna need more of those pretty soon."
Sam Hanna, already in a furious mood from unexplained reasons before the meeting, exploded verbally at his friend. "Whose side are you on, Deeks? Cuz you don't sound like you're on ours anymore, the way you're talking 'bout stuff." the ex-soldier accused venomously.
Marty answered toxically, wearing a smile that was all teeth, "Well, you see now, that's why I'm the detective and you're a soldier. I detect, inspect and understand the evidence on the scene; I don't just believe stuff then follow that in a bull rush. So you see, I'm on the side of the man who legally and morally holds the strings to my oaths as a law enforcement officer of the USA. And the evidence at hand in the case says that has better than 85% chance of being one Doctor Lucas Wolenczak, 'Constable – Governor' of the USA – Canada Mid-Line for the foreseeable future. Which, incidentally, makes him Hetty's boss, and yours by hierarchy as a result. So we're actually on the same side, big guy, just as always. It's just I'm with the program already, you're the one playing catch-up for a change."
Sam's face was constipated with anger, sorrow and morosity as he spat out "Not in my life, he ain't! What the fucking Hells has this kid done to be in charge? And who would be stupid enough to recognize him as the country's top dog, anyhow? Do you think the Russians and Chinese are going to give a crap about what he is, or what's inside his overgrown head?"
The LAPD liaison agent replied glibly, still wearing his shit-eating smirk, "Well, I would think that the nuclear explosions on the site of DC would cool down the ardors of anyone thinking that there is such a thing as a 'good little war' to be had these days. Plus, the crashed economy has pauperized every country on the planet, so the populations are too busy trying to eat and stay warm to give a hoot about national pride and border security anymore. Then again, maybe the fact the kid owns and operates several biochemical factories that manufacture live antibiotics, and therefore potential bio-weapons, could have an influence. The fact he just used the extremely secret, yet not very legal, Copernicus space stations to carve up parts of Ohio like a flaming Christmas roast turkey could also have a clue to what the world leaders will be thinking about him, his capacities, and his diplomatic standing on the world stage. Just inane little thingies like those, you know, just off the top of my head!" the policeman spat out poisonously, with enough sarcasm and anger to make even the angry SEAL sit back in reaction.
{ SQ } - { Eric steps up to the plate } - { SQ }
Eric Beale swallowed passed a lump in his throat and almost choked on it when everybody at the table, already extremely keyed-up from everything in the last 7 days, were suddenly glaring daggers at him for his movement and noise. Becoming aware that he was in a room full of aggressive, fully stimulated predators already riding an adrenaline high, the man had to steel himself quite a lot to avoid cowering visibly in front of his teammates. Placing his hands palms down on top of the table to show he was unarmed and harmless, the technician gave his most wan, friendly smile he had, hoping it would defuse the volatile situation before the knives came flying at him.
"Mister Beale." Hetty's voice cut through the tension like an old rusty chainsaw, "Do you, perchance, have anything to add to this discussion? Your wisdom would be welcome." she elocuted in a tone that seemed to subconsciously promise him much pain in reward if he did intervene. Unfortunately, he did need to say something, if only for their common survival.
Mentally girding his courage, Eric spoke in the soft, gentle voice that he was known for, never realizing just how much of a calming effect he had on the field agents. To them, Eric speaking meant that the critical infos or the tactical advantage they needed to knock out the perps were on the way, through their earwigs or some tech being rush-delivered by another agent. Without seeing the symptoms for what they were, Eric taking the risk of speaking out in the conference actually changed the mood drastically, shifting the agents from their 'fighting' mode back over to 'staging' mode, which was far more conducive to civilized agreement and planning long-term.
"Excuse me for being the bearer of bad news, Director Lange, but, about the situation on the planet at large... The Russians have contacted the European Union to declare a unilateral draw-down of military troops at the borders, to be replaced by regular police for the foreseeable future. As far as we can intercept with the remaining satellites we can access, Moscow has recalled all Spetsnaz black-ops teams back into the Mother Land for internal security activities. All GRU activities out of borders are also being scaled back, and in the case of many countries in south-America or Africa, being shuttered completely with all personnel being ferried back to Russia. The Chinese seem to be undergoing a similar reaction with their respective national borders; an inflection of forces to stabilize the interior. This, of course, could be seen as germane to the continuous firing of the Copernicus stations all along the new Great Eastern Split to terraform some shapes into the blasted deadlands for future human colonization efforts. We shouldn't discount the dissuasive effect of seeing thousands upon thousands of particle beam cones pulverizing and flattening the landscape. It is possible that a very simple, and efficient, method of resolving the salt water infiltration crisis in a usable time-frame has had the secondary effect of scaring stiff some terrorists, and the cockamamie leaders of banana republics, into thinking rationally, for a change."
Grisha sat back in his chair, exchanging looks with Sam, Kensi and Anna in turn, then Hetty, Nell, and finishing with Deeks. He seemed satisfied with what he saw because he got up to activate the counter-top Keurig brewer for a hot coffee to occupy his hands with.
Passing roughly a weary hand over his bald head, the black skinned SEAL grumbled nastily under his breath before saying "Mocha-cream with two creams in it, no sugar. Please."
Callen turned towards his usual mission partner with an amazed expression on his face, snarking back "Do I look like your barista, now? Do you want an apple pie or a brownie with that?" he quipped as the soldier ignored his witty comeback to concentrate on the raw strategic data he'd been fed. He was angry at a lot of stuff, but the sources were reliable. Hell, in this context they were nigh on unimpeachable, almost to the level of Hetty herself since she'd be making her decisions based on the same.
Anna got up as well, using the brewer to make herself a soothing green tea with cream and lemon juice from a small bottle nestled in the condiment basket. She then prepared a pair of holiday hot chocolates with peppermint and marshmallows for Eric and Nell who liked the sweet confection during this time of year.
Needing to move to get her mind in gear, Kensi stood up to stretch a bit as she walked around the long table to fetch her fiancé and herself their favorite drinks to continue the conversation on a more friendly tone. Things had gotten heated pretty quickly, but thankfully had tamped down just as fast. A pair of strong Brasilia dark coffees with plenty of cream & sugar would set her man's spirit back at ease, just as surely as it would for her.
{ SQ } - { Hetty skating around } - { SQ }
Hetty kept herself dry for the meeting, especially given that she was too deeply in thought to move out of her chair, and she'd already drunk enough tea since waking up to fill a small wading pool. Further liquid fuel was not needed, for a rare occasion as she rarely passed an opportunity to indulge. That, and the well known fact amongst professional interrogators that having food on the table or in hand usually set a friendlier atmosphere, thus people were more likely to open up to reveal things.
Sam took his mug from Callen with a grateful smile, patting his friend's hand in thanks as he did, then taking a careful sip of the scalding beverage to get the double kick of caffeine and warmth. Gazing pensively at Deeks and Beale in turn, he spoke in the much more usual strong, firm but controlled, tone of voice that was his normal attitude in meetings. "Okay. Let's look at this mess like the blond bros told it. We have a situation unfolding that will come back to bite us in the ass pronto. Hetty; did you know, or suspect, that this could be the result when you publicly acknowledged this guy as constable-whatever? Is there a long game we need to know about, getting played in the backrooms?"
Sighing deeply, Henrietta Lange replied carefully "I was reacting quickly to a dangerous, volatile, and potentially genocidal, mess that was progressing before my eyes at light speed. And I had to deal with the fallout from Mosley's failed attempt at a theocracy of her own, which was dragging down the reputation and credibility of NCIS like lead ballast. Not to mention that as a law-enforcement institution, NCIS was almost wiped off the map to begin with. The Los Angeles division was barely functional and New Orleans on a respirator; everywhere else was dead, abandoned or destroyed by the Trumpists, and then the criminals when the prisons broke down. Actively throwing our lot in with Wolenczak was the least suicidal of the options on the table. Given the speed and alacrity with which Mathilda Webber placed DXS in line with the young doctor's plans, I decided to follow my gut feelings, and hers too, in the hopes that it would give us the best amount of resources and organizational support necessary to build a basis for permanent survival. What the end result will be, even I don't know that. Neither do Webber, Wolenczak, Trudeau, Dre or anyone else."
Sam pursed his lips then asked again, with a more pressing tone this time, "You didn't answer me. You're edging around the subject, but you aren't giving me straight words. Did you know, or foresee, that this could put NCIS in a position of being legally subordinate to the boy himself? Or that there would happen a dotted-line sort of relationship in the command chain as a result?"
Hetty took her glasses off her face to drop them tiredly on the tabletop, looking at all the people around the room before she answered. "Yes. I did understand, conceptually and intellectually, that this move could result in our becoming de facto subordinates to a 16 year old boy with a drawer full of diplomas, several territorial holdings shrouded in armored walls with their own utilities and infrastructures, and the biggest cache of space-based weapons anybody on Earth could command. I saw the way that events were unfolding, and I bet that one tyrant would be better than the other options. Only time and the history we write in our lives will tell if it was the proper choice. I do believe, however, that Lucas Wolenczak will work hard at establishing lasting peace in America, and the rest of Earth, if only so that his own people don't have to be put in harm's way by the civil wars of the USA, or others reaching into his protected areas. That, plus his inherently territorial mentality coupled to his flagging health lead me to believe that he will not have the desire for war, or conquest, in the coming decade at the very least. If the problems with his health are resolved properly, or he gets an inordinate number of military-trained personnel to join his ranks, we could see a change in the statistical portrait. My gut is good, but nothing is permanent, especially not in politics and social issues."
{ SQ } - { Banking intrigues } - { SQ }
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:25am
Anna asked gently "Eric. Could you please tell us what you see in these events? You have a perspective that is closer to the raw numbers and factoids than us in the meat grinder. You seem to think that nobody will take advantage of the fact the USA is defunct, and the borders are practically wide open for anybody to pass through. Why is that?"
Giving the blond russian native a kind smile in return, Eric explained slowly his thought process and the data he based it on. "Now, you have to know that the CIA and several dozens of sister agencies have bugged out on the day of Trump's reveal of the Roseanic Chapel. That means that they took much of their man-portable inventory to help their families survive, while burning or blasting those things they couldn't in an effort to deny their usage to the Christian fanatics. However, none of the satellites were ever affected by this self-destruct planning. The reason? Because GPS navigation and automated weather monitoring all depend on the sats to orbit the planet reliably. If you down the sats, you kill off the usefulness of the climatic recycling towers, you render travel, trade and exploration very unreliable, and maybe dangerous in wild zones, and computer assisted navigation would no longer be possible. But! The satellites still work just as the day they got up there, so we can bypass all the red tape from the dead agencies to access directly (and control) their sats for our own needs, including maintaining long-ranged wireless comms with allies."
Taking a sip of hot chocolate, Eric wrapped both hands around the warm vessel to take strength from the simple little pleasure, inhaling the spicy aroma before a second sip. Placing the porcelain mug on the table, he kept his hands wrapped around it as he continued speaking. "You all know by now that Nell and I know quite the bag of tricks when it comes to targeting sats to snoop in the other guy's backyard, digitally and physically. Well, we have spent the last two days splitting our attention between the domestic mess and the planetary one. I let Nell handle the household affairs because she actually dealt with most of the agencies that died out when she was at NSA, and kept that up when she joined us. I handled the rest of the planet, and saw quite a few telling moves by the confederations and local countries. Everything indicates a planet-wide recession; an economic crash much worse than whatever Wolenczak had in mind when he targeted the churches and ecclesiastes for having supported Trump's crusade against him."
Eric detailed further his point: "I have surveyed thousands of governmental, institutional and military bank accounts, transaction lists and asset movements, in the last 48 hours, and the portrait painted is ugly. Many of the self-called 'modern' countries had begun converting all their gold and precious material reserves to paper, plastic, or cybernetic currencies, since the feared Y2K bug threatened to derail society. After the bug was averted by modernizing attritioned cybernetic parks, those same countries maintained their national policies of converting to the more nimble, and almost invisible, electronic currencies to facilitate global trade and cooperation. The fact that most governments use a plethora of anonymous numbered accounts routed through dark wed Tor servers as their basic banking strategy will not be expounded on at present. Suffice it to say that, when doctor Wolenczak declared cybernetic warfare against the planet's churches, he inadvertently set off a chain of dominoes that, accidentally, collapsed the entire economy of every industrial nation, since they no longer had more solid coinage than e-money in hand."
Here Eric took off his glasses to rub at his eyes, trying to keep the details in order as he explained the complex chain of accidents that caused the planetary mess. "When the servers didn't just hijack or reroute the amounts but actually wiped out the money, the accounts, and even the client ID files up to and including their Social Security ##, it triggered a cascading failure across all systems. Basically, if you have a bank account, that data is used not just for mortgages but also to evaluate your social security in case you lose your job or get sick, it's part of the tax calculus each year and, in some cases, it's even required by some employers to divulge the data, like here at NCIS – OSP. So when the bank accounts get erased, this triggers automatic refusals or dismissals from a bunch of services and utilities in a one-way, fully automated maneuver that can be reversed only when you call the customer service to speak with a human. At which point, if you have no client ID or credit score anymore, you are automatically refused membership or subscription, even to governmental services & utilities. So, by accident, the attack fumbled hard; from a very tightly profiled group of racist, ageist, sexist bigots, the whole thing exploded outwards and scorched the Earth like wildfire. And this is true from the richest countries to the poorest, from the most advanced to the most primitive. There is only solid cash and material goods left to trade with, and any nation or company that trusted e-money to exist is pretty much screwed irremediably."
Nell chimed in, her peppy tone of voice much more sober than usual. "We can see and understand what the young man tried to do. He wanted to neuter and lobotomize the churches so they would stop pushing on the Trumpists with money, speeches and voter registration drives. His goal was to silence them by withdrawing from the equation the only reason they do anything: the money. Kill off the revenue streams and they wither away in silence. At that point, he identified three methods by which they made money and went after them all; the worshipers who tithe, the private schools who bill the kids' parents, and the private hospitals that charge patients for care. All of these moneys were used to fund what the ecclesiastes call 'missionary works' but in fact is just the organized (and legally shielded) spread of bigotry, racism, sexism, ageism and antisemitism."
Nell made of face of disgust as she specified; "Here, we can prove that he had wanted to limit the scope and power of his attack, but idiots caused the Earth-wide hecatomb. You see, unfortunately, despite Lucas delimiting his targets very carefully, the systems holding the data are actually badly programmed, and so they applied the orders wrongly. When a person's bank ID and SS## were wiped off, the computers didn't block the client's file and flash an alert as they are supposed to do. No, instead, the defective software silently deleted the entire file without even recording it as a client-demanded closure, which would leave traces. By doing a cold wipe of the sort, it was like inflicting an electromagnet straight into the hard drives of the servers, leaving the data modules a mess of disparate bytes floating randomly on the disks without any coherent order anymore. And that caused a secondary cascade, taking out what few functioning accounts remained to float the economy on."
Kensi asked, with a frown of deep thought on her face, "Are you both certain that this cascading effect was all accidental? It seems pretty automated to me, like it was meant to do that."
Nell shook her head negatively with certitude as she replied. "No, it was accidental. We know because Lucas Wolenczak was forebearing enough to send us and DXS a complete, non-edited version of the attack program and target roster he used. What you don't know is that this guy is one of the World Bank's top rated tech suppliers for software AND hardware. He has steadily been climbing the security level and pay grade ladders over the last 5 years, and is now part of the WB's directorate-level committee for network protocols & transaction security. It would be a fair assessment to say that he's their equivalent of Eric and myself, all wrapped into one angsty teenaged package. With hormones, sarcasm and extra angst included." the young woman quipped as concluded her explanation.
Eric picked up there; "What Nell means is that doctor Wolenczak understands the planetary networks and banking apparatus like few people can, since he's part of its conception and building team. That means that the only way he could botch a cybernetic attack as simple as a list-based file erasure is because an event external to his processes happened. In this case, we searched and found the cause of the cascading mess. Doc W. planned his attack by relying on the banks having installed anti-fraud and anti-collusion software that was mandated by the World Bank three years ago in 2017, with the deadline for compliance being 1st July of 2020. This software was created by Wolenczak & team to insure that situations like the fake accounts at Wells & Fargo don't happen anymore. The logging program is supposed to record all the maneuvers on client ID's & accounts separately from the bank's proprietary management suite so that if you find discrepancies, you have a locked, independent and secured, source of data to compare with. Including the employee ## to trace back who did what, like shunting money overseas or faking accounts, cheques, drafts, etc..."
Eric rubbed a hand roughly over his short cropped blond hair nervously as he laid the blame where it belonged. "The problem is, while the WB delivered the program to its partner banks in October 2017, practically NONE of them bothered with installing it. In each country, the banks invoked 'client confidentiality' concerns to slow down the process, some took the WB to court to block the install. Some governments, like Trump in the USA, also actively tried to block the thing because it was specifically designed as a law-enforcement tool to track fraud, but also to help identify victims that deserved refunds and compensations for the damages they suffered. And we all know that Trump and his billionaire boys' club in the White House were never the biggest fans of helping people get justice or compensation for anything. And that is why the cyber attack went wild; the stop-gap program that was supposed to limit the effect to only what was parametered in the hack wasn't present, so BOOM! went the planet's economy."
Nell said, a bit more chipper than before, "Think of it this way. What happened is like when the inspector comes to your condo block and says that you need to install fire-proof insulation in the floors, walls and ceilings to protect the building in case something happens in one unit. Then, the owners get together, blab about it, and decided that it's too expensive, not necessary, they won't waste the time, etc... So nothing gets done. Three years later, somebody falls asleep on his couch with a lit cigarette in his mouth, starting a cushion fire in his unit. Normally, that's a pretty small thing to contain, and quick business too. But this building isn't insulated. There aren't any fire breaks, or air gaps, or steel plates, or anything to stop the flames from spreading all over the couch, rugs, drywall, wooden carpentry, through to the other units all around. And the building goes up like a roman candle. The end."
Eric spread his hands wide open in a 'that's all folks' gesture as he nodded. "Simple as that. The young genius thought he had programmed enough limits and constrictions in his hack to leave the normal, innocent people alone, but the greedy, lazy, and dishonest bastards in banks & governance alike had not done the jobs they were mandated by law & treaty, so the whole thing went up in smoke. It was, in truth, an accidental overreach."
{ SQ } - { Changing subjects } - { SQ }
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:40am
"I hate computers." Sam Hanna growled lowly with many, many feelings, and all of them were negative. "The older I get, the less tolerance for this shite I have. When the fuck are we gonna go back to single switch on/off machines? Even my damn phone gets on my nerves lately."
Sam had the strange experience of looking at Eric Beale's face and suddenly, genuinely, fear for his life and soul at the thunderous expression the other man wore. Sinking into his chair a bit, the SEAL amended quickly, "Okay, maybe the phone didn't do nut'tin, but the damn ringer won't stay what I choose anymore. It's getting bothersome but not important enough to grab one of you to fix it. We're in a civil war; there's better things to fix than my phone tones." The large muscular man explained as he sank lower still into the cushions of his seat, wilting under the combined glares of the Tech Twins.
Pursed lips and squinted, angry eyes ablaze, Eric held out his right hand, palm up, wiggling his fingers demandingly at the older agent. Knowing the value of a timely strategic retreat when confronted with demented techno-geeks on a rampage, Sam passed over his phone without a sound. At least Eric and Nell wouldn't be making THOSE eyes at him anymore while they were agog over his miss-configured phone for the rest of the meeting.
Hetty didn't really try to hide her small discrete smirk as she folded her hands on her lap, gazing amusedly at her troops' antics. They desperately needed the morale boost that a bit of levity would garner them. And it was quite funny, watching the big brawny Sam Hanna, who was the pillar of strength and durability for the team, get henpecked by the much smaller and leaner Eric Beale over such a banal matter.
Callen smiled openly as he sipped some of his coffee, his entire face alight with amusement at his partner getting reamed over his – questionable – opinion on the state of modern technology by the team's most lightweight fighter. Although, if you gave Eric a case of grenades, you'd have better results than the average cop could produce with their service pistol. People had a nasty tendency to forget that Eric and Nell didn't spend 100% of their time chained to a smocking keyboard. They did go in the field a handful of times per year, and brought the perps in when they did. That didn't take away from their masterfully accomplished primary jobs as hackers, analysts and tech-genies-in-a-bottle, but some people – Sam – could learn to remember that. But if he didn't, Grisha would have some more fun at his expense as he ribbed him mercilessly for his prompt retreat, as soon as they were alone in the car, on the road to the next assignment.
"Alright, people! Settle down! Nothing to see here!" Kensi said in her best 'traffic cop' voice imitation to get the meeting back in order, which didn't stop her from aiming a shit-eating grin at Sam's expense.
Hetty firmly tapped her impeccably manicured nails on the tabletop to have the attention centered on herself again. "While I fully endorse mister Beale's esprit-de-corps in helping mister Hanna with his technological performance issues (collective groans of snark) we do have to dispense the tasks for the coming week, and still have a few tactical problems to address." she told them with a blank face that hid her mirth. Making certain that Eric was at least partially aware of events around him during the conference, the elderly spymaster took the pole anew, as she had bad, not so bad, and a bit less bad, news to impart unto her crew.
{ SQ } - { Bah! What a mess } - { SQ }
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:55am
"Now, we come to the part of this meeting that you all dreaded. We have to handle the fallout from Shay Mosley's despicable betrayal, including hundreds of cadavers that are rotting in the buildings that will now become our bunkered redoubt. We have been insured by doctor Wolenczak that the toxin used was an inert chemical which is anaerobic and hydrophobic. The practical aspect of this poison is that it oxidizes quite rapidly, and reacts badly to water. It exists in open atmosphere for only 1 hour then dissolves into inoffensive separate elements. It suffers a similar fate, but much quicker, when exposed to liquid water or humidity levels above 60% of the air contents. As such, the enclave is now safe to enter for processing, which will happen after all 6 of you go through it with a fine-toothed comb. I dread that Mosley has left a self-destruct system or some sort of 'insurance' that would keep her in a position of dominance over the sect she was attempting to build. Your task is to infiltrate, physically and cybernetically, the redoubt to clear it from traps and hazards, including live munitions and weapons that are in the rigid hands of the dead. After that, you will withdraw back to the Spanish House for a shower and hot meal, while the Beta Team goes in, with civilian recruits we have managed to gather, to clean out the cadavers for human habitation. After the buildings have been detailed fully, we will establish a schedule for all agents to recover their families and move them into the redoubt in the quarters that will be assigned for their needs."
Marty glared at the tabletop, lips so tightly pinched they became a thin white line, making the tired dark bags under his eyes and air of general fatigue around him seem more intense. "Is there any way that I could volunteer to help you figure out the legal mess with the beavers and UEO instead? I suddenly have a deeply seated desire to stay away from anything related to Shay Lynn Mosley as much as I can, if it's all the same to you." The LAPD detective asked, looking as if he were going to keel over soon if he didn't get some rest.
Hetty let silence spread around the room for twenty long seconds as she contemplated the man's flagging health before answering him. "Yes, about that. I had planned to announce this a bit more gently, but needs must. It is my deep displeasure to inform you, mister Deeks, that the Los Angeles Police Department has collapsed in its entirety and has become defunct as an agency. I was planning to speak with you privately to ask what you were planning as alternative employment, since there is clearly no longer any directorate, managers, or supervisors, to handle Human Resources, pay, benefits and such for the employees. Perhaps you would give consideration to joining us on a permanent, internal basis? We do appreciate your perspective, and personality, just as much as your policing abilities and tactical skillset." she offered with a soft gentle smile towards the young man for whom she had a great deal of esteem and affection.
Deeks took in a deep breath, seeming to actually be relieved by the news, rather than upset by it. His eyes locked on to a smaller screen hanging on the wall behind Anna Kolchek that was set to always display the main square that was the Spanish House's internal hub for moving people. Tapping his fingers rhythmically on the armrest of his chair, Marty blinked slowly as his mind processed through the options and consequences that would result of any choice made. His dark blue eyes moved over to Kensi who sat silently on his left side, nearer to Hetty as she often exchanged comments or notes with the older woman during these meetings. Seeing his answer in the face of his fiancée, he turned to their wizened boss to give his own terms.
"I was preparing a surprise for Kensi that, pretty obviously, won't go through. But, if you and I can come to an agreement on it, you'll have yourself an expert on policing protocols and a whole bunch of laws that, unless I miss my guess, you're still operating with. So, on a probationary term, I could tentatively give you a positive signal to your inquiry." he completed with a wide smile that seemed to shave a few years and tons of stress off his entire person in a blink.
As Kensi whapped him playfully in the left biceps with the back of her hand, several snorts and guffaws of humor erupted around the table just as Sam exclaimed "What's with this day? All the silent types are showing off big brassy round ones, all a sudden!"
Callen almost choked on his gulp of lukewarm coffee at that comment, inciting Anna to pat him on the back in fake sympathy as she laughed at his misfortune.
Nell verbally sucker punched both Sam and Marty at the same time by commenting out loudly, wide grin solidly in place; "Deeks? One of the 'silent' types? In what world have you been living, lately? Who are you, and what have done to Sam Hanna?" she turned to Eric, grabbing his arm to ask in fake urgency "Quick! Check through his phone to see if it's still him! There should be evidence in there!"
Eric was shaking with laughter as he handed said phone back to the older soldier, having found the rather simple problem quickly enough to solve it inside of 5 minutes flat. He had to take a breath to steady his hand to avoid dropping the device, so he settled for putting it on the tabletop and sliding it leftwards to the darkly glowering male who sat at the foot of the table, as he always did in meetings.
"Funny." Sam deadpanned as he recovered his mobile phone from the younger man. "Hi-La-Ri-Ous the lot of you's. Well, ya'll can take advantage of the Holiday Spirits to sit on a pine tree and spin left & right till it feels funny. See how you like that, bunch of bratty wannabees..." he griped while trying hard to keep a serious face, despite the visible spasms of laughter that wanted to erupt from him.
The fall of House Abernathy
(Bones – opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 11:15am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:15am
Abernathy homestead, rural area
Raleigh, North Carolina, USA
Finn Abernathy hated his family's old, dilapidated house with several different passions.
It was well over 80 years old, made of old, warped wooden beams and boards that were either rotted or eaten through by ants at one point or another. It was a single storey high, resting on four feet tall stacks of mortared field stones to create a crawlspace that was never finished or insulated properly. The original 3 bedroom & 1 bath construction had gotten three different extensions over the years; a master bedroom with en-suite bath & twin walk-in closets in the 1960's, a bunk room in the 1970's, and a damned combination chapel & sacristy in the early 1970's. The mismatched, angled roof-lines hid many flaws in the structure and all the holes in the old roofing sheets and shingles that were as rotted through as the foundation beams, joists and floor boards. The miserable crawlspace that served as an attic went from nearly 7 feet tall above the master bed to less than 2 feet tall in dreary, humid, remote corners.
The plumbing wasn't up to code since the 1950's, and probably had lead, copper and other pollution in the water when the taps were opened. Taking a bath wasn't recommended since the water's color meant you didn't really know if you were getting clean or not, unlike a shower where at least the crud sloughed off your body enough to give you an idea. Trying to drink or cook with this water wasn't done unless it boiled a good ten minutes in the kettle first, or you'd get Raleigh's Revenge for a week, then remember to boil the bloody stinking grass oil next time around.
There wasn't any central venting or AC, and that was a good thing, since it would never have gotten cleaned and the variety of fungi in the ducts would have kept Jack Hodgins quite ecstatic long enough to dissertate about them all. The proof was in the evidence, as doctor B liked to remind him; the six movable wheeled AC units were all old, damaged, deficient and soiled with mold, fungi and stains from food, rodents and other stuff that Jeffersonian protocols required a HAZMAT suit to handle. As it was, even the fly screens in the windows and the rear screened-in porch were old, rusted, had bent wires and scores of holes large enough for a drunken hummingbird to fly through safely, at night in a rainstorm, too.
The heating was produced by natural gas fueled wall units in each important room, including the kitchen's range/oven and a pair of porch heaters. Three large fieldstone fireplaces sat imperiously in the pile of unsecured lumber; the original set between the living room and kitchen, in the wall of the master chamber that separated the en-suite from the bed, and behind the stone altar, in the wall that separated the sacristy from the chapel. Occasionally, on very bad winters like 2018 or 2019, portable kerosene stoves were taken from the garage to produce heat if either the gas or electricity went out.
Speaking of which, out in rural areas like here, the power lines were old, seldom replaced, and tended to fall out of the poles at every rainstorm, sleet or blizzard that was just a bit too windy or left a half inch of crud accumulated along the aged, frayed wires. That meant power went out often, and most houses or farms had a diesel generator in a garden shed or small aluminum casing to compensate for the inevitable moments when the power would be cut, taking days to reset. Their generator was an old lawn tractor engine that had rubber belts linking it to a pair of mismatched alternators that didn't spin all that well, nor made that much juice, and the current produced had shaky wattage to boot.
On top of things, the old house still used antiquated knob & tube wiring in the original parts of the building and the garage, with a wall panel that relied on glass fuses to break the circuit in case of overload. The box blew one or two fuses almost every month, so a large plastic container full of new fuses, a torchlight and a paper diagram of the panel was set on a shelf under the rusted junction box. This contrasted badly with the modern additions, running on semi-standard wires and a new breaker panel set right next to the ancient one, in the kitchen's half-wall that held the fireplace shared with the receiving room.
The windows were mismatched between old & dirty, old & cracked, new & cracked, and salvaged from who-knew-where to replace those that had broken out completely. In some places like on each side of the front door, in the attic dormer above the master suite, the chapel and sacristy, were cheap and ugly imitation stained glass that were made by putting an industrially manufactured sticky acetate on top of an ordinary transparent glass pane. These decorative touches barely lasted a year before the climate, cleaning soaps and insects ate holes in them or bleached out the colors, showing them to be just as cheap and badly done as they looked to visitors.
Inside went from bad-kitsch to bad-bad-bad burn-it-all bad.
The wall-to-wall carpet that covered most of the floors except the kitchen and baths to give a modest amount of thermal insulation in fall and winter dated back to the moment each section of the house was built. That meant that patches of rug didn't really match in color tones or thickness, and they had all suffered from the lack of proper flooring by absorbing moisture, food crumbs and detritus until they were partly rotten or had been chewed by ants that burrowed through the base plywood sheets.
The curtains in the windows were a bit more recent, having all been changed in the year 2006, following Finn's mom's divorce. She went on a modest spending spree to spruce up the house, in a vain hope of attracting a better type of husband the second time around. Unfortunately, the curtains and hangings had all suffered the same fate as the rugs, since they were the long style that went all the way down to touch the floor, so the humidity and ants had taken their toll as they did with everything.
The furniture was mostly wooden framed with cloth or canvas upholstery, which of course meant that the aforementioned humidity, detritus and ants had made their way into the couches, sofas, beds and even the legs of some tables or chairs.
Sometimes, in the Fall, you could see columns of small ants crawling up and down the baseboards of the bedrooms, or all over the shelves in the pantry, or the back of the bathroom cabinets. The sanitary crawlspace under the house was full of them all year long because the got just enough heat from the human dwelling to never truly freeze in winter. Honestly, if it weren't for the three stone chimneys holding up the timber frame, the house would have collapsed a long time ago.
{ SQ } - { Bloody shite } - { SQ }
Well, Finn Abernathy hated that house, but it was all he had left in the world, so he'd have to make do, no matter how much he wanted to burn it down. Although, one of these winters, a stray cinder from one of the fireplaces would take care of that for him; he would bet on it.
The young man, 21 years old and going on 22 soon, could only gaze in sullen despair at all the cleaning and washing he had to do to put this place back in order, if he didn't torch it. Unless he wanted to live in the drafty old wooden garage, or the equally drafty and old fowl coop next to it, he would have to make the damnable hovel salubrious again in some order.
Gawd but blood stains were a pain in his well rounded ass to wash out by hand, especially from fabrics and cushions that were so old, moldy and decrepit that the original colors could only be guessed at vaguely. Snort! A poor colorblind soul could tell him the color of those pieces just as well as he could; that was how bad the damages from usage and time's passing were.
The young adult sighed in miserable, lonely despair as he rolled the sleeves of his red checkered flannel shirt, then those of the long sleeved beige T-shirt that he wore underneath. Sighing again at how his Christmas was going to get spent crawling on all fours around this soiled pigsty, the young man looked at his face in the tall, narrow, mirror that hung on the right side of the kitchen's fireplace. His white skin was pallid to the point of looking sallow with ill-health. His face was covered in fist-shaped bruises, scratches and two knife cuts he had to suture himself, just last night. The parts of his hands and forearms he had uncovered showed hand-shaped grasping bruises, scratches from clawing fingernails, and several long but shallow knife cuts that only required antiseptic cream and butterfly stitches to keep them from accidentally tearing open fully. His thorax and abdomen had a plethora of bruises, but almost no scratches and, thankfully, no actual cuts from anything. The two black eyes were mostly superficial as the fists hadn't connected well enough to imprint fully around the eye sockets, a good thing as having his eyes swollen shut these days was not conducive to survival.
The young adult passed his hands softly through his long brown hair, then his face, in an attempt at centering his thoughts and emotions. What had happened last Monday, when the nukes blew up DC had changed the lives of millions of people, including his diminished family.
Finn had been on his holiday vacations from the Jeffersonian Museum's Forensic Anthropology division when the news showed the bitchcrap happening at the White House's Rose Garden on the Sunday morning. His leisurely stay at a motel with a young woman he had known in high school had been happening in Durham, some 25 miles west from Raleigh, to avoid her relatives and friends from seeing them together, since they weren't married and not planning to be. They both had their own cars, their own overnight bag, and steady jobs so the two days at the motel weren't gonna break their bank accounts. They had a couple of call-in meals, Saturday evening was a friendly dinner at good local restaurant after a late afternoon movie at the theater for some good old 'pals' time together. Their Friday and Saturday nights had been a well needed booty call that relaxed them both, getting rid of accumulated stresses that neither had been able to handle alone anymore.
Then, the damned Sunday morning news had been showed live on TV, the events of the Roseanic Chapel where he saw his bosses, friends, and the only real family worth the name, getting tortured, degraded, dehumanized and ultimately killed like rabid dogs by a crowd who were the actual wild animals in the room. Finn had been so shocked that he had decided, mostly via inaction, to stay in the motel room all the remaining Sunday because he was too distraught to know how to react.
That, and the girl he was with was black, something his few living relatives would not accept on a regular day. Now, with the Trump Crusade sounding the hunting horns in public, their being together could actually make her a target, especially with what the Papal Lord had decreed on TV. Better they both stay put in silence until things cleared out. One or several of the federal agencies, or the army, were bound to react violently to this crap and depose the coterie of bastards before the week was out. As it was, it didn't even have to wait that long; in a matter of mere minutes, during the Low Mass itself, the very priests and ecclesiastes that the Trumpists were betting on to keep them in power had been attacked so viciously that they panicked and kicked Team Trump and his crusade to the curb, all on their own.
That good news kept people's spirits buoyed all night until the Monday afternoon news, and the nukes exploding Washington DC off the friggin' maps, leaving a deep raw hole that the frozen, merciless waters of the Atlantic filled almost as fast as the pit was excavated. Seeing the state of things and the popular panic, his lady friend decided, on Monday evening, to chance going back to her parents' house where she still lived while she worked in the family business to save for an apartment. Their family had always stuck together, and she liked it that way, despite that her mom could be too religious, or just too mother-hen, at times.
She should have stayed in the motel with him. She'd still be alive if she had.
Jesselle got shot through the window of her living room alongside her parents and two brothers by a pair of fanatic rednecks in a stolen pickup truck with AR-15's and as much heroin in their veins as they put gas in the tank. They went on a spontaneous suicidal 'crusade' in response to the nukes killing off their exalted God-given Papal Lord and his cause. The stoned-out pair shot at more than 20 different houses before somebody with a rifle shot the driver then finished off the fool in the truck bed, when the car immobilized suddenly by merging with a street lamp.
It was after learning of the carnage on the local TV channel's News at 23:00pm that he got drunk but good and passed out until Tuesday evening, past dinner. Being alone, lonely and desperate for some sort of human company to help staunch the pain and grief, the young man had decided to take the hour long ride back to Raleigh where he just arrived too late to matter, as was the running them of his life.
His fucking step-dad, the mongrel that married his mom a decade back in 2009, had somehow managed to make it out of jail when a mass break-out occurred. His first idea was to get back to his woman to teach the damned bitch a lesson about keeping her pup in line when the 'MAN of the Domain' spoke aloud the Law of God for all to hear and obey. He'd been a Ku Klux Klan member since birth, an evangelical christian by trade as some sort of self-taught pastor with an internet-school diploma, and several tattoos showing Thor's hammer, Odin's crows, Celtic crosses and KKK blood drop shield.
The depraved racist bigot had wanted to marry his mom because the house came with the old chapel already installed an furnished, since mom's Pa had been a Pentecostal minister as well as the part-time assistant to the funeral director in the village. The criminal man married his mom on the quick then lost no time in beating the poor little 11 year old as much as he could, in the name of teaching him racial purity, Godly obedience to adults, and the soul-cleansing rites of Contrition to the Rod. Finn was age 14 when the habitual drunk tried to go further with him than the ritualistic bare-ass whuppin' with the strap that he found a reason to administer every week he saw the kid in the house. At that time, the step-father was so stone and drunk that he tried to rape his step-son via sodomy to assuage his domination over him.
Finn stabbed him with a folding knife he kept at all times for protection from the bastard since he began bringing his KKK allies his sermons and rituals every damned Friday and Sunday.
Unfortunately, the local sheriff was both a KKK member for close to six decades, since age 12, and one of those depraved minions who came at least once a week for sermons in the decrepit homestead chapel. He accepted the older male's story as it was told, even though Finn and his mother spoke truth, and it was known as the real truth. The sheriff just replied with sectarian platitudes about the Christian Creed on the obedience of boys towards the men of the Faith, then promptly faked the entire investigation report to make sure Finn got at least a year in Juvie. That didn't help the two old cruds, as Finn used the Boys' Helpline over the telephone to record a denunciation of them, which was investigated by the state troopers, landing the two men in jail themselves. They had stayed there until yesterday, when a group of White Power fanatics stormed the jail, devoid of guards, to release their comrades before the coloreds and queers could come in. Anybody not white was massacred, while the whites were given the liberty of taking anything they wanted then got lifts back to their towns of origin through the Klan's network of cronies.
So Fin arrived home Tuesday evening, passed 21:00pm, to find his old man and a trio of his thuggish acolytes, armed with knives, batons, pistols and long guns, having a party over the cold corpse of his poor beleaguered mom, whom they had beaten and raped to death over several hours. Being sent into shock a third (Fourth? Fifth?) time, the young man had crawled under the house floor to wait in the semi-warm spot next to the base of the kitchen's fireplace, regardless of the occasional ants that crawled over him in the dark. They weren't the aggressive or biting kind, so he wasn't bothered and let them be in return. He didn't have to wait much anyways.
The four elderly criminals were already drunk, then decided to take out some hashed weed for joints, powdered coke to sniff, and one had a heroin kit that he offered around but ended as the only user. After only two hours of wait, the four old crones were so disconnected from reality that two didn't wake up at all while Finn beat them to death with the fireplace poker. His step-dad, much less intoxicated than believed, woke up in a drunken startle but not disconnected, just slowed down but still dangerous, especially if he got his hands on one of the guns strewn around haphazardly. Thankfully, the two that woke up recognized the young medical doctor. They drunkenly decided they wanted to sate their lurid impulses on him as well as they had his mother, so they got handsy with him instead of just shooting him into submission as he feared would happen. The misjudgment cost them a long, miserable, damaging fight that only Finn survived.
And now, after a long night fraught with nightmares, feelings of survivor's guilt, the last shakes from the shock of the nukes, puking out over two hours the adrenaline rush of fighting for his life... Now he had to wash down the cesspit that generated his misery for two decades, unless he wanted to sleep in the master suite's bathtub again. It was pretty much the only part of the house not covered in blood stains or ransacked by the four criminals, while they were waiting for their turn at raping his mom in private on her own bed. The sounds of the blasted winds picking up speed outside had him thinking about his options a lot more seriously. The drafty old garage was becoming interesting, or at least the attic above the master since it topped 7 feet in the peak, allowing him to stand without hitting his head.
Fuck this turgid shite. He wan'nt doing this no more.
Washington DC was destroyed beyond any recovery. There was about 400 to 500 kilometers of devastation all around, with various degrees of fatality and material damages. Since Durham and Raleigh were both located approximately 470 kilometers south and west from DC, he had felt the motel windows shake and crack as the winds buffeted them as the sudden rise in temperature wreaked havoc on the molecular bonds inside the crystalline structures before cooling back down too quickly to be safe. The old Abernathy house was made a lot less sturdily than the cheap motel's steel frame and cement walls, so it had actually fared worse. Some windows blown out, shingles ripped off by winds, and plenty of dead fowl in the coops that nobody had cleaned out yet. And he was not looking forward to that part, atop of cleaning every damned room and corridor inside.
Finn had to throw out his old mattress cuz his fucktard step-dad took the time, when he wan'nt raping his ex-wife to death, to piss all over and take a dump on it as he waited for the others to finish the cunt off for him. He even wiped his ass crap with the pillow then dropped it back in place. The insult to his step-son was clear as the light from the nukes had been, no two ways about it.
That meant Finn didn't really have a 'home' for himself anymore, not in this house anymore.
In a moment of emotions that combined despair with the raw mathematically-driven utilitarianism he had learned from his beloved mentor, Doctor Temperance Brennan, he sat down in the kitchen on a cheap unsteady wooden chair to think things through. Gazing into the cheery red flames of the hearth, he let his mind pitch concepts and emotions around for a half hour before he started organizing every one in linear graphs by timeline and conceptual fields to help manage his decision-making process.
The conclusion was evident; this house, besides being a dump and unsanitary, held only bad and traumatic memories of loneliness, abandonment, betrayal, violence, molestation and bloodshed. There was nothing desirable in this building that he couldn't get from squatting in a more recently built abandoned house, or not finished constructing condo building. The only valuable property he owned was in his travel bags, since he didn't bother unpacking when he left the motel. So, really, there were no reasons to expend efforts on cleaning the place since he was abandoning it right as soon as he made his travel plans.
Now where would he go?
Well, he was a qualified doctor in human biology, anatomy, pathology, forensic sciences and general medicine. His second doctorate had been pending for the end of 2021, when he presented the dissertation he had composed under doctor Brennan's mentorship. There were bound to be ways to get help, and a reasonable living situation, with creds like that.
In a moment of enlightenment, Finn stood to activate the small flat screen TV perched on the kitchen counter next to the sink. His Ma liked to watch the news when doing the dishes after the meals. So he powered on the device then dialed the CNN National channel to have a glimpse of the country's morning situation along the east coast. It wasn't pretty but gave him right there what he needed; the list of national guard barracks that were alive & active, including North Carolina. He took down the coordinates of the barracks, already thinking about what he could say to them. All a sudden, the young man stopped hard his many thoughts to simply contemplate the reality they lived in. They had several civil wars in progress and he was a qualified medical professional with expertise in traumatic accidents and violent combat injuries. Plus, he was considered a prodigy given he'd gotten several college diplomas before the age of 15, and his first doctorate at 18. The guards would welcome him with open arms, as long as his creds were true, which they were. All he had to do was decide if he braved the weather tonight or waited a few days for the coming east-coast storm to abate. Everything would simply fall in place naturally on arrival.
The pyre of the Khunestade
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 11:30am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 08:30am
Church of Jesus the Redeemer of Blighted Souls
Tampa, Florida, USA
The rabid, panicking 88 year old 'Righteously Honored Faithful Cardinal' Harkady Munnroe Khunestade was windmilling his arms madly, raving against the world that had betrayed him and his kin. Standing as tall as his arthritis-crooked back allowed, he was making his last stand for glory atop the garishly decorated mass of molded concrete that served as cathedral for his family and sect since their clan bought the land back in the year 1800. The buildings had been wood, then brick, then finally remade out of armored poured concrete in the 1970's, whence it became obvious that the US federal government was turning into a sect of adorators of the Beast, Satan, the enemy of Jesus their God and Christ upon the Cross. They had needed to start preparations for the coming Tribulations whence the beast-men would wage war against the True Faithful, all across the lands of America and Earth.
And so it was, for nigh on 5 decades of the 20 their cult had existed, that they had prepared for the oncoming Apocalypse and Rapture as written in Scripture. They created armored bunkers under the cathedral and major buildings of their compound, linking them by tunnels that also permitted emergency exit towards the shores of the bay, the bayous, or even to the second basement of a rarely used machinery shed in the nearby public works truck yard.
Since the scare about the Y2K bug, the sect had learned its lesson and focused on mechanical devices that didn't require digital circuits or even electricity to work, like the steam powered pump that fed their internal aqueduct and moved their sewer sludge out to the city sewers.
Because of the modern times, they were still obliged to rely on electricity, especially for communications and management tasks. This explained the scores of small steel & plastic windmills that dotted the tops of their perimeter walls and living buildings to produce the electricity they needed to charge cellphones or laptop computers. The sect being paranoid of a police intervention, they had willingly chosen since 2010 to convert all comms & CPU's to the smallest portable versions of what they needed to connect and manage their resources in real time.
The group lived off the small communal garden and livestock they kept, but made their monetary revenues mostly through their garage to fix cars & trucks, do mods on rat-racers or create smuggling compartments for the various gangs they traded with. This same garage had two backrooms for the more dangerous aspects of their crafts. The first was for the mechanics of weapon smithing so they could build, repair or store any armaments they were planning to sell or smuggle. The second room was the chemistry lab to produce gun powder, fuses, blasting caps, incendiary liquids or even three different poison gases that their in-house chemist knew the recipes from his US army EOD training.
{ SQ } - { Old dreams fading away } - { SQ }
The Khunestade Clan had been militarized since their accidental arrival to America as deserters from the British warship 'The Prince's Fist' that was sunk by bad storm tides in the last weeks of December 1797, not far from the Florida Keys, which were mostly unexplored back then. Their ancestors had been two young teenaged brothers press-ganged into service out of London's seedy dock taverns who then learned their trades as carpenter and sail mender aboard ship directly.
This made the founding duo of the family understand the need to have skilled tradesmen in their household to insure that their sect would have revenues to survive the harsh climates in the colonies. That is why these boys understood HOW the government could do whatever it wanted to people; because they had guns and lots of weak-minded fools to do their bidding. The only remedy that insured they weren't captured to be pressed back into service, or executed as deserters, was to have their own guns with lots of fools that would defend them. Thus, the two 15 & 16 year olds decided to found a sect to con people into obeying them, just like the monarchs did with the crown and the Anglican church.
Fast forward 223 years and it was the same logic and system in place. The leaders of the clan were afraid of being brought to heel by the lawful authorities of the Land, so they conned people by honeyed words then vile threats to keep them submissive to the Family. These poor souls knew quickly the true nature of the people they associated with, but also knew the utter ruthlessness of their methods and the length of their reach outside their compound. It was publicly admitted that the criminally made money paid for contractors to tie up loose ends while a few bribes, and matching threats, made the Florida politos and cops look away when things got noisy.
All this stubbornness, all this fierce independence, all these scurrilous hypocrisies, lies and perjuries, all these crimes, violences and depravities... All of it for nothing in the end of things.
The depraved old crone, the apostolate of perfidy, the dog-of-the-White-Christ, cardinal Harkady Munnroe Khunestade stood atop his ruined abbey, surrounded by flames and fetid chocking smoke as his precious, much beloved sect burned to the ground. His unholy dreams of violence, rape and murder had crashed to his feet, so much detritus to fuel the pyre of his vainglory. His elderly siblings, adult children, adult grand-children and other juvenile descendants, with all their spouses, paramours and whores, man-servants, slaves and chattel were all ablaze. They were being set alight by the ungodly ocher fires that dropped from the morning skies, like pseudo-sunlight from a Fallen deity, to obliterate them without any chance to fight back against the orbiting monstrosity.
Again, the damned governments of the beast-men had struck low the poor, defenseless 'boiz' who just wanted to be left alone to enjoy their vices and debauchery in peace.
WHY?
The monarchs, elected minions, noble bureaucrats and bourgeois merchants all had their own sluts, vices, carnal sins and debauched orgies to attend!
WHY did they need to come destroy theirs?
The cardinal would never receive an answer to his existential question because a series of new ocher beams lanced from the clouded winter skies, striking the cathedral where he stood on the roof's maintenance walkway, exploding the edifice, turning it to a hail of soccer ball sized projectiles that flew outwards laterally from the point of impact. A minute later, a set of cone shaped azure pulses came down from the white cottony clouds, acting like a sandblaster to pulverize, flatten and grind away to dust the remains of the Khunestade Clan's family sect.
The cultists should have learned the lesson at some point of their existence; you can fight against the government and occasionally win, or run away from their reach, but nobody can fight against REALITY and win anything.
{ SQ } - { New World order on the march } - { SQ }
(Star Wars – The Imperial March)
The end of organized right-wing extremism was being worked on diligently, now that the US federal government no longer existed to protect these bastards in the name of 'Freedom of Religion', which really meant 'freedom of giving illegal monies to political candidates' anyways.
The cure might be harsh to endure, but the disease it removed was so deeply ingrained that no other would work. And just like drug smuggling, you can't simply kill the mules and hope for the best; no, you have to destroy the production facilities to get a permanent result. Churches, cults, sects and revolutionary militias were the same system; they produced then distributed their mental toxin called 'faith', just like drug pills. You had to target no just the visible politos who got elected, but specifically the houses of worship and parochial schools that created these bigoted, demented fools, or else the supply would never dry out.
Like happened with Nazism after World War II; the job was never finished properly.
BUT!
Now, after centuries of misery and suffering at the hands of the ecclesiastes, somebody had the power, tools, and will, to do something about the unholy coterie of religious usurpers that constantly flocked to schools, hospitals and governments to hijack the minds, lives and livelihoods of the populations of the Earth.
And so, no matter how much the clergies and followers screamed or whined, prayed or begged, threatened or pleaded, offered gifts and tributes of glory to their conquerors, the Copernicus space stations worked at their baleful tasks, as set them by their true, and only, master.
Lucas Wolenczak had decreed what the new Reality in progress was to be based on.
The lies of organized religion and sectarianism were finally ending forever.
Power-play backlash
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 12:00pm - noon
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 09:00am
UEO command tower; Section-7 detention level
New Cape Quest, Florida, USA
The beige uniformed sailor passed the tray to the prisoner through the wide, but thin, slot in the steel bar door of her cell then did the same with the male prisoner across from the first. The young man's light beige skin matched his uniform quite fetchingly, Cynthia H. Wolenczak thought as she contemplated the potential boy-toy's caramel toned complexion, brown eyes and short dark brown hair that made for an inviting package. Maybe she could find a way to have the twenty-something alone for a while, to get some holiday make-out time to compensate for the dreariness of the accommodations? It was the least the UEO owed her, for all the mess they made out of her life and career at this point.
Not to mention the civil wars going on inside the country.
Whose stupid idea were those?
Didn't they realize that the economy would tank into a recession for a decade before things went back to a simile normal, plus another decade on top to really make things stable anew? Idiots. A population should never let fanatics of any sorts run the government, or this was the thing they could look forward to; war and collapse.
Unrolling the paper napkin that held the cheap organic resin utensils together, she sniffed disdainfully at the thin, watery vegetable soup, even thinner slice of 'meat' that was probably tofu or seitan rather than actual animal matter, porridge-like mashed potato sludge, and off-colored corn kernels. There was a suspicious burnt-dark colored sauce that slathered everything as if to hide the unholy reality of the food underneath.
"What was that Phil Collins song, again? Ah, yes; Another day in Paradise. How ironic," the snobby bitch thought silently about her plight, never realizing that the people depicted in said song had it far worse in one day than her entire life to date.
Self-centeredness and self-delusion always worked together. Her son the certified psychiatrist could have told her that, if she bothered to listen to him sometimes.
Across the empty cell-lined hall, she could see, and specifically hear, her ex-husband plowing through his unappetizing meal as if everything was normal in the best of worlds.
Ewww!
Not only was he an unwashed boor, an uncouth knave and a mannerless cad, but now he proved to be incapable of showing the least little bit of self-control as well. Being jailed was not, of it's self, a valid reason to become less civilized than the normally established standards. Lawrence truly did match Lucas in this part of their attitudes.
(Snort of contempt) Men! Why exactly did she need them to live her life?
Suddenly, the corridor's armored door was violently opened with a loud bang to let pass the rotund simiesque shape of William A. B. Noyce who had come to disburse yet more vitriol upon them. Well, on Lawrence. He was ignoring her, a favor that she was content to return silently as she never wanted to sully herself by interacting with the brutal, barbaric minion of Andrea Dre. Soldiers were like valets and chauffeurs; you paid them for a job, not to socialize with them!
Coming to a stop in front of Lawrence Wolenczak's cell, Noyce smiled widely in a most unpleasant manner, bearing news of a greatly toxic importance. Flexing his arms and fingers, the porcine male had an unholy glee shining in the back of his beady eyes as he contemplated how to best poison the fell man's life with his delivery. Oh, well. Beauty in simplicity and all that rot.
Extending a leg, Noyce kicked the steel bars of the cell door to give Lawrence a jolt of fear that he was coming in for him. Again. Given the many discolored bruises and scratches littering the tall, thin, man's frame it was obvious that such event would not be desirable. His sudden dropping of the meal tray on the bed to jump away from the door to press his back to the rear wall of the cell was comical to witness, but understandable. Their interactions in the last two days hadn't been all that civil.
Just as Noyce thought he deserved.
"Oy! Bitch-whore! Listen up, too! This concerns you both! As of late last night, your precious baby boy has finally acquired his much-delayed legal, social, military, political, law-making and judicial statuses under the public agreement of American and Canadian authorities. He now stands as the 'Constable – Governor' of the North-American Mid-Line border zone, and master of the riverine interdiction citadels at Sarnia and Sault-Sainte-Marie. That includes emancipation, diplomatic immunity, etc..."
Lawrence raved madly in the immediateness of the moment "Are you fucking mad? Who in their right minds would allow such a blasphemy against MY WILL? I'm the adult here, not him! I never allowed this! I refuse it! Cancel the damned moronity and bring the boy back to my authority NOW!" he screamed at the top of his still aching lungs. He had screamed quite a lot recently, and he wasn't as capable of shouting rabidly as he had been in the past. Since Noyce was directly responsible for those screams, it could have been safer for the felonious parent to just shut up, but strategic thinking had never been his strong suit in life.
Cynthia watched silently from her cell bunk as their captor, wearing an ever-growing smile of evil glee, joined his beefy, pudgy hands over his rotund belly, looking even more like one of those humanized gorilla figures that populate asian cartoons for kids. Seen from the side, he truly did look like a cross between a fat prosperous Buddha and a huge hairless albino monkey, with all the manners and deportment of such subhuman. Making a noise of distaste, the refined woman remained seated as she set her tray aside on the miniature table next to the bed, bolted to the cement wall. She waited until her rampaging fool of an ex-husband had run out of steam to make her move.
"Excuse me, admiral Noyce." she calmly stated during the first silence to happen.
She was mildly surprised when the swinish male turned towards her, showing a different profile that reminded her mostly a a wild boar, from this angle. Hum... how could this – thing? – be reminiscent of so many of the worst animals and traits she knew, all in one single being? A conundrum for later, when she sat home with her favorite white wine in hand.
"I'm quite certain you will be thankful for my interrupting the Mongol Horde that was tramping around the other cell, admiral, but I do have matters of legal and political importance to address with you." she declared, snobbish, bitchy, and assured of herself as always when speaking to men of power. It was her daily routine, afterall, and she knew which tune made them dance, so it wasn't much of an effort.
Making an even less human smile than before, William approached her steel bars, hands still joined over his ample paunch, bald head glistening in a light sheen of sweat that seemed to be his malevolence osmotically emanating from his pores, and leaned forward just a bit, just enough to loom over her.
"Yes, my dear Dame?" he asked, oozing fake charm and false concern all over her person, as he very obviously enjoyed having power over them both.
Putting on her own fake smile and professional mask, Cynthia replied coldly "As you are well aware, my son, the only procreate and legal heir of my estate, has just acquired legal emancipation as an adult ahead of the age of majority. Further more, his newly revealed functions, positions and titles enact diplomatic immunity amongst the North-American Confederation, plus all its allies, and the UEO at large. Thusly, as per the laws of Diplomatic Immunity in the Geneva Conventions, and UEO Treaty of 2017, I hereby claim my own Immunity, as first-degree relative of said young man. Release me at once, or suffer the consequences in court martial, for unlawful arrest, unlawful detention, breach of diplomatic statuses, and many more." she finished in complete assurance of her brilliance.
The smile that Noyce answered with had no humanity left in it, and made her shiver in fright as she wondered what it was she had forgotten that could make the piggish lout think he had outwitted her at her own game. No matter; she would deal with it back at the office, in Buffalo.
Suddenly, a burst of short sadistic laughter emerged from Noyce that scared both prisoners into paying him far more attention than before. They then saw that the older man was far from angry or despondent at letting go of his pain toys. Instead, he seemed greatly rejoiced by the prospect.
"Oh, you poor fools!" the bald, fat sailor exclaimed in gleeful cruelty, "You truly think such a simplistic, childish ploy will save you from my clutches?" He broke out in crude, harsh laughter anew, holding his vast sides as his fat body heaved with mirth that promised no happy end for them.
Calming down, Noyce explained to them the lay of the land. "For a professional lawyer, and a man used to dealing with international treaties, you sure are a pair of idiotic buffoons of the lowest order, aren't you? You can't claim diplomatic immunity like that, she-slut! The holder of the title or job that bears the immunity is the one that extends it to you, with a written & sealed document sent to the State Department of the host nation, for recognition or refusal. Only then does it become binding."
Lawrence shouted over them "The fucking little minion will never sign anything for us! He'll let us rot in here, and be happy with it! See what kind of depraved thing you gave me for a child, you mangy bitch!"
Before the ex-wife could reply, Noyce exploded in laughter even more raucous than before. Wiping a tear of unholy joy from his left eye with a sausage-like finger, he then wagged said digit at Cynthia, chiding her none-too-gently.
"You are a pretentious, jumped-up, uppity little cock-sucker of a back-alley whore, Cynthia, not the much vaunted grand maven of society, riches and elite status that you dream of acquiring. In fact, your son has already acquired all that you crave years ago, right under your nose, and you weren't even awake enough to see it happening. Ah! I'm going to enjoy this part of my job..." Noyce sighed in pleasure, his visage sporting an indiscernible emotion that made the prisoners shiver in fear.
"My good guests of the UEO's finest dark pit, your dear, and much maligned, teenaged son has indeed extended diplomatic immunity to you both, since yesterday night when we sealed the deal. We were simply asked to keep you here, in absolute lack of comfort and amenities, until a mode of transport was available to ferry you over to him, at Sault-Sainte-Marie citadel."
'Nooooo!" Lawrence screamed in raw fear, finally understanding the trap.
"What?" Cynthia asked dumbly, unable to process that her plan backfired in her face so easily.
Noyce was all ablaze with pleasure and cruelty as he explained their new reality; "Well, you see, when a foreign diplomat commits crimes, he doesn't get jailed in the host country... No! Instead, he gets RECALLED by the home country to face the government, and courts, of the nation that emitted his diplomatic visa and immunity. Only THEY have authority over him. Therefore, Lucas has acted as a responsible leader of a lawful country (or province) and issued a formal recall of you both. One of his sea planes is arriving later in the day to collect you for repatriation back to SSM, in Canada, to be handed back to him in person, as HE is the AUTHORITY that granted your immunities."
"You are putting us in the hands of the monstrous bastard that did this to me?" Lawrence shrieked in a paroxysm of mixed fear and rage, as he pointed at his disfigured head with both hands quivering in absolute fright.
"You doom us to torture and death, if you send us to him!" Cynthia tried to plead, desperate.
"I know!" Noyce replied, ever gleeful. "Oh, but I know that well!" he laughed dementedly as he swept dramatically out of the corridor, slamming the armored door shut in his wake, leaving the prisoners to drown in their despair of events to come.
Peaceful times, for now
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 13:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 10:00am
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
Lucas awoke by himself from natural rest, happy to not have needed sleep aids, analgesic cream or worse, full-body effect drugs, for leg cramps or other aches last night after everything was done. This was his first full sleep cycle without chemical assistance in a long time, and he was glad of it. Stretching slowly in contentment under the thick pile of comforter and sheets, the teenager enjoyed the soft feel of the fabrics and the gentle warmth emanating from the massive wood burning fireplace that dominated the external wall of the bedroom. The Victorian limestone beauty was flanked by large thick wooden double french doors on each side that lead to a private balcony, high above the enclosed rear courtyard, on the same level as the manor's main roof line. This deep and wide terrace was in fact linked to the main house by a pair of thin crenelated stone walkways that went around the tower's body to connect with a system of similar walkways that were installed all around the manor. Reminiscent of medieval castles and their embattled patrol paths atop walls, these masonry balconies were built to facilitate both the maintenance of the many complicated gabled roofs, and the household defense by having elevated positions for riflemen to hide in at multiple levels. In a less darksome, or paranoid, view of events, this simply served as a system of very sturdy fire escape routes that would not burn as the stonework and cement were not combustible.
Keeping his eyes closed despite that the curtains were closed and the room dark, the young man took his time to luxuriate in the feeling of peace, calm and safety that permeated his mind. He knew from painful experience that it wouldn't last much longer, as the world was still collapsing, multiple societies imploding unto the hordes of uneducated credulous fools who elevated priests as their leaders. With churches, sects and cults defunded into poverty, alongside the many governments also stripped of monies for having maintained religious or racist societal projects, it would take decades before the planet healed itself. Decades during which Lucas would need to labor strenuously to help repair what he broke, as nobody would bother with the truth, nor looking at who was really guilty before they placed blame for causing the mess.
Atop of all that, those truly guilty were dead; why then bother pointing at them, when the little jew-boy was alive and rich enough to pay for all the punishments the guilty had accrued? Honesty be damned, if it meant the governments and populations could rebuild simply by stealing his life and heritage.
Opening his eyes at last, the young male sat in the wide king-size bed, propping himself against the massive engraved and painted headboard, with the tall wooden built-in structures on both sides. Blinking a few times as he adjusted the sheets so they climbed up his chest up to his neck to stay warm, the genial adolescent gazed curiously around the vast richly appointed bedroom, the only dim light in the room coming from the monumental masonry hearth, through the cast iron filigree doors. The few shapes he could discern showed the venerable age of the furniture, made of heavy hard woods, replete with relief carvings and colored inlays so appreciated in the 1800's and 1900's, both in Europe and North-America alike.
There were a few odd shapes that he recognized as glass oil lamps or brass candelabras. On each side of the bed were narrow but tall roll-top desks with a hutch mounted on top that served as bookcase and pigeonholes for letters. Next to the desks but farther from the bed were small vanity tables, for sitting in front of an articulated mirror to set jewels and hair for the day, without needing the bathroom facilities. The bed's footboard was a tall ornate thing, surmounted by a trio of cast iron candle holders. Hidden from his view in this angle, he knew that the entire footboard served as backrest for a large wooden box-seat in which sheets, comforters and pillow cases were stored after laundry was done.
Also visible in the sparse light were the pair of mobile wooden 'valet' frames where the manor's waitstaff would normally assemble the clothing needed for the coming day or important events if meetings, galas, or traveling out of the grounds were to occur. In this case, given that he had almost nothing of his at present, the night shift valet had only been able to set out his black jeans, one of his many flannel shirts and whatever shorts and T-shirt were on top of his suitcase when he opened it before sitting for his meal. Closer to the fireplace was a 'U' shaped conversation area composed of a large sinfully plush 5-seat couch in the middle, with a wingback sofa then a settee on each side. This arrangement had the settees pushed back along the walls near the french doors, the sofas more inside at an angle, then the couch acting like a huge wooden berm to anchor the scene. Given that the heavy wooden backboard of the couch was in every way as ornate as the rest of the room's structural elements and furniture, it was like having a framed piece of art put on display that way intentionally. The conversation area was completed by five small, low legged, round mahogany drinks tables that were moved close to people as necessary by the servers. Parked against the left wall, a 3-tiered wheeled serving cart made of mahogany with brass fittings held some alcoholic liqueurs in their retail bottles, crystal tumblers and stem-glasses, and a solid sterling set for hot drinks, including three alcohol burners to have tea, coffee and chocolate available at the same time.
The bedroom's entry door was on the bed's left hand side, on the same wall as the headboard. It was actually a corridor that went through a tall, long, six feet wide vaulted passage until it reached the public zone of the tower, near the main body of the manor. There, in that central chamber, were showcased the equally monumental grand masonry staircase wrapped around an old iron-framed Otis elevator built at the same time as the manor's basic plumbing and electricity, when the entire house was raised. The elevator was wrapped in stained glass panels, and the cabin was wide enough for 4 wheelchairs or 2 wheeled gurneys to ride together. On each side of the floor's agora were stout wooden doors reinforced with iron plates that lead to the manor's roof line walkways so that the janitors and contractors didn't have to trudge through the enclosed rooms to access their work sites. As he had arrived on the floor by the elevator the night before, Lucas had seen that there were three 'Master' grade bedrooms on the floor, side by side, and tucked away behind the staircase / elevator combo were a public toilet room and small janitor's closet,the contents unseen to date.
On the right hand side of the wall where he was reclining was the door that led to the private en-suite bathroom. This he had used so he knew it was equipped with two large built-in cedar closets, two vanities with sink and mirror, a single large claw-foot bathtub, and two separately enclosed toilets.
All in all, the room was luxurious, rich to the point of obscenity when Lucas thought of the epidemic of poverty that had struck the USA in the last 20 years, causing record numbers of homeless persons to haunt the abandoned sectors of large cities. Back in San Francisco, a recent survey from 2018 had declared that anybody (household) earning less than 175,000$ a year could be considered too poor to afford even a cheap rented apartment inside the municipal limits. There were places in Los Angeles and San-Fran that had become ad hoc tent villages because hundreds of destitutes had assembled to try to help each other when nobody else would. When the teenager compared the salaries he granted his employees, between 3% and 6% better than the competing companies in his sectors of activity, he knew full well that even they had trouble to pay their monthly rents unless they shared as a family or roommates. That was the main reason why he had become so enamored of the Wise Family's manorial system so fast; it allowed him to offer housing as part of the salary instead of paying out a foolish amount that would then be wasted between rent and taxes for almost no services at all. Looking over what few details he could see in the twilit room, the boy still couldn't help but feel a pang of misplaced guilt from having inherited so much gilded splendor and pompous ornament, despite all that he had endured since to earn it in his own name.
Giving himself a mental shake and pat-down, roughly running a hand through his blond mop of hair to untangle it from the sleep-mess it usually became, the genial teen squinted at the surroundings to orient himself before pushing off the sheets to get out of the high bed. Thankfully, he remembered that the obscenely large bed was mounted on a decorative dais that raised three steps above the carpet covered masonry floor. If he had forgotten that, he might well have face-planted into the floor right on the first step, making a fool of himself. With injuries too, if his usual luck with his legs held out. Dressed only in his ordinary plaid boxers and a thin pale blue T-shirt, the boy stood by the bed, testing out his legs, then his lower back, assuring himself of his body's reliability before grasping his armament-cane as he stepped away from the solid support of the bed's heavy wooden frame.
Moving over to the small desk on the right side, which was the 'Master' side since it was closer to the bathroom doorway, he sat on the small straight-back wooden chair and extended a hand to the open desk, searching for the buttons. His agile fingers having found what he sought, he closed his eyes and let his acute eidetic memory guide his gesture to push the round brass button that would sound a bell in the servant's guard station so that the valet on duty would come to assist him. Not that he needed physical assistance presently, but he wanted to order his breakfast before taking a short bath, that way the food would be ready on his table when he arrived at the private research office, higher in the tower. It took just a few seconds less than five minutes for the staff to arrive after his call; a nice delay that allowed him to don the bathrobe waiting for him on the 'valet' stand, then sit again properly with both hands on the cold sharp pommel of his weaponized cane. Not too long, but not so fast as to indicate that the servants' watch room was on the same level, so he did have genuine privacy in this area.
Unfortunately, it also meant he could be murdered or tortured slowly and nobody would hear it happening, so he would have to prepare for the thoroughly predictable moment when such an event would visit his poor, beleaguered self. After meeting the likes of Angus MacGyver and Jack Dalton face to face, he knew better than to think the men to breach the manor's layered defenses hadn't been born yet. Plus the rest of DXS field forces, and the NCIS agents too, weren't pushovers...
Honestly, Lucas was not particularly surprised to see Raphael Chadderton answer his call, alongside the equally young male valet who had the duty shift for the afternoon. Not that he thought the young man was kissing up to him, but given his position as Butler, it was normal for him to want to maximize his exposure to his new 'Master' until he were familiar with the employer's necessities, not to mention his temperament. The unnamed valet, clear caucasian white skin, blue eyes and rust red hair, was following behind the butler with his hands joined behind his back, silent unless spoken to, as per the old protocols in vigor in such rich, storied households.
"My Lord Constable - Governor, doctor Wolenczak." Raphael addressed him formally, from the far side of the bed, near the entry into the privacy of the bedding chambers. Giving a shallow bow of the neck, the young adult queried "How may we serve, Lord?"
Snorting at all the imperiousness of the situation, the teenager tapped the butt of his cane on the carpeted floor loudly, giving an amused mock-glare at the pair. "You could start by coming close enough that I can see the pair of you, since the lights are clearly not lit enough for polite conversation. Also, I absolutely abhor shouting like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum in a shopping mall because he didn't get his toy of choice, so get here that we can use 'inside' voices."
Obviously amused as well, the two young servants walked around the bed' dais to stand three feet away from their employer, but next to the large couch's backboard to give him maneuvering room if he wished to stand from his chair. It was well known he had injuries and mobility issues with his legs, so the waitstaff had been instructed to never be in front of him as that could make him falter in his steps. It was better to be sideways to his person so as to catch him by the arms on his way down, if he felt faint or his lower limbs faltered.
Leaning backward in his chair, the medical prodigy lined up his thoughts. He knew from experience at managing both his electronics company, and the Wise conglomerate later on, that employees low on the totem pole preferred short, concise instructions with clear pass/fail criteria because that removed objectivity from their performance evaluations. This in turn made it hard for bullying supervisors and ass-kissing foremen or directors to botch their job reviews without lying outright, which usually was pretty easy to prove. Since Lucas himself truly despised bullying and abuse of power because he had been victimized by it his whole life, he would act in the manner that helped his employees to help themselves the most, thusly of course helping him along the way as well.
"I want to take a short bath to wash off the rest of the grime from my long road of yesterday. And the prolonged contact with lawyers in an enclosed cabin. The stench still hasn't worn off. That means that I need to have my brunch delivered to the private tower office, upstairs, at 14:00pm. Have all the fireplaces lit with cast iron trellis opened, all curtains pulled, and any dust covers that aren't over scientific equipments or exposed artworks removed so the place looks actually lived-in."
The boy gave a small frown as he reprimanded "I don't know why, but last night when I arrived, most of the room was still shrouded in dust covers except the bed itself, and even that was just the bare mattress. The hearths in the main room and bathroom were both inert, and no wood, coal or other fuel in the side niches reserved for such. It's a lucky thing we have electricity in this old manor, because I could see that the oil lamp reservoirs were bone dry, too. And not even an emergency candle in place anywhere either, despite at least four hand-held candelabras plus those three iron sconces at the bed's footboard. This household was designed to function without electricity, not be dependent on it! I expect that, from now on, all non-electrical mechanics, plumbing and hearths be cleaned, texted and furnished back to full service, even for those that aren't in daily usage. If an emergency strikes, we will need all the light, heat, hot water and such as the boilers and stoves can provide. Since we are facing the depths of winter, that should have been evident. The bloody civil war on the southern side of the border, on its own, should also have woken up the managers to the necessity of readying all the traditional, non-electric and non-computer devices for constant usage, as they did in the 1800's and early 1900's."
Pursing his lips in disapproval, Lucas ordered firmly "Now; I want to know WHY it was that, despite almost 24 hours of advanced warning, and at least the 7 hours of the flight from Vancouver, that nothing was done in advance to make what is MY private – and reserved – apartment livable. Was there a confusion in the orders you received? Were there any orders at all?"
Raphael could tell, despite the soft twilit ambiance of the plush chamber, that his employer was neither amused nor impressed by the reception he got last night. Sighing deeply to gather his wits because he realized he'd need them when speaking with this younger male, he signaled at the valet to pull the thick drapes covering the french doors, then open up the fireplace's decorative spark-shields. As the other adult worked diligently, the Butler folded his hands before him, speaking in clear but deferential tones; this boy was a known killer, mass-killer and area-destroyer, so angering him was definitely not in the plans for today.
'On behalf of the household staff, I apologize for the insult given you in your own home, sir. We were told by the lawyers who went to assist you in Vancouver that the likelihood of you staying in the manor for any prolonged period was... Negligible?... I believe was the term the senior member used. He told our Majordomo that you would probably get off the plane to breathe some fresh air, shake your legs awake, maybe have a small meal in the hangar's cafeteria, but not actually stay for any length. We were informed, badly obviously, that your plans were to head back to Wise H&T manor in Buffalo, as you consider that your true, permanent home. Since the principal administrative offices and legal department of WAC's are all centered in Buffalo, that declaration did not seem implausible."
Pursing his lips in thought, Lucas crossed his legs at the ankles, enjoying that he could commit the small act without suffering lancing pains shooting through his entire body for once. Looking at the Butler straight in his eyes, the teenager explained "The lawyers lied. They are, the three of them plus several others in their cabinets and departments, attempting to complete what they have spent nearly 5 decades to put in place. Namely, the defraudment and extortion of this company from my hands, all the while hoping that their friends in the governments of the USA and Canada would keep me too occupied, or worried, to look at their depravities too closely. In truth, I don't know how close to the Abyss we are at present, but I can guarantee that the theft of the conglomerate has been completely stopped. Now I have to learn the events of the past, study the situation as it is, and eventually reverse all the harm they did. I was planning to speak of this with you and the Majordomo in two days' time, after my birthday had passed with a modicum of peace." Shrugging indolently, the genius waved it away "So much for that dumb idea, that I could have any peaceful, quiet time in my life."
Blinking slowly twice, Raphael nodded that he understood the situation. He repeated the basic orders he had received for the meal time and preparing the apartments, then took the actual food order for the cooking staff. At that point, Lucas was informed that there was a separate, private kitchen inside the tower that serviced only that part of the building. It was in fact located on the floor just under the master bedrooms where they stood, along the waitstaff's guard room. So, if Lucas ever wanted to find a servant he could always just go visit there, if the comms were broken or he got no answers. F. had been a consummate workaholic who could stay awake 30 to 40 hours at a time since a young age, so the design of the manor's tower had been built to this specific need. This wasn't a detail present in the older houses built by the Wise clan, like the original in Buffalo, the Ramshackle House in New York, nor the Bramble Manor near Boston, as they had all been built before the man was born or had been intended, like the Boston terrain, as a gift to his wife's family for allowing her to marry him.
At this point, the young valet spoke, showing he had a good stable voice that didn't grate on nerves or echo in the room annoyingly. The man asked his employer if he needed anything else, including assistance in the bathroom to move into and out of the claw-foot tub. Lucas resolved the situation by picking up his smartphone from the charging block on the desk, activating the system and then tapping an app icon while aiming the device at the pair of males besides him. Two beeps later and he could see that his automated sweep & scan program had detected their own phones, filching the official user numbers, the confidential factory number, the GPS & RF ID tags, plus all those personal informations the young men had entered into their OS to create their owner profile. After barely 7 seconds, Lucas had enough to have a full contact sheet on each, including several key data like their list of emergency contacts and the passwords they used to lock their phones from attempts at data theft.
Glancing up from the screen to his employees, the boy smirked brattily, telling them "I really need to design and put out for all of our workers a standard phone & tablet combo that has – some – security in them from the start. I was able to swipe everything you guys have inside 7 seconds, and do a full clone of each phone, by airwaves mind you, in around 14 seconds. Those retail sold thingies you have are pathetic, and a clear threat to the data safety of the company. Not to mention I like my privacy, and my personal life is confidential, not fodder for the tabloids or the web's conspiracy peddlers."
Opening up the scheduling app in his phone, the teenager hummed softly as he moved items around, clearing some time to concentrate on this specific issue in the coming days, before it managed to hit him in the back. As for the costs of building then handing the units for free... Well, given the economics in the USA and Canada right now, it wasn't like he could find buyers willing to pay for what he would make. Besides, Wolenbahn had never been an actual player in the public cellphone market; the machines Lucas created for sale were specifically marketed to closed clienteles like hospitals and research laboratories that needed certitude that their devices didn't emit radiation or unwanted radio or cell waves that could interfere with sensitives processes in progress. The criteria of data access & device security were usually secondary for the majority of the organizations that bought his computers, or had been until the World Bank had become his principal client for hardware and software. The Bank specifically focused on data management apps, firewalls, client file encoding, and such.
Making a 'wooshing' motion with his left hand, Lucas waved the men away to their assigned tasks, telling them that he would call them on their personal phones if he needed help. Since he planned on staying inside the tower itself for the rest of the day, he wouldn't even need a guide through the manor until tomorrow at the earliest. With those last second instructions given,the medical genius walked into his private bathroom for a quick clean-up to face the half-day left in front of him.
Mournful times
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 13:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 10:00am
SeaQuest DSV
The Great Eastern Split, USA
Silently like the hearse at the head of a funeral procession, the great gray & blue bulk of the UEO's first flagship cleaved through the icy salt waters that had filled the cataclysmic fault-line of the Great Eastern Split barely a day and a half ago. The massive submersible's only detectable trace were the many powerful searchlights that dotted her hull, the projectors slowly pivoting their heads to focus harsh white beams along the bottom and sides of the newly created trench as the ship advanced on its somber task.
Surrounding the hulking giant were the six WSKRS satellites that constantly fed the ship critical depth, girth, current and temperature data to insure a clear passage. Alongside the front satellite were the four SeaCrabs that intercepted and shredded large debris that still floated so it didn't hit their ships or equipments. Occasionally, the four Hyper Reality Probes were seen as they placed small metallic poles loaded with cameras, sensors and radios to control sea floor movements and traffic, bolting them solidly to any flat surface that jutted from the sea bed or canyon walls. As the wireless beacon poles were installed, a complete picture of the new rivers and sea floors came to life, being broadcast to all the institutions of the UEO and the surviving authorities of the USA.
The new sea ways had floors that were remarkably unequal, strewn with protruding jagged peaks of hard bedrock, so sharp that they could easily slash open the main ship's hull like a can of tuna or impale the SeaCrabs like scallops on a roasting skewer. The omnipresent problem of these rocky outcroppings was compounded by the fact they created a mess of multiple, and often clashing, currents and turbulences all over the lowest 300 feet of depth near the sea bed. Sending anything smaller than a SeaCrab would result in it being swept away by the strong sub-waves like stray leaves in an Autumn wind. Thankfully, the ship's computers had automated algorithms that fed data and warnings to the navigators and planners, warning them well ahead of any foolish decision to inspect the tumultuous sectors of the canyons they encountered.
Sitting deeply ensconced in his command chair since the beginning of the afternoon shift, captain Bridger was happy to be able to practice fully the sciences and skills he had spent decades refining to a high art. Marine ecology, marine topography, current & channel surveying, all were quite specialized and even the US Navy had precious little use of them, unless they were designing a new class of ship. The veteran sailor was saddened by the circumstances of the job, but still, it beat staying alone and isolated on his tropical island. As well as being an accomplished naval architect and engineer, Nathan had been an avid student of the natural marine environment since grade school, and an ardent proponent of responsible usage of the seas when he enlisted in the naval service.
Now, four decades on, a decorated and respected sailor, serviceman, and innovator whose inventions had made him both rich and well known, the old man could whelm all his learning and accomplishments to the level of instincts as he gazed at the charts and data columns. A few decimal points here or there could indicate unstable rock formations reaching their point of fracture, so the convoy should avoid them, or even use the SeaQuest's beam weapons to topple them in a controlled manner. A pattern of colored lines in the charts seemed to indicate safe waters for submerged navigation, but this was winter and the gigantic pit dug by the nuclear explosions had not completely cooled down to the lowest depths. Those temperature variances, punctual and seasonal, meant that the computer generated map was off laterally by about a dozen feet too wide, and the bottom by around 30 feet too deep.
Nathan used the plastic stylus tipped with a rounded crystal nib that was hard-wired to his console to manually correct the charts and maps, adjusting dimensions, color codes, and notating dangerous points in the geography scanned by the WSKRS and sensor poles. The veteran mariner was so deeply concentrated on is task that he didn't hear commander Hitchcock calling his name until the third time the woman spoke. Blinking owlishly at his subordinate, he set the stylus back in its stand, using a finger to push the 'save' and 'compile data' virtual buttons on the touch screen before addressing the younger woman.
"Well, commander, it's another dreary day under the waves for us." the senior officer quipped in morose tones, affected by their duty as the rest of the crew. "What can I do for you?" he queried gently.
The younger officer smiled at her superior, subconsciously comparing his less aggressive and more cerebral style of command than her previous CO's who seemed to think brashly shouting orders around the bridge made them better than everybody. This older man was a much better temperament to command, and wield, a ship with the 'Swiss army knife' disposition that SeaQuest had, and the complicated highly skilled crew she carried.
"I apologize for bothering you when you're so deep in your math, sir, but the morale officer would like to speak with you, at your convenience. It's about the holiday celebrations, and if you plan to make something official or keep it to individual choice, this year. Given the state of society, politics and the UEO leadership being in a snit... Well, lieutenant Krieg didn't know if he should prepare the mess hall and leisure lounge or just arrange a special Yule cake to supplement the regular daily menu."
Nathan took off his glasses, rubbing the bridge of his nose as he closed his eyes to rest them from the hour of intense data crunching he had done. One of many bad habits from his former professional years that were coming back at a gallop was the ability to drown himself in his work, to the point of dismissing reality around his table if it wasn't germane to the project at hand. That usually meant he forgot to hydrate, or eat, or rest his eyes and mind periodically to avoid a stress headache. Being naturally a perfectionist and adverse to quitting a job that wasn't finished could play havoc on his body if he didn't measure his efforts better.
And now, the political, social and religious hot potato of the winter holidays to manage. Fortunately, for this sort of situation, captain Bridger had a ready-made solution that he could easily apply, without making a mess or insulting anybody in these sordid, harrowing times. He leaned back into his plush chair, looking at the screen dedicated to the PAL network, where all the names of the officers aboard were listed with their current status; sleep, off-shift, vacation, on-shift or sick-bay. That made it easy to decide who to call for a problem without bothering somebody who already put in his hours.
Since Krieg was part of the standard day shift, he was back from his lunch and listed as active. Nathan simply put his finger on the name line and the system did the rest to dial the link.
"Ben Krieg, quartermaster, what can I do for you?" answered the voice of the younger man when the signal linked to his PAL unit. The ambient noise made it clear he was in one of the ship's cargo holds, taking care of moving pieces of equipment that were needed to assemble the sensor poles being bolted to the sea floor and canyon walls.
"It's captain Bridger, lieutenant. I was informed that you requested a talk with me. You can meet me on the bridge around 15:00pm, or I can find you when I do a round of the ship before dinner around 17:00pm. Either should be correct." the senior officer spoke firmly, to be heard over the noise from the pole manufacturing going on around Krieg.
The quartermaster responded "I could see you on the bridge for your coffee break, then. Just remember I like mine with 2 and 2. And keep Cathy away from the muffins, I want one." the man's genuine friendly humor coning through clearly.
"I'll keep that in mind, mister Krieg. Bridger out." the senior officer answered simply as he closed the link.
Nathan shook his head, wearing an amused smile as he exchanged a look with Katherine Hitchcock who was still standing by his side. The woman seemed exasperated by her ex-husband's constant finding of fun and humor in everything these days, but kept quiet about it. "Anything else, commander?" the veteran asked her while wearing an amused little smirk.
"No, sir. That was it. However, I was asked by the Ex-O of the Nimitz if you plan on attending the flag-level officers' Yule dinner aboard the carrier. The admiral seems to have his crew putting a lot of efforts in making it welcoming for the bosses of each ship. I was told that even the captain from the private cargo lander was invited. They would need an answer before 21:00pm tonight to prepare everything for tomorrow evening."
Bridger closed his eyes again, groaning in misery as he remembered the finer points of what being part of a large structured institution involved. Including all the mandatory meals and events with the blasted brown nosing of subordinates, pointless socializing to impress comrades, and sycophantic minionesque suck-upping of superiors were more insipid than the piss-tasting cheap wine coolers. And now he had to do it all over again, with the added stress of dealing with a collapsed government, a brainless higher command that didn't know who was in charge back home, and the UEO that thought they ruled Earth like newly anointed cardinals in a new religion.
Meh! What a shitty mess.
But it was his shitty mess, and one he'd willingly walked back to, with his eye wide open.
Time to assume the full functions and privilege of his office, then.
"Thank you for the reminder, commander. It was probably in the pile of emails that I haven't gotten through yet, just after getting on shift. The mapping needed an expert eye, far more than inter-convoy chatter from old sea dogs, you see, so I put it back. I will..." the senior officer stopped himself mid-sentence as he realized something.
Smirking widely, the captain looked around his bridge, seeing how many more of everything and every officer there was. And the solution then, was pretty simple.
Using the PAL system from the command chair, he spoke to one of the comms officer set in the raised technical hub above the Aqua-Tube. "I need all the details from the admiral's Yule dinner, including transportation methods, schedule, and if I need some sort of speech since I'm the UEO's highest ranking in the convoy. Find out if they have some bigwigs from NCQ or the USA coming for it. And specify to whoever is in charge of the meal that I'm on a dry diet; no alcoholic drinks or foods, but I have no allergies and I like red meat. Bridger out."
Now smiling openly at his Lt-Commander, the older man shrugged indolently. "The only real privilege of being in charge is that I can delegate the small stuff. And it's pretty much the only ability of my office I have no qualms about exploiting, if only to manage my time better, and spare what little sleep time I can get."
Nodding in response, Hitchcock approved the older man's reasoning before going back to her station; the flotsam and debris that littered the sea floor weren't going to catalog themselves, afterall.
Slow motion emotions
(MacGyver – 1985 opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 13:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 10:00am
Phoenix Foundation HQ
Los Angeles, California, USA
Standing by himself on the flat roof of the tall building, Jack Dalton observed the six machine gun nests that had been positioned around the perimeter of the edifice. Their director, Mathilda Webber, had decided to put the heavy Browning cal.50 guns on the roof to have both anti-aircraft flak as well as the capacity to stop ground vehicles or pedestrian assault from the elevated positions which were difficult for enemies to aim at from close to the building. The ground floor's vast glass walls all around the building had been shuttered by hidden 20 foot tall steel plates that rose from their secret slots, buried at the foot of each segment of wall, so that even the few normal cement walls or doorways got an extra layer of protection. The underground parking had been shuttered as well, and mobile steel cabins placed at the entry points to serve as defensive gunnery points. The ground floor and parking lot guards were equipped with H&K MG5 (infantry) light machine guns with ACOG sights, giving them up to 1,300 yards of range in 'spray & pray' suppression fire. As a point-shot weapon, the 600 yards range wasn't the best in the world, but that was still much better than the guys with the AR-15's patrolling all around the building and rooftops, who could hope for about 400 yards if they could take the time to aim.
Looking out over the horizon, the 50 year old soldier could see over the vast sprawl of the western districts, all the way to the touristy beach districts and the harbor where a pair of lonely US Navy cruisers stood guard at the entry to the navigation lane. Beyond that, in the open seas near the port inways were parked several dozen ships that had arrived in the last five days, despite knowing full well just how lawless and dangerous the USA had become in less that a week. Because the ships that crossed the Pacific usually carried only enough supplies to last the estimated travel time plus 10 to 12 days extra in case of storms or mechanical accidents that caused delays, turning back towards Asia was impossible, and aiming for other ports along the USA's western seaboard would still have the same problems. Unfortunately, several transoceanic ships could only anchor in deeply dredged waters like those of Los Angeles, San Francisco or Seattle; going anywhere else would mean anchoring the ship in fully exposed blue waters near a town devoid of any capacity to help large boats. Here, they were exposed in the open ocean, yes, but they had several US Coast Guard ships and small skiffs available for protection, and the possibility of machinery parts to fix problems, as well as the fact the National Guard was organizing food supplies to help them plan for the trip back to their ports of origin.
Turning left, Jack could see the heavily computerized mounting for a wheeled missile battery holding 6 Sidewinder air-interception missiles ready to fly. The thing would normally be towed behind a Hummer in an open field, but this time it had been manhandled to the roof by a mobile crane barely big enough to lift the whole assembly in one go. Presently, Riley Davis and Jill Morgan were busy at work, their heads stuck deeply inside the wiry guts of the machine, repairing or optimizing God-knew-what that he had no chance of understanding. Something to do with the IFF beacons of friendly planes having been spoofed? He was a bit fuzzy on the details but it didn't matter anyways; it wasn't like he'd be the one to finish the job if they got bothered with something else.
Stepping closer to the mid-chest height perimeter wall that served as banister all around the roof, Jack tried to breathe in some fresh air, but only ended up scrunching his nose in distaste. All he got for his troubles was a lungful of polluted industrial smells worsened by the stench of all the burning buildings, vehicles and dead bodies spread all over the commercial district surrounding the DXS base. Making a face of disgust, the middle-aged man turned away again, trying to find a view to take his mind off the things they knew were coming at them.
They had arrived early in the day, yesterday around 13:00pm, after Lucas Wolenczak had warned them of the attempt by Mosley to hijack and hold hostage their kin. They had all been woken in the wee hours of the night to get informed, pack and get the MD-11C refit back on the tarmac for an emergency flight back to LA. Despite all the urgency, it had taken almost 2 hours to prep the plane and have a time slot free to use the A.F.B. Diefenbaker runway to take off. The four hour flight had been unremarkable as such things went, if not for the stress that both DXS and NCIS teams had felt, right until they received final confirmation from Matty that all their people were safely ensconced inside the private armored enclave the DXS had built on the eastern outskirts of LA, in the mid-heights of the mountains that bordered the right-hand side of the city. There had been some hoopla at the John Wayne Airfield when they arrived, because the National Guard unit that had taken control of the airport when they left kept receiving a bad signal from the plane's transponder, so they had to make their landing approach twice before touching ground for good. Then, taxiing to the hangar, deplaning, piling into the SUV's sent over by Matty, and such a joyful (not!) 2 hours to cross the badly damaged, war-torn cityscape...
Yeah, it wasn't the homecoming of their dreams...
And now, here they were again, back at Phoenix HQ to fix the messes other people made, while their new friends and their relatives were still in that walled, gated, private enclave hidden high in the treeline above the city's eastern districts. Jack did not feel like working today; he felt like staying with Diane, Riley and Angus in the enclave so they could take stock of the situation before making the kinds of decisions that would orient their lives for the next few decades. The fact that Diane was being forced into close contact with Elwood, or that Riley was being shmoozed by Billy Colton when time and job permitted, had nothing to do with his gut feelings acting up.
The 'ding' from the elevator's protective shed announcing that the cabin had arrived on the roof level was easily audible since it was barely a dozen feet behind him, the machine opening to let out Angus and Wilt who were pushing a wheeled 4-tier cart filled with parts and tools. Mac, tools & parts usually meant that the kid genius had imagined something, probably Earth-shattering too, and gotten the big boss' go-ahead to put it in action. As the two young adults rolled their loot cart near him, Jack thought he heard something about infrasonic emitters and non-lethal stunning force, but wouldn't bet his life on it. Technobabble wasn't his forte, if you got his drift... However, he could barely keep himself from laughing loudly as the two good friends arrived near his position.
"I'm telling you, man, this will work! And not only will it incapacitate human intruders, it'll stun or repel a bunch of animal vermin as well." Angus posited quite vocally as Wilt seemed to have doubts about the device they were supposed to build on the roof. "And once its proven, we'll be able to install it all around the enclave and the houses to keep animals or looters away as well. Just you see! You'll be thanking me when you don't have to worry about raccoons climbing through the windows to steal your freshly cooked pies and roasts from the kitchen counters." the blond haired scientist predicted quite assured of himself.
"Now, don't get me wrong Mac, but this is the first rough draft of a prototype based on a principle that was never tested before." Bozer replied to his friend. "I'm not saying the science part is wrong, just that maybe you should moderate your expectations of success, and not expect a miracle when you flip the switch for the first time."
Gesticulating enthusiastically with his free hand that wasn't pushing the cart, MacGyver answered gamely "I'm not unrealistic! I routinely do way weirder than this on missions, under enemy fire, and with a lot less calculations or materials! Here, with everything sketched & calculated, plus the humongous trove of spare parts in the DXS vaults, it'll work like a charm!" the green-eyed wunderkind countered.
"Now boys," Jack interjected with a big smile, "let's not get ahead of ourselves, here." The veteran soldier gestured at the stack of parts and wires, declaring amusedly "I can see now that Matty's worries were justified. Without a proper mission to prepare for, the both of you have a full case of 'devilish hands at play' just itching to make some mischief that involves electricity and fire. Now, if we were talking guns and explosives, I would make it my solemn duty, as the responsible adult in the house, to hold your hand through the process, but, since it's scientsy stuff... Y'all on your own, especially if the Boss Lady gave you the go-ahead already. I had one techno-geek try to blow my head this passed fortnight, I ain't stayin' around for another try."
Walking away from the twin looks of amusement and ill-hidden scoffs coming from the two men, Jack Dalton walked to the elevator, taking advantage of the cabin being present to hitch a ride down to see the aforementioned Boss Lady about what happened next. The trip to Vancouver was a bust, their NCIS partners had pretty much imploded, and the rest of the country was still not waking up from it's self-induced scorched-earth catastrophe. If nothing else came up with Mack and Boze, Jack was going to ask to be put on the patrol detail around the building perimeter, or maybe the materials gathering expeditions that went out every morning. Running a hand lightly over the short stubble that covered his almost bald head, the 50 year old thought glumly about the sorry state of his homeland as the cabin descended down to the ground floor where the director's war room and CIC were located.
Exiting the machine, Jack went straight to the homey comfortable room that looked more like a VIP lounge in a hotel than a spy agency's surveillance & command hub. Normally, he could have easily spotted Matty through the glass walls, but she had ordered that all the internal separations activate their privacy coloration or have opaque cloth curtains in place to lessen the chance of enemies spotting something vital. As such, Jack was navigating guided only by the hope that his old friend hadn't yet moved from the admin meeting she had with her department heads. As luck would have it, Jack arrived just as the wooden door to the room opened to let out the DXS higher execs back to their many tasks. Spotting the shorter silhouette of his employer at the back, near the giant wall-mounted screen, the Delta Forces specialist waited until the room emptied to walk in, closing the door as he entered.
"Jack! Just the jar-head I wanted to see." the middle-aged woman exclaimed while making a vigorous 'get over here' gesture with her empty hand as she took a long pull from her coffee mug. "Aaaahhh! That feels like Heaven in a can! Gawd but I needed that!" she exclaimed as she cradled the hot porcelain mug to her chest like a drowning woman hanging on to a life preserver on the open seas.
Jack took the hint and fixed himself a mug, thankful for the small Keurig brewer and dry powdered condiments that helped the spies function during long overwatch jobs. For having been on this side of the monitor too many times in his career, Jack knew full well just how nerve-wracking seeing things from afar while being unable to do anything to help could get. Sometimes, the long boring watch duties were much preferable to the short, gut-twisting ones where you saw friends and family put in the crosshairs of amoral bastards. His coffee in hand, the man sat on the sectional couch, near Matty who was still busy at communing with her own warm fuel. The pair took a few minutes of simple, companionable silence as they sipped their liquid comfort before talking about the metaphoric fluorescent pink monster sitting in the middle of the room.
Matty drained her lukewarm drink then immediately brewed herself another coffee before the mug had a chance to cool. Now rearmed for the coming hour, she took the time to look at her friend from head to toes, seeing the same signs of antsiness that many of the professional military and spies that composed the DXS main workforce suffered presently. The techs could find projects to design and build during peace time, but those who were professional fighters needed action to stay calm and satisfied. Welp, she had just the thing in mind.
"Jack, I have a situation that needs some careful consideration before we make our move." she initiated the conversation. "Normally, the directives would come from Overwatch but, well, he's the problem. James has fallen Jack, and we need to go retrieve him. As it stands, we know where he was located when the nuclear blast occurred. Unfortunately that was south of DC, in the 350 - 400 kilometer distance of the secondary effects, when his plane dropped from the sky. We have no signal, no active comms since they were knocked out by the EMP wave from the explosions... Jack, it's highly probable that Angus' father, my oldest friend, has died on duty and I will have to send you out after a damaged, barely recognizable cadaver." she explained softly, in a sad voice.
Closing his eyes, the soldier asked "What was he doing in that area? I thought he was supposed to stay away from DC, after the Lake Barcroft facilities were breached and the top policing agencies had been beheaded by the Jesus-nuts. What changed to have him move into the hot zone like that?"
Sitting next to her friend, Matty made a vague gesture with her left hand as she sipped some warm courage before answering. "I haven't the foggiest what the reason was. He was the 'Overwatch' and I was the 'official' face of the Phoenix Foundation / DXS to the world. Even to me, he did not, and could not, reveal everything he was privy to. This, clearly, was one of those things it was better to keep inside one single head, and nowhere else."
Dalton mulled it over, before asking "Besides the location of his plane transponder when the blast occurred, do you have any solid proof that he was actually inside the plane, or that it was flying at all? The tin can could have been flying under the radar, preparing to infiltrate the DC defense zone, and that's a survivable drop if there are trees or a body of water underneath when she goes down. We've seen, and lived it, on missions a fair few times ourselves."
Mathilda wrapped both hands around her warm mug, trying to draw strength from it as she explained the details of the situation. "It was a small two-prop plane, 30 years old but well maintained. Diesel piston engines, six seats, 30 cubic feet of cargo space, no amenities... Just the equivalent of a flying Econoline van, but less options and comforts. The pilot was an external contractor James and I had used for almost 25 years now, his parents were old colleagues from our CIA training days. He was loyal to us, and being a son of hindi immigrants, he would never have betrayed us to the Trumpists or their successors. The plane was flying low, at barely 1,000 feet, just like you expect to evade the automated radars. And yes, they were already descending to land at an old private farm, just another 10Km further off so that James could find a ground ride to cover the rest under the cover of night."
Jack rubbed his clean-shaven chin thoughtfully. "A thousand feet drop isn't an easy thing to accomplish if your instruments still work, let alone survive after an EMP fried everything. The good news is that a lot of people from that zone did survive the secondary and tertiary effects if they were sheltered in the least little bit. The bad news is that a plane in flight, even a military one, does not constitute a reliable shelter to ride out a nuke. And since they were headed towards DC, blast-glare blindness of the permanent sort is strongly probable, in the best of cases, unless James was rooting around his backpack when the bombs went off. Even with aviator shades or a flight helmet with a closing visor, their eyes are probably gone, if they survived at all. So, dropping from the sky blind, hurting, under traumatic pain and disorientation from losing their sight like that..."
Both old partners exchanged a look heavy with sorrow and meaning. Now they would have to warn Angus, and he would want to participate in the recovery detail, even though it wasn't the best usage of his talents and mind. This would of course drag at least Wilt into the mess, maybe even Riley if she became stubborn about supporting her almost-brother in his time of need. After the young man had gone to such lengths to help save her mother on repeated occasions, the DXS director didn't see how the female hacker could be convinced to stay behind, inside the sheltered building, until the recovery crew came back with news.
"Welp, there ain't no way this ends well..." Jack quipped forlornly, anticipating how that conversation was going to proceed once the genius tech was called down from the roof. Sometimes, he really hated his job, given what it did to his loved ones.
Visit at the museum
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 14:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 11:00am
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
Lucas walked around the large tower's master bedroom on legs that were steady and pain free for the first time in over seven days. It was a great feeling, that freedom of movement and reliable balance that he so hoped not to lose for ever. All he needed was a few days of peace to reach a safe hospital with capable doctors and he would be set for the coming year, maybe even finally free of infections and all the associated ills. Taking a silent, satisfied breath as he closed his button-down shirt's collar to finish placing the bow tie he liked to wear when dressing formally, the teenager contemplated his image in the mirror of the wooden dry vanity console he was standing in front of. He was freshly washed, combed, medicated, and fully dressed in his new brown ensemble he had bought barely a week ago.
He looked like a living, breathing, healthy adolescent boy for a change.
Not dissatisfied by that turn of events, the young man allowed his small shy smile to emerge for a few seconds as he knotted the bow tie at his neck, tugging at the ends to balance it properly. After smoothing the front of his shirt and patting multiple pockets to make certain all electronics were in their proper places, he took the brown jacket from the wooden valet stand to complete the suit, tugging the sleeves to cover his newly crafted defensive bracers. Then he buttoned closed the jacket, patting the decorative leather lapels a bit to make certain the affixed gold pins showing the varied functions, positions and ranks he bore were presented in a serious business demeanor without coming off arrogant or condescending. Happy with the current look since his actual formal 'Constable – Governor' suit wasn't crafted yet, he decided that this could make a good stand-in.
Grasping the pommel of his dreaded armament-cane, he walked to the left hand side of the bedroom to walk out of the chamber to reach the agora. Once there, he touched the thick brass control button for the old Otis elevator, calling the cabin. While his legs were cooperating now, he wasn't foolish enough to think this would last long, especially if he went traipsing wildly around the chilly passages and rooms of the sprawling heap of masonry he now called his shelter. Honestly people, how long could it take to fire up the damned boilers and electric baseboards in this decrepit mausoleum? He had given the orders an hour ago already! There should be some warmth around the place, not thin layers of hoarfrost coating the artful stained glass panes in the windows, nor wisps of white vapor condensing before his mouth as he breathed.
Well, there was no changing this anymore.
The central tower was built according to an old but efficient defensive plan that had the three first levels devoid of external entrances or windows, all such openings in the walls beginning from the third floor above ground. This meant that even the house residents, waitstaff and guests had to climb three floors, somewhere in the manor, to reach the 3rd level then walk laterally all the way to the central (public) wing's grand library, from where a heavy armored door granted access to the central tower's 'official' receiving area. This large luxurious salon was actually built around the level's agora, using the iron framed elevator and stonework staircase as decorative showpieces. There were walls to separate the bathrooms and infrastructure passages from the publicly used living spaces, and two small luxurious cabins that looked like church confessionals but were in fact telephone booths for private calls while waiting on the Lord's arrival. At the far end, several pairs of french doors gave access to a large stone terrace looking over the rear courtyard, and the river beyond.
All of this architecture had been decided and designed well before the birth of F. H. Wise, from a time when railways and steamboats were not yet reliable for industrial use, let alone domestic. With some historical perspective, Lucas could understand that his ancestors had fled Europe in the early 1800's when racism and religious persecution were rampant, so they had valid fears. But did they really have to be so damned paranoid about everything, to build a damned labyrinth like this? What next? Jaw-traps, spiked pits and minotaur guardians hiding in the maintenance passages?
Walking inside the elevator cabin, the teenager was relieved to see that the brass assembly holding the analog clock-face and old wired emergency telephone had a visually appropriate chart of the tower's floors with a description and button next to each text. This fit with what he had guessed, since he had heard on his first visit, 5 years ago, that the tower had been built by Franklin after demolishing the much smaller original.
{ SQ } - { What a pile of dirt } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 14:09pm
The current tower was massive at 100 x 100 feet, with 10 foot thick solid dressed stone & brick outer walls that covered an impressive structure of steel 'I' beams, girders and armor plates that created the equivalent of a thin vertical battleship stuck in the ground. The tower's total height was also astounding, given the early epoch of construction, since steel-work was not that advanced back in 1930.
There must have been a modernization program carried out at some point after construction though, since the wired telephone had a brass button keypad and liquid crystal display above the keys, rather than a rotary dial as was usual for the first model phones of those days. Taking the time to read the floor chart, Lucas memorized the numerous levels that would be his primary living and working areas for the foreseeable future. God, that was an impressive list.
Flat stone roof; actually 110' x 110', the roof held 8 long barreled cal.50 machine guns, and a massive parabolic antennae array in the middle.
*** The elevator does not reach the rooftop; it is accessed by the staircase only.
tenth; actually 110' x 110', glassed panoramic war room & comms to cover the entire 'region under authority'.
Ninth; down to 100' x 100', upper machinery & infrastructure hubs, workshop for janitors.
Eighth; Master private medical R&D operating theater with preparation areas.
Seventh; Master research workshop, chemistry laboratory, materials vaults.
Sixth; Master office, private library, conference area.
Fifth; Master bedrooms (3) and access to manor's main roof patrol walkways.
Fourth; kitchen, walk-in pantries, walk-in coolers, servants' waiting room.
Third; middle external access, public receiving area.
Second; apothecary shop, laboratory, private enclosed doctors' cabinets (4).
First; primary emergency bunker for household.
- Ground - ; private patients' convalescence ward
Basement-1; medical operating theaters (4) & matching preparation areas.
Basement-2; medical equipments, products & drugs, doctors' library.
Basement-3; Secondary bunker with access to manor's other basements.
Basement-4; Staff emergency supplies & preserved foodstuffs.
Basement-5; Master & family's private bunker.
Basement-6; Master & family's supplies & preserved foodstuffs.
Basement-7; machinery & infrastructures, boilers/steam, electrical generators, etc...
*** The elevator's cable drums and gearbox are at this level, besides the shaft.
Foundation plate; armored concrete, 20 foot thickness, fresh water artesian well.
That was a whoppin' 19 levels of armored steel, stone, brick and concrete, with most of it reserved just for the Master of the household, his servants and high-paying private patients. And that wasn't all. Let's not forget that this little gem of decadent old luxury was copied in every detail on the other side of the Saint-Mary river, in Brush Point, USA.
Lucas could imagine, back in the mid and late 1800's when horse-powered ferries was the only way to cross the strong currents of the river; an endeavor that took a long hour in itself, plus the carriage ride to get there, and then another long ride to reach destination... Yeah, Lucas could see why his ancestors had decided that they would double their land holdings to build their properties as twins straddling the border at the important crossing points where they were established. It was a lot more practical, especially in winter when the ferries stopped crossing and no passage was possible until steamships became the standard waterborne transport. The bridges and water locks were built because of the steam power revolution making long-range transports easy, otherwise the governments would have waited far longer before anybody thought it was necessary to invest that much in roadways or waterways.
But even then...
The teenager had lived in the others of the Wise family's massive old glories in Buffalo (home), New York, and visited Boston several times. He had toured seriously the critical production facilities in Buffalo, Detroit, and Thunder Bay despite his young age. But none of them were as big, complicated, or full of old half-hidden secrets as Sault-Sainte-Marie was shaping up to be. Although, probably, given the similar size and large population, the Sarnia complex could match this mess.
Bleh! What kind of crazy house of madness had he accepted control of?
Legitimate, lawful inheritance or not, that would teach him to accept contracts and properties blindly. In his defense though, the young man told himself that even a genius child needed informations and time to make logical choices, and he had been willfully denied both at the time of events. Finally making up his mind to stay in the present, he pushed the button to raise him one floor so he could finally see that blasted private office that would become the center of his life and work.
{ SQ } - { A stroll amongst old dreams } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 14:13pm
The antique elevator was much quieter than Lucas had realized last night when he had arrived. Then again, he had been so tired that he had barely been able to eat and take a bath without assistance from the valet before falling into bed, dead to the world for ten long hours. One thing the young man noticed that he would have the household staff change quickly was the absence of Braille relief on any of the control buttons or the clock. That had been the same thing for the electrical light switches, water faucets and servant call buttons in the bedroom's facilities.
While he liked his inherited properties to stay as 'vintage' as possible since that kept up the real estate & decoration value, he never accepted anything that made them less safe or detracted from accessibility. He had spent close to 13 months in a bloody wheelchair and used crutches for almost 4 months after that, plus the troubles with his perceptions and attention/focus caused by the head injuries and medications, so accessibility and user friendliness were big issues for him.
As the cabin arrived at the sixth floor smoothly, the adolescent noted that there was neither bell nor tonality, and no synthesized voice calling out the floors & orders that had been activated. More details to correct. The Victorians may have liked their homes to be silent like mausoleums because that kept emotions from being riled, but nowadays people understood that priority should be put on safety and utility, so changes would be made in step to such modernity.
Lucas made a mental note to take pictures with his smartphone of every piece of property or furniture that wasn't fully accessible or usable under limited capacities to have them renovated or replaced inside of the coming year. This plan would simply dovetail quite naturally with the imperative necessity to complete the upgrade plans in progress for telephony & computer/networking across all of his inherited properties that no doubt suffered similar situations due to their age.
Stepping out of the cabin, the teenaged genius could not hold back a snort of amusement as he saw Raphael Chadderton standing stiffly, hands joined behind his back, three feet in front and to the side, of the elevator doors. Feeling good about his health and situation for the first time in close to ten days, Lucas allowed his sense of humor to show as he quipped playfully at the older male, when he walked by on his way to the office proper.
"It's a good thing you came to fetch me at the elevator. This heap of rocks is so damned big, even a genius could lose his way around it! And look; despite that there is just one main room on this floor, there are so many doors all over, which one would I choose? It's like a bloody TV game show, in here! I mean, it feels like an episode of 'The Price is Right' where I get to chose behind which door I get my showcase from, so that I can bid on it."
The butler worked hard to keep from laughing aloud, but couldn't quite repress the big boyish smirk from appearing on his clean shaven face for a few seconds as his employer passed besides him, aiming for the correct doorway already.
"Well sir," Raphael answered back, "It does help that it's the one door that's open, and the smell of the hot food coming from the room would guide you anyways. Hungry kid on gut-pilot and all that..."
The prodigy replied "The smell isn't something I'd follow in this pile of rubble! With so many foodstuff and medicinal products manufacturing stations all over, there's bound to be smells wafting about. Doesn't mean any of it is comestible without a written ordinance from your doctor. Besides, it could be the food for the staff before they go on shift, moving around the old vents. I used to get that a lot at my office building in San Francisco. The diner on the ground floor was right under my lot and the vents weren't segregated correctly, the first year I rented the place. We had a lot of renovations to do it all the right way."
As he entered the Master office, Lucas was almost blinded by the abundance of strong sunlight streaming from the side wall that didn't orient towards the agora. Unlike all the other floors, this one had been designed with multiple large windows through the thick armored walls all around the office to give it a more lived-in feel, and make all work much easier to accomplish without dragging lamps or candles all the time. Following his feelings for a rare time, Lucas ignored the contents of the room to march directly to the side wall, so he could look over one of the lateral portions of the estate that he hadn't seen yet, just to get a hint at the actual scope of the entire thing.
The windows seemed to all be the same concept; a thick steel frame covered by milled veneered hard wood and a deep cushioned box-bench that spanned the full width. Attached to each window were a pair of heavy pivoting brass brackets that held a one-wick gas lamp, original to the 1930's build. As the teen inspected the brackets closely, he saw that they could also remove the gas-burning nozzle to serve as sconces for torches, candle holders, or even hold aloft oil lamps that had been designed specifically to fit inside the custom fixtures. As part of the manor's modernization in the 1980's when digital telephony was added on all levels of all sectors, someone had thought to add an electrical wire to power a small incandescent bulb inside a decorative stained glass bell hanging from the lower part of each bracket. This clearly limited fire hazards while permitting to link all modern lights in the office to one master switch built near the entry doorframe.
Having looked over the portion of the estate that he was curious about, the young man finally turned around to gaze at the room itself. Standing near the desk was the Majordomo, Erasmus Chadderton, and another young male valet, but neither were important yet.
In terms of decoration, there was the humongous main desk on the right side of the entry door, that was the focal point of the chamber. This was actually 2 massive units that comprised the front and back with the user sitting in the middle of the wooden behemoth. The front portion, was flat except for two steeply inclined boxes that housed the servant call buttons and wired telephone. Centered between the two protuberances were a cork surface protector and a sterling silver pen holder with an old fashioned built-in capped inkwell. The back unit was flush against the wall separating from the floor's agora, and bore a flat surface as well but topped by a massive wooden hutch whose many compartments were covered by wood-framed glass panels. On both units were spread four large Tiffany stained glass electric lamps, set at just the good height for reading or conversation. All the metal fixtures visible from this angle were clearly solid sculpted bronze pieces that gave the ensemble an incredible cultural and monetary value. The Master chair was like a modern throne; a huge wingback swiveling affair, deeply upholstered in a tweed-like brown-beige tone that reminded the color of the suits worn by European and American university professors all through the 1900's.
In front of the desk were four large wingback swiveling chairs reserved for 'formal business' guests like clients or patients. Each chair had a small round drinks table on it's right hand side, high enough to be an inch above the armrests of the swiveling seats. These tables all had a bronze pen holder with built-in inkwell, and small Tiffany stained glass electrical lamp on an ornate bronze stand. Of all the visibly ostentatious luxuries the manor could have, each table had an old wooden wired telephone set that had a rotary dial for outside lines and call buttons for the servants' intercom.
Now that was living like a rich man, back in the day! Each of your guests could have their own private call while you had your own on a separate device, all at the same time. Man, people who saw this must have been jealous of the old guy's obscene displays of wealth right in their faces like that.
Then, spread about, were several crank-&-screw inclining drawing tables with built-in drawers, lights and pen holders, several heavy wooden filing cabinets that came to 5 feet high, and a couple of armoires that topped 8 feet in height. In one corner of the office was a monumental fireplace with a conversation area similar to the one in the bedrooms below, and in the opposite corner was a set of thick wooden bookshelves, solidly anchored in both floor and ceiling. At a few places around the room were thick locking glass casings that protected heirlooms or trinkets that Franklin Wise had valued for unknown reasons, other than the clear monetary worth of such antiques.
On the right side of the entry door, passed the desk ensemble, against the far wall, was the enclosed private lavatory that F. H. Wise used. His guests were instructed to use the two semi-public lavatory cabins that were placed against the left side external wall. In the space next to the entry door's left was a massive wooden console with a 3" thick gray quartz counter-top and tall sculpted wooden hutch that served as wet bar and liquor cabinet. The quartz surface was smooth except for the square cut that had been dug 2 inches deep a 12 inches on each side to serve as shallow basin under the artfully sculpted bronze faucet. Since the taps were only used to rinse glassware and utensils before serving a guest his alcoholic beverage, it didn't need a deep basin like a kitchen, scullery or butler's pantry would require. The bar was huge, massive, covered in deeply sculpted and engraved work that was clearly made to resemble the style favored by the wood carving masters of Eastern Europe in 1700. Lucas knew enough to realize that this was an imitation, since there wasn't this type of wire-glass pane or plumbing back in the era that the piece was supposed to emulate. This was clearly a custom item, built for this room.
Next to the bar was a tall wooden armoire, now open, that held the accouterments needed if the master and his guests decided to eat a full meal in the office rather than go to the manor's formal dining room, located in the central public wing. All the fine china porcelain dishes, sterling silver utensils, linens, condiments in glass jars or pots, and other necessities were all neatly organized on the many shelves. Placed unobtrusively next to the open armoire were two small straight-back chairs with thin upholstery that served to seat the servants when they had to wait during their service to the manor's lord.
Finishing his quick overview of the room, Lucas finally paid attention to the small wheeled wooden cart that held several covered dishes set over brass alcohol burners to keep them warm. Other covered dishes were set in the serving cart's open lower shelf to remain cool. Walking to the Master's chair as it was now his, the teenager mentally griped at the dishonest lawyers who had never let him see this part of the manor when he visited 5 years ago. They had used the excuse of time constraints to corral him to the workshops, manufacturing plants and accounting offices so that he wouldn't get any big ideas about what exactly it was that he had gotten a hold of. He would be revenged for this ignominy.
{ SQ } - { A meal steeped in antiquities } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 14:24pm
Sitting in the massive plush chair with his cane leaning against the desk itself to keep it in reach, the boy gestured at the valet to begin serving his meal. Looking over at the two Chaddertons, he asked aloud "I do hope you have rested and eaten to your needs; I don't run the type of operation where nobody has any food or sleep unless I do first. Regardless of what tripe the damned lawyers may have been peddling, I don't act like that with anybody."
Making a tight stern smile in response, the majordomo inclined his head minutely as he acknowledged his employer's question, and underlying worries. "Indeed, my lord. We are all well rested and fed, as even your great-grand-father knew the perils of ill-kept waitstaff serving at his table or bed chamber. He was a very austere, severe individual, as was the common manner of powerful men of education, wealth and influence in that post-Victorian epoch. Wealth was demonstrated freely by material things, but temperament and deportment were always kept for the privacy of the mind, never exposed publicly lest it cause disarray in the household, and a scandal in the community. As such, as he reached adulthood and became used to managing the estates and factories, he learned the ways of men who are obliged to work hard through a long day for a meager pittance. Furthermore, in studying the apothecary arts and medicinal sciences, he finally realized that sufficient nourishment, recreation, culture and peaceful sleep were necessities of human health, not just privileges for the wealthier classes of society. Despite all appearances, the man's managerial style was actually well in advance of his peers in science or industry of the era, enough to be publicly decried as a socialist, or even as a 'proletariat enabler' by the right-leaning press of the epoch."
Lucas almost choked on his first mouthful of coffee as he heard that one. Honestly! F. H. Wise considered as a progressive liberal business tycoon? And a defender of workers' rights? In what bloody reality did they find this? Earth #52? Giving the elderly man a look of clear disbelief over the rim of his very diminutive porcelain cup, the teenager clearly showed he didn't believe that one for a minute. Not after all the private journals and publicly archived company & governmental records that he had managed to lay hands on in the last 5 years.
Gesticulating vaguely with his free hand, the young prodigy indicated that he preferred his two main servants be seated in the chairs in front of the desk rather than standing up all day long. After he had taken his third sip of life-giving coffee, he told them "I will not break my neck or ruin my delicious meal by craning my head up at you all the time. Sit! In the two chairs in the middle, in front of me, not the dingy little things besides the bar. This is for house business anyways, so get to it. I learned to multi-task at a young age, I can eat and follow the pair of you without any accidents."
Wearing matching discrete smiles, the two senior employees sat in the assigned chairs while the junior valet placed on the desk before the teenager a tray laden with two large plates, a bowl and a small empty glass. One plate held 2 fried eggs, 6 rashers of bacon, 1 sausage, a heap of spiced hashed potatoes and 1 thin french crepe rolled tightly. The second plate held 4 toasted white bread slices and a small oatmeal muffin. The shallow bowl contained a generous portion of steaming hot baked beans. As Lucas began to sample small bites of each item to savor them fully, the valet brought the pitcher of orange juice to fill the empty glass, setting the half-full crystal ware besides the cup of coffee which also got a refill immediately. It was becoming apparent that their master's legendary addiction to coffee wasn't overstated, so the staff would see to it that the young man was 'kept afloat' so to speak.
"Where's the podium?" Lucas asked suddenly aware that something was missing from the office setup, despite that he had asked for the installation close to three years ago. "The gaseous display console that was planned for the master office isn't in sight, and it wasn't in the bedroom either. What happened? Did my orders get lost?" he queried tartly, anticipating yet another stab in the back. If they thought they could attack his poor brother's body, they'd get a newsflash of epic proportions!
Shaking his head sadly, the majordomo replied in soft tones "The company's oldest (geriatric) lawyers, and a few that were retired years before, got wind of the renovation project when the orders came in, along with the parts and workmen. They stole the display consoles to install them in their personal offices like trophies, to brag about how big and important they were. Because of the size and complexity of the new constructions, plus the renovations and tech upgrades that were spread out through the complex, I became aware of the missing parts only towards the end of the second year of work, when the technicians were ready to access the manor proper. The two large server farms and their segregated, restricted, utilities junction tunnel under the river were completed. Now they were up to raising the antennae atop the buildings and laying the wires from the tunnels through the offices and workshops that would use the neuroplexic system. It was then that I was warned by the project overseer that several consoles and other items were 'waylaid' by some of the senior-most attorneys in the WAC's litigation counsel department."
The adolescent pursed his lips angrily, demanding in a growl "Have you recovered all parts? Will the damned renos be finished at some point? And what about the bloody thieves?" The boy suddenly stopped his vitriolic explosion by quaffing the entire contents of his coffee cup, then signaling the valet to fill her up again. Stabbing violently the poor breakfast sausage with his fork, the teen gestured with his left hand, waving the still empty porcelain cup towards the elder man to entice him to finish his story.
Nodding once, the majordomo continued "Well sir, I promptly went to the legal department offices with your project overseer, the estate's security chief and two dozen armed men in trucks, the very moment that I was apprised of the situation. We quickly recovered those pieces that were still in their hands whilst I proceeded to fire them from our employ immediately. The imbeciles tried to say that since they held 'power of attorney' for the Wise Heritage in Sault-St-Mary, they could modify your plans and revise the attribution of movables and assets according to their older, more experienced adult views, to offset your childish impulses. I didn't accept that lie, neither did the overseer nor the security chief. Then we hit a snag; several of the pieces, two holo-emitters among them, had been given out to accomplices outside of the WAC payroll. It was when we learned this that we called the local police to denounce them as running a conspiracy to defraud & steal from the company. This destroyed their lawyer-y hubris, much vaunted adultness, and exposed their clear racist hatred of your person as well."
Erasmus Chadderton took s a small sip from his coffee as he prepared to relay the worst news of the batch. Having thought through the events, he realized that there was no manner of presenting this that would sound any less damaging than it actually was. On them that did the deed be the onus of the crime. "Because two of the people who received gifts were active members of the Canadian government in power, we had to take them to federal court to recover the stolen items. This obliged us to involve the RCMP along the way as it was a clear case of organized conspiracy to steal then resell the stolen property. As this is a criminal offense, we had to let the criminal court handle the recovery and impounding of the items, then the crown's attorney – obsequious quisling – immediately gave both a very low plea deal, without any prison time, for their supposed cooperation in the investigation. Now, we were in the process of having the tribunal sign the restitution orders when the planetary war exploded."
"Why was I never informed of this mess?" the adolescent asked in deceptively soft tones that were belied by the white-knuckled grip on his eating utensils. "Was there a moment at which it occurred to you that – maybe – the lawful master of the estate should be made aware his planning had been scuppered by criminals? What other orders did they ignore, or change? I want a full list, now!" the young man was fuming as he glared intensely at the older servant. It wouldn't take much now to make him explode in violence. Lucas decided to focus on eating while the food was hot to keep from saying aloud the nasty things in his mind, and also to let the older man explain without interruptions.
Taking a long breath, the majordomo steeled himself for the coming explosion that would result from what he was about to say. "We were forbidden by court order from telling you, by mail, email, telephone or even in person, about any of the matters concerned by the thefts. This came from the crown's attorney, who managed to have a judge sign off on the gag orders. The argument used was that you didn't have the necessary age, mental faculties or habits in managing large corporations to comprehend and navigate the 'subtleties' of the Canadian judicial system. When I raised with the judge the fact that you were supposed to be emancipated as of age 10 and then made 'Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line', the elderly magistrate almost had a coronary on the spot. It was then that he added, of his own volition, the further prohibitions about informing you of your legal status and governmental positions unless your birth parents signed off on the messages first. No adopted parents, legal guardians or court appointed custodian could bypass his writ. From then on, I was reduced to negotiating from a position of great weakness since I couldn't fire, demote or otherwise affect the employment conditions of the criminals implicated. At that point, the active complicity of the crown's attorney with those thieves and their partners was both transparent and ineluctable."
Seeing that the only reaction of his employer was to hold out his cup for another coffee refill, Erasmus continued the dire news. "That was when the damned judge tried to shield the external thieves, by saying that they hadn't paid for the materials, just received them as gifts between friends, so the criminal charges against them were endangered. I decided to threaten to have the recording of the entire proceedings released to the open public, and damn the consequences if I got arrested for it! His career on the Bench would be forfeit when Canadian Magistrature intervened publicly to resolve the crisis. The felonious old crud wailed and whined and threatened, but eventually relented when we held firm. However, instead of handing back the stolen parts after their recovery, he had them all impounded as 'evidence in a current case' to force us into civil court to undergo a special hearing to justify why we should recover the machines and parts before the criminal case was finished. This cleared the road for the lawyers of the betrayers to lodge in court a motion saying that if the parts are given back to us, that broke the 'chain of evidenciary custody' and would viciate the case against their clients while also showing a clear bias of the judges in favor of our side, so they wanted a mistrial declared if ever we won the civil claim. And so, faced with the choice, I decided to let the parts rot while processing the accusations against the traitors and their associates to the fullest we could, despite being handicapped by the criminal judge who was a clear accomplice and partner in the entire depraved endeavor. And that is where we are in the situation, and why it is such."
Lucas stayed silent as he sliced the rolled crepe to bite sized pieces before grabbing the maple syrup pot, using the silver sauce spoon to dispense a generous amount of amber sweetness across the next part of is meal. The teenager maintained his deathly silence as he bit and chewed through an entire piece of bacon with short, violent gestures that made his teeth clack and grind loud enough for the junior valet sitting near the serving bar to hear without effort. He drained the dregs of his orange juice, turning the glass over to set the empty vessel down on the plate that had held the toast and muffin in the beginning. As he took a slow, deep breath to calm his rage, the young male placed the empty dishes on the far side of his tray, then drawing the bowl of baked beans to eat the remains along the crepe. He gestured tartly to the valet for yet another refill of his cold empty coffee cup with his left hand, keeping his eyes down to the food as he powered through the mental miasma of anger, rage and vengefulness that blazed through his mind at the moment.
Of all the crimes that Lucas thought unforgivable, of all those acts of immorality that deserved to be called a Sin and a 'Stain on the Soul', the betrayal of trust, contracts and lawful mandates was the one that would always get him to teeter on the verge of the Abyss whence all men found Madness.
Silence reigned in the formal office until the teenager had finished all solid foodstuffs on his service tray and signaled the valet to remove the sullied wares for cleaning. The valet, now inured to the ways of his employer, did so while serving him another full cup of inky black fuel before pulling back with a full tray of dirty dishes and towels.
Sitting back in his plush chair, Lucas let the backrest take his full weight as he raised his head towards the ceiling, letting his eyes wandered around the decorative wooden coffers and painted frescoes that gave the room a truly Edwardian feel. Exhaling a long weary sigh, the prodigy lowered his eyes to the majordomo, holding his gaze with his own. Erasmus Chadderton was petrified in fear at the cold, utterly inhuman detachment from emotions and social norms he witnessed in those dark flint-blue eyes.
"The eternal Master Sun Tzu wrote in his iconic Art of War: "Be extremely subtle even to the point of formlessness. Be extremely mysterious even to the point of soundlessness. Thereby you can be the director of the opponent's fate." And that is what my enemies amongst those geriatric lawyers and the mafious bureaucrats in Ottawa will face. I will not use such grossly crude means as the Copernicus space stations or our armored floatplane to inflict their deserved retributions. No... I have other plans for them, that can be set in motion from afar, yet function under the silent cloak of shadows."
Standing from the chair to stretch his legs, the young man grasped his cane with the right hand, leaning lightly on it as he walked around the right side of the desk to gaze pensively at some of the private tools, books and decorative knickknacks that his ancestor kept near his person when in residence. As he browsed the shelves and glass covered cubbies, he gestured with his left hand at the elderly servant to rise and sit in the chair nearest him. Giving the relocated majordomo a lazy side-glance that still conveyed all the coldness of a predator challenged inside his lair, the pale unhealthy boy asked in soft words that belied the violence roiling inside his soul "Tell me the rest of their betrayal. Give me the over-arching details of whom in the Trudeau and Trump governments knew of this. I assume you have the master copies of the written files inside the manor? Good. I will read those later, after I come back from my little promenade in town this evening. The crude outlays will be sufficient, for now."
Erasmus Chadderton tried to keep his nerves under control as he faced the most intelligent, most technologically advanced, and most heavily armed man on the Earth, his 16 year old employer, as he gave the expanded version of events that took three long years to unfold by small, slow bits.
He didn't stop shivering in fear until he left his master's presence, when he was ordered to recover the files from the safe in the tower's basement bunker.
Unforeseen emotions
(MacGyver – 1985 opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 15:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 12:00pm - noon
Phoenix Foundation HQ
Los Angeles, California, USA
Mathilda Webber sat in the war room at the small desk that was part of the built-in units around the large flat screen where mission overwatch usually took place when she had the MacGyver Team in the field. Not only did she care a lot about these people, but they were also kinda high maintenance, especially the blond wunderkind with the unstoppable hands. Her mind was far away from the work on her tablet when the door behind her opened to let in the aforementioned team, as she had requested.
Turning her swivel chair around, she stayed silent, watching the byplay of the four young adults with the older man as they chose seats around the sectional couch and sofas to settle in for the briefing. Only Jack knew what this was about, but not all of it yet. Even he would have some surprises today.
"Settle down kiddies, or I'll write your name on the screen with 'see me after class' like my teachers did in grade school. And I can guarantee you it'll end up just as well, too!" she snarked at the noisy lot with a superior smirk when they all got a sudden case of silent-as-a-statue on command. Man, was it ever fun, pulling their legs like that! Best part of her job, and her day.
"Now that you are all present and awake, I can tell what we are here for. I spoke to Jack earlier today about this situation, but the last details needed to be resolved before I could bring it up in group. According to the internal monitoring of DXS personnel, the private airplane carrying James MacGyver went down between 400 – 350 kilometers south of Washington DC, inside the fragmented lunar landscape now named the 'Eastern American Wastes' by Internex Mappe Mundiae. We have no electronics on site as the nukes' EMP blast fried everything in the zone. We have tried to get an eye on the location through NSA or CIA satellites, but no dice. As it is, the small 2-prop plane went down from a 1,000 feet elevation slow cruise into a straight dive, then nada. You are here to get the mission brief concerning that mess."
Angus was now as pasty pale as the young scientist they had been supposed to bring back when they flew to Vancouver. Swallowing past a lump in his throat, the young man asked in shaky tones "Are you sending us on a rescue or a retrieval job?"
Giving the young man a look of sympathy, Matty shook her head gently as she answered. "Neither. I already have the answers. Early this morning when I got the info, I contacted the admiral in charge of the UEO convoy that was sent to do the post mortem on DC's remains. They sent a Chinook helo with a full crew to the zone, then flew a straight line from north to south, using the last point of contact with the plane as the rendez-vous coordinates. They found the wreckage in a snowy farm field, barely 600 yards north above the last ping their transponder gave out. The helo crew recovered two bodies, badly burned when the plane's fuel tank exploded on hard impact with the frozen ground. The medics from the Nimitz have called me about 30 minutes ago with a summary ID from dental & medical files that I had transferred them. The helo's team had with them one of the rare and hugely expensive portable mini X-ray scanner that allowed to take a deep picture of James' mouth. He had some particularly distinctive dentistry done a decade back, so I can already call the job done. The full DNA panel will take several more days to be finally positive about the corpse's ID, but were not expecting surprises anymore. I'm sorry beyond my capacity to express, Mac. But I don't think we can hold on to any hope anymore. James is gone, and nothing can change that anymore."
Angus, wrapped both arms around his torso in a protective self-hug as Wilt moved from his seat next to Leanna to go kneel besides his brother-from-another-mother to offer a shoulder to lean on. Still wrapped in his own limbs, Angus leaned forward to bury his face in the crook of Wilt's neck, his entire body suddenly shaking by the hard sobs that he hadn't even known were coming out. It took a good ten minutes before the young man was calm enough to sit back in his sofa, green eyes empty, looking to far away, lost in macabre thoughts and broken hopes. Wilt placed his hand over his friend's heart to give him warmth and stability, nodding his thanks to Jack when the older man placed a loving hand on top of Mac's head, carding through his long blond strands to move them out of his face.
Leanna and Riley sat immobile until they exchanged a look then moved to sit on each side of Matty to give her some support as well. The man who died was Mac's father, but he had been Matty's oldest and longest friendship in her life. That loss had to be hitting her badly as well, no matter how composed she seemed right now.
After blinking his bleary reddened eyes to reorient himself, Angus made an effort to right himself in the seat, extending a hand to grab around blindly until Bozer held aloft the box of paper tissues in his reach. Taking a pair, the mourning agent wiped his eyes clear, then mopped the sweat of his face and neck, finishing with his runny nose. In a vain effort at humor, he threw the bunched-up tissue at the trash can basketball-style, only for the projectile to plop on the rug two inches short.
"Meep! Failed! And an extra penalty for crapping up the floor, too!" Riley grumped in amusement as she leaned low to grab then dump the trashed tissue in the can so her friends could stay seated.
Jack added "And another penalty cuz that wan'nt no regulation ball, either!" causing Angus to turn towards him with an incredulous expression on his face. To which the older man confirmed "You know it wan'nt right, boy. Don't try an' tell otherwise!" Jack knew his joke had borne fruit when the blond male kept opening and closing his mouth without a sound, trying to figure out what to say to a damned fool joke of the sort. Anything that kept Mac from overthinking his daddy's death was a win in the old soldier's book, so he'd keep on going until the boy was back in his right mind.
Matty clapped her hands once, obtaining immediately the attention of all agents. "While it is a great sorrow that James has passed, we are facing a hecatomb of millions in the coming days. Not years, or months, or even weeks, people; just days. That's how bad the situation is. The hospitals are out of service in over 90% of cases already. Civilian polices forces, firemen and paramedics are all absent from their posts to protect their families, or have died during the war's break-out phase. Practically all prisons are derelict, the guards absent or dead, their inmates on the lam or dead by infighting. The asylums and sanatoriums are in the same mess, with 100% having been abandoned by staffers. The US national guard and the standing military forces have been called by the state governors still alive & kicking, which aren't that many. The guard units are being deployed across the landmass to reestablish a semblance of order and social structure, but our analysts estimate that it's already too late to recover in anything short of a full century."
Here Matty made a disturbed face of disgust as she considered what she would speak next; there were no polite ways to say it aloud. "However, Henrietta Lange and I ran some analytics that make us expect the primary recovery period to turn bad. There are too many white supremacists and christian crusaders still hidden deeply amongst the command-level officers of the bases and ships that remain in function. It's only a question of a few days before the next bastard tries to pull a Mosley, calling himself the new Messiah of America, and then the civil war will escalate again. This will force us do undergo a mopping-up phase across all branches of armed services before we can declare them fully reliable again. The same will obligatorily be applied to police, fire, paramedics, doctors and elected officials as we regain population, buildings and land zones. Eventually, this will lead to a full scale analysis and filtration of the entire population basin to ferret out and destroy every last Nazi criminal and church whore we can find, before they can corrupt others to re-seed their poison again."
Riley made a dubious face, exclaiming "That kind of social measure sounds a whole lot like a cross between Fahrenheit 451 and 1984 with some autocracy and military tyranny thrown in for fun. Talk about dystopia much?" the young woman challenged angrily at her boss.
"Okay. I can see that were in for a rough ride. It's like when the countries in Africa collapsed decades ago," Wilt Bozer spoke up during her pause. "We all know it'll be uglier before it gets better. But how much worse can it get, anyways? The hole where DC used to sit is pretty self-explanatory, and so are the pulse beams coming down from orbit as we speak." The young black male pointed at the large screen that was showing the view near the Lake Erie where Toledo no longer sat. There was a continual barrage of blue cones compacting everything in sight to a leveled dusty plain, followed by scorching red laser beams that dug and shaped the new canals and flood troughs that would delimitate the new Toledo, when America was organized and populated enough to undertake such project anew. "You'd have to be pretty much an irrecoverable asshat to think the guy who manages those would let himself be pushed aside or intimidated into anything. The doc may still be a kid, but he wan'nt built the same way the rest of humanity was. How long do you think those so-called new messiahs are gonna last in front of him? He dealt with others before, he'll deal with those too."
Matty blinked slowly at Bozer, her thinking hampered as if she were drunk or stoned. It took several seconds of concentration before she responded to her agent's opinion. "Honestly Bozer, I don't know what's more bothersome; the fact you think this runaway kid has a legitimate right to use these weapons, or the fact you're banking on him cleaning our problems for free without any effort on our parts. What the fuck, man? Aren't you an agent? Aren't you an officer of the law of America?" the senior manager asked, her anger and despondency showing clearly.
Wilt snorted back his reply "Isn't the post of 'Constable – Governor' a law-keeping job too? Doesn't that make the kid a lawman just like us? Come to think of it, doesn't he have a higher job than you, nowadays? Cuz what you saying sounds like job-envy a lot more than bigotry against his age. Given he was supposed to be the guardian of the Great Lakes and the St-Lawrence River since he was ten years old, I'd even say it was damn time he did the job. Of course, if some geriatric old crones in DC and Ottawa hadn't screwed him outta his dues, he'd have been on the job already, and maybe the depraved bastard Trump couldn't have done what he did. It's hard to plan the country's suicide when you have a watchdog like Wolenczak sitting on your shoulder all day long."
Seeing the stormy countenance on Matty's face, Jack intervened to return the conversation towards the friendlier lands of what the new missions would be. "Okay, now! James is dead, that question's answered. So, what next? Are we just gonna rot inside the Phoenix building or the enclave in the mountains? Because some of us can't play with gizmos all day without going nuts."
Pursing her lips alongside her mighty frown, director Webber turned her eyes from Wilt to focus on Jack and the immediate necessities of the Agency. "No, you won't be forced to stay inactive or restricted to just the building or enclave. The NCIS agents from New Orleans are going back home via the good services of the National Guard, and your team will be preparing for a prolonged mission up north, to Sault-St-Mary, at the Wise Apothecary & Chemists complex. It so happens that one of their divisions, the 'Forceful Wisedom LLP' has had contracts to manufacture weapons, vehicles, chemicals and technologies since World War I. This was forgotten because both the USA and Canada have defaulted on their obligations to the contracts. We need agents on site to reestablish our side of the equation to limit the damages. We're already looking at untold millions of dollars in damages, penalties and revenue-loss compensations, so anything that puts a cork in that particular leak will be welcome."
Angus cleared his throat, making weird noises as he tried to wrap his mind around the direction that the Agency's strategic planning was taking. "What do you mean, we're going back up north? Wasn't it enough of a clusterfuck the first time around? I really don't think the guy will be tolerant of our presence a second time. Not after everything went up in flames the way it did."
Mathilda waved away his concerns with a flapping left hand. "Nonsense! Anything that started either the Trump Christian Regency or the following civil wars weren't our making. We are victims in all this, just like he is. He may put on airs of disdain and aloofness, but I can sense that he needs, and wants, our assistance despite all the growling and teenaged angst. Our presence will give him both the legitimacy he needs to be taken seriously by the successor government of the USA, and the official channel needed to make all sides of the NAC listen to him when he speaks."
Leanna added sarcastically "And we get positioned right inside his defenses to take him out permanently if he doesn't play the game by the rules you dictate. Just like the CIA would do, if they still operated."
Director Webber turned towards her agent, nodding silently her confirmation, before saying aloud the exact opposite. "No, agent Martin, this agency does not target its allies. And we do not plan their demise or build contingencies to profit from such. Lucas Wolenczak is presently or most important, profitable, and stable, ally in the entire mess. There are no plans to see that change, and certainly no desire on my part to make it different. We depend on his presence and stability to safe-keep the northern US border with Canada, as well as most of the St-Lawrence river basin, and parts of the Lake Champlain basin too. Not to mention his industrial and medical complexes that we absolutely must keep in proper function to survive his damnable period of transition."
Leanna and Riley instantly stiffened to attention in their seats, exchanging a fearful look with their director before verbally assenting the official position that Matty had just spelled out. For a few precious minutes of mental peace, the two women had forgotten the young man's prodigious capacity to hack through the DXS servers to spy on them inside their building's most secured areas in real time. The sort of comment that Leanna had spoken could get them all killed quick, if they got back to the wrong ears. Shay Mosley's dire end was proof positive of that reality.
Taking command of the situation, Jack Dalton sighed aloud, grumping out "On the road again. In the bloody white shit, to boot! Couldn't you send us to Mexico or Spain? We need some sunlight, boss lady! All that snow can't be good for a body. Look at Riley's mom; she came back from her three years in Vancouver all sorts of weird..."
Crossing her arms over her chest, Riley exclaimed a playful "Hey! My mom ain't weirder than you are, Jack! It's an age thing, anyways." much to the others' amusement.
MacGyver snorted as he leaned to the side away from Jack, before saying "Yeah, old man! Sunstroke on the head isn't any better, especially at your age, and you're bald too..."
"I am not bald!" Jack replied offended. "I have very short hair, so nobody can grab it during a fight. That's something the Army should have taught you back in boot camp. Then again, you never did listen to your elders all that well. Or at all, in fact. No wonder you've got a rug growing on top!"
Mathilda had to whistle to get heard over the squawk of protests coming from her young blond agent, although she did get a lot of fun out of seeing him get razzed by the team on occasion. This just wasn't the time or situation for it to happen. "Alright, people! Settle down for a sec! We have a mission brief to lay out, then you can heckle each other all you want." The older woman stood to go for the Keurig brewer to make herself a much needed cup of liquid courage, thus initiating a mass movement to follow suit behind her. Good; with their hands busy and their guts warm, the team would be more open to receive their marching orders than they were at present.
Scurrying bug gets squashed
(Paris – Coffee, Donuts, & Death)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 16:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 13:00pm
In the streets
Houston, Texas, USA
Some unknown little blond turdcake was skulking slowly at the base of the 5-0's car, hoping that the burnt out wreckage would hide him enough from potential snipers and perverts that he could reach his goal without other injuries. The 12 year old shook his head in a jerky thrice to send the long flopping cowlick of hair that covered the left of his face backwards so he could see with both eyes unimpeded, for a change. The white pre-pubes really hated himself right now for having been stupid enough to miss out on his chance to use the kitchen scissors on that thing before he left his house and family behind. Running away from the dumb cunts was all well and good, but he should have prepared more than just throw a few socks, shorts, Tees, cash and cans of food in a backpack. And his favorite baseball cap had gotten knocked off during the second fight he had for his life, yesterday, explaining why his blasted hair was falling in his face, again. Maybe that Bowie knife he stole from his dad's hunting stash could be useful to chop off some?
Taking a long, patient look around the war-torn street, the kid decided that he could take a chance at peeking around. It was either that or move back to the shadows empty handed, which he'd been forced to do by gangs of thugs or brutish loners armed to the teeth. Enough was enough. He need some parts from the cop car to bolster his portable radio kit, and finding a gun or even just – anything – that was lethal would help a lot. His dad had kept his decorative steel gun cabinet tightly locked with the keys in his wallet at all times, so no dice there. His mom was also a sports hunter, but only when dad drug her around because, otherwise, her real hunting habits tended more towards couponing aggressively at the closest Walmart. The only weapons loose in the house when he decided to bolt had been some of the cheaper hunting knifes and some tools in their 4-car garage. The boy had taken a pair of Bowie's with sheaths, a multi-tool with sheath, a 12" crowbar, a large clawed hammer, a cold chisel, small bolt cutters, a pair of Wisegrip pliers, and a small acetylene torch that was barely bigger than his phone with spare fuel canisters.
Atop the tools, he'd swiped some things like the folding steel-sheet Forfar camping stove, 5" frying pan, a pair of small 4" pots that could be put inside one-another, and other camping stuffs. With his sleeping bag, that all made for a pretty heavy kit to lug around, for a small kid his age. So he'd entered a local hardware store, emptied out from fighting and not having any employees, to filch a two-wheeled truck like the delivery guys use. He packed the camp gear on the bottom and his electronics on top in a separate kit, with his absolute essentials in the backpack that never left him, even in sleep as it was his pillow.
However, lugging that dolly around was back-breaking labor, the size alone being a bother, before even considering the weight of the stuff he kept. Still, he needed all this to live alone since there weren't any jobs for a kid his age, and the ATM system was down due to the planetary hack that wrecked the banking system. Even then, he could hack or steal a credit card all he wanted but it was useless; practically all the stores were dead, empty husks without life in them. Nobody would ask for any payment anyways, and most places had already been looted, or worse, set on fire for no reason but hate. He could barely find stuff to eat, let alone hoard in his kit for the road, even if he broke into houses to raid their pantries and cellars.
And housebreaking was the best way to find living people, most of whom were armed and bunkered inside their last safe place. The streets and shops were empty because people staid indoors at home, not because that many were dead. The delinquent boy had learned the hard way that the population hadn't been reduced that much in the present, they were just hiding really well for now. And enterprising youngsters like himself needed to be careful which lock he broke or store he stole from cuz there could be a watcher across the street with a rifle, ready to take shots at thieves and thugs. He'd seen four would-be thieves get shot from a distance since running away.
And even his amateur self knew that stealing from a store that had apartments above was asking for trouble cuz that usually meant the owners lived above their shop so they'd be close by to defend home & business alike. Again, he'd seen a few wannabe looters go down that way in the last two days, and the lesson stuck to him, good.
Being honest with himself, the boy knew that he valued human life so little that he could easily kill or maim somebody to eat or stay safe. Even his parents, if it came to it, since he'd stopped caring 'bout the pair of church-dogs a while back. They cared more for their preacher's jack-shite than for his welfare, so he returned them the favor wholly. The only thing that kept him on a low profile was the lack of a gun in his hands. For all he tried, despite B&E a few houses, he hadn't found a damn piece to hold to shoot at the pervs and thugs that were pretty much the only humans shambling around the miserably cold streets right now.
And the automated weather stations were forecasting a fucking monsoon like back in 2017, 2018 and 2019. In fact, he could feel the temperature falling rapidly and something like wetness hung in the air around the town, like a light mist that was too thin to perceive other than with your skin.
Fucking fucks! Couldn't this shite get any better for him?
Getting the burned cop car door opened with help from his crowbar, the kid snarled in anger as he saw that it had been looted of weapons, electronics, and even the damned seats before getting torched. The only thing in it was the fucktard cop's charred corpse, and that wan'nt any help at all. Taking a deep breath to quell the rage that had been his constant companion for years now, the boy flipped his hair out of his face in a thrice jerk again, yanking at it as well, the pain in his scalp calming him some.
If the fucking pigs wouldn't help him, he'd find at least a clothing store or gift shop to get a cap of sorts to hold his hair, and maybe some shades to hide his eyes from the sun's glare mirroring off the windows. If he were lucky, he could maybe find a few cellphone external batteries to charge and lug in his electronics kit to power his laptop and access his many hacks. The bloody world would not be allowed to think it got away from him, no matter what happened in the cursed 'U' bloody 'S' o' moth'ar-fuck'an 'A'!
As the boy drowned in his rage-fueled thoughts of violence, power, and glory that nobody but himself believed in, he never realized that the noise from his dragging the 2-wheel jigger had attracted exactly the kind of attention he dreaded.
The kind that had a gun in his hands, so his actual intents were immaterial. A single shot rang out, answered by a pitiful scream of agony from the blond child. The pervert had been hiding inside a small, banged-up 2007 Honda minivan on the street across from the burned cop car, using the blackened carcass as bait to catch his prey. He wanted anything solid that was tradable, edible or just could occupy his hands when he got lonely in his ugly, smelly, run-down house. As he saw it, the kid's pack was a gold mine waiting to be excavated, and the kid could be used so many ways, from labor to sex toy to food source... At worse, the criminal could just barter off the boy to some gang of thugs who'd use him up pretty much the same he would.
The 80 year old lecher let up the rear gate of the minivan, painfully unfurling his aching arthritic limbs from his prolonged crouch, and carefully climbed out of his vehicle. His unhealthy wrinkled old skin was pockmarked by disease and lack of sunlight so badly that you could barely make out that it was supposed to be white. His rumpled, unwashed clothes stained by all sorts of wastes and offal hung loosely about his gaunt frame as testament to his bad health, little food in recent days, and probably some mental issues as well. He had short fuzzy silvery hair all over his face that was uneven, unkempt and dirty like the rest of him, to compensate for the bald wrinkly scalp. He looked like a prototypical insane serial killer from a cheesy 'D' series movie from the 1980's, so it wasn't hard to understand why people had always avoided him, shunned him, and chased him away until now.
The boy certainly identified the cause of his misery easily enough, But it didn't matter. He'd gotten a 9mm pistol slug into the left calf that struck the bone hard enough to cause a fracture, but not to pass all the way through. That was why the kid had fallen to the pavement screaming in agony, all the while trying to crawl away from the geriatric monster that was slowly shuffling towards him, gun in hand.
The old man wasn't in any hurry to reach the boy. The more he crawled and twitched and screamed himself hoarse, the less energy he'd have to actively fight being bound and transported to the car. Even the injury and blood loss were all good, as they sapped that energy and rebellion right out of him.
The sick, twisted crone slowed his approach, loitering nearby, waiting for the kid to surrender to his tiredness and weakness from the leaking blood. Once the boy was tied up real well and tight, Old Man Roscoe would patch that leg up – somewhat – then give the kid a lesson in real pain and screaming. Just like his daddy used to do to him a'n the neighbor's boys, in d'a woodshed, back in the 1950's. Ah, such good manly fun he'd have once again. Even if he couldn't get a hard-on for more than 25 years, beating and raping boys into submissiveness was still a thought that brought pleasure to his ailing mind and body.
Now, if he could only remember how those damned zip ties work? And where were the car keys? He was certain he had them...
Maybe the nice looking little tyke playing on the ground could help him find them?
In between bouts of Alzheimer's, dementia, mania and psychosis, the old man managed to knock out and tie the child for his foul needs, then drag him and his kit to the back of his waiting minivan. He drove off into the beginnings of the hard rain that would sweep over Houston for five days, but nobody saw where he actually went, if he arrived at his planned destination, nor if he could even remember where it was he headed for.
The betraying, violent little wannabe hacker who had used the World Power Plant as a cybernetic honey-pot trap to extort rich men with his lies would never be seen or heard from again. Nobody would miss him, not even his family. Then again, they didn't survive the civil war either.
From on high do the Lords look down
(Sigrid – Everybody Knows)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 17:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 14:00pm
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
The disastrous revelations from earlier had devolved into more of the same over another hour, leaving the new master of the domain in a piss-poor mood that needed to be worked through in isolation lest he start abusing people to pass his rage. There was no way in this life that he'd allow himself to devolve to the point of copying his father or mother's lowest instincts, especially since that was exactly the sort of crass behavior he abhorred. Consequently, the boy had chosen to use the most remote and least used of all the rooms in the vast luxurious manor he owned to calm his mind without causing harm.
Lucas presently stood at the south-east panoramic windows on the 10th floor of the manor's tower keep, in the massive war room that served to oversee and manage the entire region that WAC's was supposed to command in case enemy forces came aground on the American continent. From his elevated vantage point he could see through the clear skies across the river, all the way to the tower and manorial estate that mirrored the edifice he dwelt in at present. The US version was oriented in the exact opposite of the Canadian domain, since they both used the St-Mary river's as the backside of the manors, the topography determining the minutiae of the individual buildings' shapes and positions.
The angry teenager turned away from the breathtaking vistas of the white frozen landscape to concentrate instead on the wood and metal world at hand. In the center of the vast war room stood an old fashion planning table; a scaled model of the area controlled crafted from sculpted & painted wood with metal details. Fixed buildings and several geographic features hid small colored lights that activated to indicate the alertness level or enemy presence so that everybody could follow the threats & responses as well as possible. This kind of technology was old, so much so that it predated even the simple black & white cathodic tube television systems. All the lights were triggered by individual manual switches with each color having its own bulb & switch set, everything being controlled from the sectorial consoles built into each side of the table. As the years progressed, the masterfully crafted planning table was kept in the same method & schemes since it was an incredibly valuable heirloom from a bygone era.
However, carefully crafted add-ons were made to keep the representations up to date with landscaping and current uses for the edifices. The 1960's crew modernized the system to active electronics without compromising the aesthetics or scrapping the basic functions that would be needed in case of power & comms outages. Colored lights were replaced by high efficiency LED's and the old rheostat control boards were paired with a first generation computer to manage all signals through the existent solid wires. This computer used a punched-card reader to process input of data then reel-to-reel data tapes for solid-state archival. Even though the machine was rather small by the standards of the epoch, it was still too primitive therefore was put in storage as possible fall-back when replaced in the year 2000 by a 6th generation folding laptop device, which was also stored away when replaced in 2018 by a touchscreen tablet manufactured by Wolenbahn in San Francisco. The old hand-crafted lead figurines and vehicles used until 2018 were replaced by more detailed, realistic aluminum models with lights and working engines to make them move along the landscape as per the directions given by the computer now attached to the table. The buildings and figurines now had moving parts to show the position of gunnery turrets, artillery, drawbridges, and diverse gates that barred access to the land or edifices.
Above the table were located a brand new series of innovative conference grade holo-projectors that had been built just a few months ago, as part of Lucas' plan to upgrades to the estate's management capacities. Since those parts had been destined for a public area the felonious lawyers couldn't abscond them without raising questions, therefore they had been delivered and installed on schedule, unlike the systems reserved for the master's private living quarters. Several high-legged swiveling bar stools with arms and short backrest surrounded the table, part of the original furnishings, as well as matching round drinks tables that normally held the coffees, file folders and telephones of the personnel in attendance. Presently the room was empty of organic life, as Lucas wanted some solitude for now. Only Luxis was floating indolently in the holocoms above the illuminated planning table, silent as he concentrated on analyzing the state of the domain's networks and machineries to inform his brother of just how bad it had gotten.
Walking around the massive planning table to stretch his legs, while they worked painlessly, the adolescent genius skimmed his left hand over the backs of the stools and the flat surfaces of the tables, his right hand grasping loosely his dreaded cane to move in synch to his slow progression. His flint blue eyes panned across the vast open space, bearing four walls of panoramic glass panels, the view interrupted only by the elevator & staircase core with the public restroom and valet's pantry on each side. The outer walls on all sides of the tower had been cantilevered outwards by ten feet atop decorative machicolations to allow the creation of working space between the elevator shaft and the windows. This was necessary to allow men to watch over the manor itself and establish sniper positions in that angle of the edifice if needed. Instead of extending only that one side which would have given a lopsided appearance, the entire 10th and 11th floors had been enlarged symmetrically to make it look like some architectural flair rather than a defensive setup. Given that many rich estates and public buildings of that era did in fact have that sort of flaring tower in their design, nobody really asked questions.
All around the room, at the base of the windows, were thin, shallow, scaled models of the landscape that was faced from the specific viewpoint. This allowed the sectorial watchers to know if there were swamps, ponds, creeks, gullies or ravines along with the many trails, roadways, bridges, railways and buildings in their surveillance zone. These old maps had been crafted as smaller sisters of the master planning table by the same artisans, and had undergone similar upgrades by the same teams at each time that modernization had been required. Each display that Lucas looked at during his tour was happily flashing and bleeping away at the empty air, contently doing their jobs as they were created for, regardless of the absence of humans. The one clearly jarring addition to the décor were the multiple Wolenbahn touchscreen tablets that were fixed to the masonry columns by articulated brass brackets, coupled with small but powerful digital vari-cams, also his products, hung from the apex of each ornate gothic window's stone arch.
Another obviously visible feature of the room, dated from the 1930's, were the eight small masonry & cast iron stoves that dotted the outer walls, two on each side of the chamber. These were built low to not obstruct the panoramic windows, but large enough to last 8 hours on a load of wood or coal. They sported a flat iron cooking surface big enough for two kettles and one large 1 gallon pot of stew/soup so that the watch crew would be well kept all through the days & nights of their duties.
Of course, like the office and bedrooms below, there were several decorative brass brackets holding hybrid lamps that were modernized to electrical a few decades ago. Still, the old gas and oil options were functional in each as Lucas had required them maintained, as were the candle sconce adaptors hung under each matching lamp.
Near the elevator and stairs was a massive wooden desk with a tall hutch that served as the old telephone standard. This was early 1900's tech, from back in the days when switching lines required an operator to physically take a wire and plug it into a socket on a board full of about 200 little holes, each identified only by a small number, or the rare name for the company owner, family and relatives. The old standard was kept in place since it was solidly bolted to the masonry floor, with many yards of solidly armored copper wires running all over the room and tower beneath. Amusingly enough, the system still ran the household intercom perfectly well in manual mode, even though a modern telephony box on a wheeled stand had been wired in place, in 1980, to bypass the antique. The wheeled box was then judged obsolete in 2010 when a simple steel bracket was screwed onto the wheeled base to hold a laptop CPU that now ran the phones and intercom for the entire manor, including a brand new set of Blue Tooth hubs to link wireless handsets and other devices to the home network. Walking near the console, Lucas could see the desk face with its 12 control nodes; each made of an antiquated rotary dial, a movable incoming line, and a long connection line. Set aside on the left of the desk were several dedicated out/ingoing lines for critical governmental emergencies. One line for the second half of the estate (the other war room), lines to Ottawa, Toronto (Ontario's capital) and Sault-Sainte-Marie town hall, with matching lines to Washington DC, Lansing (Michigan's capital) and Brush Point town hall, as that was the American half of the local township that was split in several sectors by the river.
Now placed next to the old telephone standard, and obsolete wheeled phone server, was a medium sized wheeled box, 12 inches on each side by 36 inches tall, connected to electricity and the manorial telephony systems. This was the new Wolenbahn server, with 128-bit / base 3-13-39 operating system and apps catalog that Lucas had ordered installed at the beginning of all the renos in 2017. At least, that part of things had been done, otherwise getting Luxis into the household devices would have been rather painful, not to mention slower than a drugged slug crawling up a hill on a patch of ice.
Across the entry of the floor's landing was the large desk & hutch reserved for the Watch Officer, or the foreman in civilian parlance, who would have been in charge of managing the sentries on each shift. Normally, the old military protocols tried to seal gaps in the wakefulness and skill levels of the men by making the supervisor switch-out at mid-shift so that good superior officers could cover more men in an attempt to spread their training and experience. It also meant that the current shift of sentries benefited from a freshly rested officer for the second part of their schedule, while said officer got fresh subordinates for the second part of his own duty, thus compensating for any loss of mental acuity or slowing down due to fatigue. Under civilian management, the system could be revived the same way to compensate for emergencies or natural disasters. The only reason the room wasn't abuzz with a horde of men was that all the overwatch was now done electronically, through cameras and sensors, all controlled centrally from armored underground bunkers located well away from the manor's terrain in case somebody targeted the owner's family itself. As long as electricity and network capabilities were up & running, this manner of command structure could be kept, but it made Lucas happy and quite relieved that he had the forethought to insist on repairing and updating all the old tech and devices when he took over.
The war room had not been really useful for anything but solitary meditation ever since the year 2000 when electronics with color flat screens and cellular telephones became common items in every person's life. At that point, the entire estate could be managed with a system that was about as complicated to use as the good old Sim City or Civilization games. From 1980, the best that could be done was select a building or vehicle on screen to get the contact details, then manually call the local manager/driver to get the actual status and change orders if needed. From 2000 onwards, real time emails, SMS and a proprietary military management app had been the norm, mostly because both the USA and Canada wanted to put their noses in his affairs to boss his people around in full contravention of his orders or needs. Then, from 2018 onwards, his own personally created systems took over much of the day-to-day operations, when the hardware it was based on was installed properly like in San Francisco, Buffalo, New York and Boston. Nowadays, the new RF-ID badges & tags were on everybody or thing, plus full body scans required by the WAC's community health care plan, plus biometric & card swipe locks all over the estate, and enough real-time scanners to make a sci-fi starship envious, all combined to make the latest version of the management software look a lot like the MMORPG The Sims. You could now touch the screen, or speak to it, to select a person to change their individual orders. The person's specific list of contact options appeared near the icon you activated them, to select a phone, SMS, email or emergency procedures. Likewise, you could now follow that person in vivu if they were suspected of malfeasance that could lead to dismissal or police intervention.
Then you add the neuroplexic systems...
Yes, Big Brother was alive and well, and his name was Lucas Wolenczak, if you were wondering...
Completing his circuit around the cavernous chamber, Lucas sighed softly as he processed his negative emotions and boiling thoughts in proper order. He made nasty smirk as he contemplated the reddish dancing flames in the small stove that had been lit, at the windows overlooking the manor's roof line, near to the public toilet access, just fifteen feet away from the manager's desk where he now stood.
They had thought him a fool, to spend so much money and man-hours on renovations and retrofits of old relics that nobody cared for, except to sell them in antiques shops to make a quick buck off his back, as if he couldn't possibly know the value of such ornate pieces.
Snort!
Letting a full blown smile appear on his lips, Lucas thought about the many arguments he had with his accountants and the managers of several of the WAC's compounds in the last 5 years.
Being an avid amateur of vintage relics was a good thing, not a just a rich boy's folly, when it kept thousands alive, housed and fed. People were certainly starting to take his appreciation for old mechanics and electrics seriously, now that the power was out on half the grid, with most banks having gone darker than dead. Being able to use hand-cranked calculators, cash registers and punched-card processors had certainly kept all of Wise Apothecary & Chemists in good shape, as it had with Wolenbahn. New web linked devices with touchscreens, wireless connection, and 'everything' stored on the Cloud, were all good and proper, but only when the climate and society cooperated accordingly. There was nothing like a good old civil war in the middle of winter to make a population admit that the old ways from 200 years ago aren't that old, nor obsolete, after all.
"Lucas! My report is ready, if you are." called Luxis, from his silvery cloud above the planning table.
Putting his left hand on every piece of furniture he could reach as he walked to have support if his cane or legs failed him was an old reflex by now. Even though his damaged limbs had been cooperating rather amicably all day, he wasn't deluded enough to believe it would last. Not the way that his luck was going in the last ten days or so.
"All right, brother mine, tell me what you found about this pile of dirt I inherited."
Showing the same sense of humor as the young man who programmed him, Luxis replied smartly "Well, if the taxes on this place don't kill you outright, the amount of paperwork to manage everything will bury you alive. Or serve as a funeral pyre, if we're talking about actual paper, cuz you know, with several thousand workers and their dependents in the tax forms and health plans, it kinda multiplies on its own, like hair on a human..."
The holographic boy smirked evilly as his sibling shook his head in despair. "Did I actually sound like this 3 years ago?" Lucas asked from the empty room, as if an answer would materialize from thin air.
"Nah, I toned it down on my own cuz I don't wanna give you a headache. I'm kind and caring like that." the virtual teenager came back, smirk still in place.
"I should have raised you differently." Lucas deadpanned, making a sour face as he did.
"Well, that's what you get for using a neuroplexic imprint of your own mind to create the kernel of my mind. As the saying goes: 'If you don't like the image I the mirror, change the object in front, not the glass that shows the reflection' and some such. I'm sure you get the message. You're smart that way." the blue, white & silvery adolescent pontificated sarcastically at his aggrieved sibling.
"Power switch. My realm for a power switch..." Lucas grunted nastily as he sat on one of the tall swiveling stools near the planning table, so he could see the images that Luxis would put up.
{ SQ } - { Sault-Sainte-Marie citadel } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 17:22pm
Once seated at ease, the ailing teenager grabbed both edges of his jacket to close it over his tall, gangly, shivering frame. He really needed to speak with a dietitian about taking some muscle-mass boosters to get some meat on his bones or he'd always get chills like this every time he came up north. Exhaling a deep breath that left a small trail of whitish vapor hang in the air before his face for a few seconds, the youth tried to force his mind into the proper mindset to deal with the extended, convoluted mess that was this part of the family's inheritance and history. Which begged the question as to why most of it was so badly recorded, and almost inaccessible from public archives, despite that several of the lands, buildings and vehicles seemed to be military-tasked by government contracts, and those were supposed to be public at all times.
Still, given the mess happening inside the convulsing remains of the deceased USA, 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. This emplacement could last 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 just-built full size neuroplexic telecom hub & server farm, designed 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.
Then there was the fact was this enormous stretch of private terrain was scary to look at.
WAC's SSM complex was composed of two asymmetrical 'squares' o kilometers on each side of the river/national border. Each had enough capacity above ground, below ground, and deep in the riverbed between them, to make certain that the Sault-Sainte-Marie riverine interdiction citadel earned its name in any conflict it could be faced with. The small manned CWIS turrets defending the watercraft hangar's wet docks and private, enclosed harbor certainly weren't the only ones on the property. Those on the boundary walls were still being pulled out from their hidden storage in the underground bunkers, then hoisted by mobile telescoping cranes onto their hydraulic mounts. The turrets had all undergone a modernization retrofit in the last two years to add pulse-beam cannons, crystalline neuroplexic circuitry, and toughen the autonomous life-support against ICBN attacks. Likewise, the built-in wash-down pipeworks in the boundary walls and buildings had been flushed and tested extensively to insure it could spray either cold water, boiling hot water, or high pressure 400º Celsius steam, to fight fire, clean off chemicals or repel invaders. In several areas of the domain, louvered vents that seemed harmless were actually powerful fans to disperse combat gases to disable or kill invading forces, just like rooftop mounted sprayers could create an artificial mist of heavy oily fluids that would slowly corrode anything organic on the estate or be ignited as part of a scorched earth tactic of last resort.
Lucas could quite legally possess, store, and even use, these high powered modern weapons and many more since one of the ancient 'legacy' divisions from the Wise Heritage, 'Forceful Wisdom Inc', was incorporated as an official supplier of equipments for the police and armies of several countries, including Canada, America and most of central Europe since 1930. His great-grand-father had been somewhat of a busybody, back in the day, and, like the ancient philosophers of the medieval era, he dabbled in many, many things. Including several that he shouldn't have, but forayed ahead anyways. Not that Lucas complained, since all those still-legal incorporations and licenses allowed him leeway in domains of law, politics, economics and society that he normally would have been pushed back from, or just kept out altogether, because of his age and views.
{ SQ } - { Connections in low places } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 17:56pm
According to the schematics and stats showed by Luxis, the WAC's complex also benefited from a private 'infrastructures, roadway & railway' armored concrete tunnel, built by F. H. Wise in the 1940's, passing beneath the river to join the two massive segments of the complex, certainly helped with making him feel as though he had options, methods and means to act according to his own choices. It was his own private border crossing station, for which he could set the open hours, admissions terms and fees. All that certainly gave him many, many choices to work with, none of them dependent on the whims of Canadian or American elected officials. Now, the humongous transport tunnel system was an open secret since World War II ended in 1945, but nobody minded anymore since everybody in both sectors of Sault-Sainte-Marie had been told about it, and why it was there. The (cheap) permits and (very low) taxes were paid every year to both countries, plus it maintained about four thousand direct & indirect jobs on each side of the river, so nobody cared that he had a private tunnel & border crossing. Besides, with the thousands of people using his tramway and roads to reach their jobs or family every day, it wasn't like the local population would revolt against it; the critical period for societal acceptance was long passed.
What Luxis had managed to unearth in the company's records, plus the Canadian government's recently declassified military files, all showed the tunnel's conception was an amusing anecdote about an incredibly opportunistic man, with an insatiable drive to grow bigger, and more influential, in all walks of life. The original Wise Apothecary & Chemists' massive territory in the late 1800's was about a quarter of what it is now, at only 1 square kilometer on each side, without the sheltered harbors or wet-docking hangars. There had been greenhouses for medicinal herbs, transformation labs, packing plants, warehouses, a basic railway triage yard since 1891, and open piers for three canal barges side-by-side, but no actual machinery workshops. Both sides of the estate of the day were pretty similar, and they used flat bottomed cargo barges to cross the water or else were forced to use the existing train line through a lengthy detour of almost 2 days.
When Canada, pushed hard by WW-II's initial phase in 1939, decided to build a military supply station & airfield near Sault-Sainte-Marie to facilitate the transport of people and merchandise locally between allies, they built it just north of WAC in what were empty fields, unused by the small village of the day. So, seeing this, the clever Doctor Wise decided immediately to double his landholdings in the area before he was cornered against the river, going up to territories that wer kilometers with the wider side facing the river shore. At that time, only the legacy estate from the 1800's had walls and wet canals around it, the rest was dry open land with sparse forest cover. Once he had bought and staked his new property limits, F. H. Wise invited to his old manor in Pointe aux Pins the representatives from both neighboring countries to negotiate a proposal he had cooked up.
He offered to design, build and maintain the tunnel that would facilitate the Allies' transit of men and arms across the border for the War Time, plus allowing public emergency services to use the roadway without charges or delays, in exchange for fixed-rate permits, taxes & customs over 100 years, renegotiable at expiration in 2047. Cunningly, F. H. Wise proposed simplistic terms for all parties to make sure the politicians wouldn't balk in front of an overly complex offer. He even managed to keep exclusive usage for his companies by adding the incorporation of a private local tramway service that could be used by the entire populace, for a fee comparable to the existing bus and streetcar lines managed by the towns on either side of the river. The tramway line would pass through the center of WAC's complex, north through the new airport, then veer east to traverse the entirety of the Canadian part of S-S-M town, all the way to Bell's Point where it would need building a high elevation bridge to cross south into the USA at Palmer's Point. From that moment, the tramway rails go back south-west in a slow curve, until they reach the Saint-Mary River at the zone called Little Rapids, where a set of new high elevation bridges were needed to pass tram, trains, roadway and infrastructures across the river and several small islands. These patches of isolated wild land were bought by WAC for greenhouses with worker dwellings, separately from the main complex, but linked integrally to the supply chain via the new road & rail system. From that riverine crossing, the tramway line traversed the entirety of the American side of SSM, until it reaches the southern segment of WAC's walled complex to close the rail loop.
The system having been designed primarily for military transportation in time of conflict, the rails were built doubled on each direction with 25' high clearance, as were the roads and all aqueduct, sewage, electricity, telephony and commercial petroleum or high-steam pipelines. In the early 1960's were added dedicated television and computer network cables to help management run the business and secure the terrain. It was also at that time that the Canadian government decided to officialize the transformation of the Sault-Sainte-Marie airport into a civilian facility while transferring it to the local authorities. That event encouraged WAC's to proceed with a rapid third expansion of its territory to achieve two blocks o kilometers, immediately putting in place the defensive wet moats, outer perimeter walls with guard towers, enclosed commercial harbors, and the dedicated machinery workshops for trains, trucks, boats and floatplanes. The depths of the Cold War was the Golden Age of the WAC industrial & habitation complex in Sault-Sainte-Marie, whilst elsewhere the company holdings were shuttered or barely surviving, like the Wise Heritage & Trust manor in Buffalo.
After Luxis closed the presentation windows, he let Lucas to his ruminations, preferring to go for a swim across the property's network while his flesh brother brooded. The organic adolescent was rather poor company when he was in such a mood, but also quite sedentary, so the virtual boy had no problems with leaving him alone for some time. Besides, if the eldest needed help, he had enough electronics on him that Luxis would hear it and intervene as necessary.
The Deeks option
(NCIS LA – opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 18:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 15:00pm
OSP – Spanish House
Los Angeles, California, USA
Hetty Lange sat in her office, on the main floor of the Spanish House, right in the rear-left corner that she had staked out for herself so many years ago. She was temporarily overshadowed by the glassed enclosure that had been Shay Lynn Mosley's office during her brief tenure in LA. Now that both the US DOD and Mosley herself were dead and buried, she could breathe at ease again, not feeling spied upon by her own people anymore. The shoddily built office cube would be disassembled in the coming weeks, until the mezzanine was back to its original shape, thus leaving the second story completely open above Hetty's head, to let in the natural light from the small windows set just under the ceiling, around the perimeter of the square common area that was the heart of the building.
Placing two fingers on her right temple, Hetty gently rubbed her aching head, trying to endure the noises of demolition coming from the main roof. Given just how exposed to attack the Spanish House was, she had relented to the opinions of her subordinates and mandated a renovation plan that included raising two complete new floors above the central quad, with a new flat roof. This was to create two levels of living quarters for the permanent crew that would staff the OPS room, armory and infirmary as well as permanent armored sniper nests at the four corners of the new roof. The flat surface would also be ideal for setting solar panels linked to water hoses to create a supply of naturally heated fluid for washing and laundy, and some elecgtricity to fill batteries. As a last recourse, it could serve as a rallying point to get picked up by a helicopter with rope ladders or an underslung nacelle.
The elder woman was dragged from her deep mulling of long-term strategic planning only to be dropped into a different type of planning that was just as important, and covered a similar length of duration as the constructions did.
Martin Deeks had returned from the enclave clean-up.
Clearly, the entire team around him was exhausted in a manner that expressed publicly that it was mental fatigue, rather than physical tiredness, that aggrieved them. Then again, clearing out a building full of decomposing cadavers of people who had been your colleagues barely two days before was bound to be harrowing. When you take into account that several of these defecting agents had brought in their families or depedents to find safety behind Mosley's walls and organizational skills, well, seeing scores of dead civilians, especially children, was never easy for anybody. The only good news was that there hadn't been any explosions reported, all the team was present, and they didn't seem in a hurry to make their report therefore the situation was probably well in hand.
Standing from her chair, Hetty made her way to the emplacement where the four senior teammates had their desks set in face-to-face pairs. Walking slowly to let the agents take off their equipment and settle down into their desk chairs, the older manager keenly observed all the minute details that indicated just how much fatigue, weariness and anxiety each officer strained with.
It wasn't good.
While Callen, Kolchek and Blye gave a surface impression of being balanced and operating normally, the telltale signs were saying the opposite. These two needed some sort of vacation or some lighter duties in the coming days or they would break under the emotional burden.
Mister Hanna was in a bad way. Ever since his wife Michelle died at the hands of terrorists last year, he'd had a bad time with alcohol, isolation, loneliness and depression-induced mood swings. He was closer to the edge than Grisha or Kensi, so he needed a vacation NOW or NCIS would lose him in the coming months, probably before March 2021 ended.
The worse off was detective Deeks; for half a year already he had been giving signs that he was no longer at ease in this job, nor this life. The plans to get married with Kensi Blye kept being scaled back in scope due to financial concerns that limited even the short hoeymoon they wanted, and needed, to take to savor the event. Then, the ceaseless 'emergencies' in the course of their jobs kept pushing back the wedding date, and they were just lucky that their international travels had been kept on this side of short & curt (not sweet, no...) in the last 6 months. If any other type of Vietnam or Mexico style situations occurred, Hetty might lose Deeks right before the mission send-off because he could very well chose change affectations, or leave the job altogether, right there in the pre-op briefing. As it was, she wasn't even certain she could keep him past the turn of the New Year, let alone to the end of January 2021. Every signal he sent were those of a man running on fumes, no longer having any energy or mental endurance left to give.
Sighing in sadness at the necessities of her job, and what the civil wars had turned the NCIS duties into, Hetty joined her hands in front of her abdomen, trying to given the impression of a wealthy woman out for a stroll around her garden. This presentation usually set her team at ease, telling them that if the boss was relaxed then everything was safe and they could relax as well. So much for that pipe dream.
{ SQ } - { One less mess to clean } - { SQ }
Upon seeing their manager coming towards their work cluster, Sam, Grisha and Anna sat straighter, turning all attention to the newcomer but showing no signs of anxiety besides the micro-expressions only a pro could detect. Kensi stood up, putting her hand on Marty's shoulder to lend him some emotional support just as much as to get some reassurance from his presence. The small smile she gave Hetty looked as fake as it felt, telling the older female that her senior agent had problems that had been developing silently too. Marty didn't even try to stand, instead leaning backwards into the chair enough to make the whole thing tilt rearwards on its pivot mechanism. Closing his eyes as he passed a shacky hand over his face, the young man sighed aloud in bone-deep tiredness.
Trying, and failing miserably, to give his boss a friendly smile that came out as a crooked rictus, the ex-LAPD detective said aloud "Whelp... It's that time of year again, when I get to defend my job performance to stick around for another season or two. On the flip side, this one oughta be short, cuz, y'all know, there ain't a big recruiting pool out there anymore."
Letting her face reflect her real emotions for one rare occasion, Henrietta Lange shook her head negatively, replying "Of course not, Mister Deeks. You were never kept in our august assemblage due to lack of recruits, but rather because the LAPD were cruelly undeserving of the privilege of your presence and services. A young man of multiple talents, genial personality, and broad perspectives such as yourself, was completely wasted on those dregs of the law enforcement community. The proof being, of course, in the fact that 77% bugged out in the very first day of the civil wars being triggered, with the 33% balance getting killed off too fast to have time to make the decision themselves. You are one of the few rare, precious, exceptions to the fall of the LADP, detective Deeks, and I am greatly thankful for your continued participation and efforts on the behalf of NCIS, and our nation. Even though, I have to admit, the latter isn't in any shape to be grateful to anybody for anything at present. It's the thought that counts, as the saying goes."
Callen sat back in his chair, looking anxiously between Hetty, Deeks and Kensi, finally exhaling a soft curse in russian, whispering to himself "Damn! We're in deep shit if she's pulling out the 'grateful nation' spiel to keep him with us."
Hanna folded his arms over his chest, making him look like a miniature – and slighly eroded – mountain of shining obsidian that exuded discontent and disapproval at all comers. Puffing out an exhale of despondency, the black male griped "It's not like we weren't all aware Deeks was straining under a lot of stress and problems for the last year. We all were, but he had LAPD and detective Whiting riding him on top of everything else NCIS dealt with. Honestly, folks, weren't you all seeing it coming since July? I'm not happy he wants to leave, not any more than any of you, and especially not in this mess, but I ain't surprised like he'd done it behind our backs. He was always open about his feelings on the matters with the whole team, not just with Kensi."
Kolchek spoke softly, chiming in support for the person and the team at large. "I understand that you have been under duress lately. I certainly haven't been involved with you long enough to have lived or felt these strains the same way. But, I know that it is important for your health, and the team's capacity to function safely, that you stay in the field only if you have the health, mind and energy to do it. Otherwise, you could accidentally endanger someone due to poor reflexes or lack of emotional implication in the situation you're processing. Besides, as Hetty said, you have multiple talents and a wide perspective on events. I'm certain she has a dozen things that need done that could allow you a change of pace without actually leaving us completely. Field work isn't the only thing needed."
"Speaking of field work," Hetty asked, taking the chance to change the subject while it passed in front of her, "Why are you back so soon? I had expected the clearing of the enclave to take several days."
Sam grunted in contempt, replying "It would have, if we'd been dealing with incompetent people bent on letting us hang in the wind. Mosley had built herself one sweet powder keg to sit on, I can tell you that much. Several dozen barrels of premixed ANFO with the detonators and wireless hubs all placed and rearing to blast."
Director Lange massaged her left temple as the picture began to form in her mind. "wireless hubs to link the bombs and detonation controler?" she asked glibly, just to confirm her suspicion.
Callen simply nodded as he puttered with stuff on his desk, Kensi looked at her fiancé who seemed preoccupied by the screensaver on his computer's monitor, while Anna shrugged powerlessly.
"Yeppp," Sam declared, popping his 'P' like a snarky teenager. "I think you can guess how well that ended up doing in the context."
The female spymistress pursed her lips in dire contemplation, slowly elocuting "I gather then that we owe doctor Wolenczak's goodwill yet another debt. No doubt his hacking skills resolved that particular mess without setting anything ablaze. We wouldn't have the enclave, let alone the buildings, machinery and food reserves without his timely assistance. I shall mention that to him in our next vid-con."
"Yeah... You do that." Kensi mumbled in a dark mood. "In the meanwhile, we'll all be contemplating the stupidity of creating defense or self-destruct systems based on wireless signals when a grand-master hacker is our declared ally (potential enemy), and just how NOT secured our buildings are since then."
Sam detailed the situation; "Wolenczak found the signals, hacked in, traced them from the stand-alone server in Mosley's office to each of the wireless hubs around the enclave, then caused each hub to go into a locked loop as if it were being tested by the factory techs before packaging & shipping. When we reached the terrain to start securing the premises, we received on all our phones a map of the buildings with the locations of all the bombs, hubs and secret internal espionage servers that Mosley intended to use to peep on her own folks to keep them in line. We only needed to send one person per cluster of barrels to physically remove the blasting caps and wires, reset the hubs, and the job was done."
Anna chimed in glumly "We were basically doing the young man's errands, more than anything else."
"Oh, bugger it all!" was all Hetty could answer to the situation before her eyes.
{ SQ } - { A heart in turmoil } - { SQ }
Given that the problem was actually fully solved, even if not by a method she could control, Hetty was now satisfied that the enclave could undergo the cleaning and sanitation necessary for human habitation, which would then lead to their men and families having a safe haven at last. Given that the resolution was accomplished and final, she rerouted her mind to the next problem at hand.
"Detective Deeks, we were due for a conversation, following this morning's briefing. I do believe that, in the light of the current mission being finished, now would be the appropriate time."
Marty gave his entire body a shake, making him look like a shaggy blond dog shaking off after a long nap by the fireplace. Squeezing Kensi's hand for mutual support, he stood up to walk with Hetty so they could find an enclosed place for a private chat. After the fucking mess of a charnel house they had just cleared out, a coffee with brandy would be good, and maybe a sandwich too. He said so as he shoved his hands deep in the pockets of the dark blue cargo pants he wore, walking slowly so as to let Hetty's shorter stride keep up with him.
The last thing the team heard was Hetty's comment about a Napoleon VSOP 10 years, a bit cheap yes, that she'd been hoarding as coffee aromat, for the rare rainy days Los Angeles got. The oddly matched pair were seen disappearing through the doorway that led towards the washrooms, service stairs, and the small staff cafeteria that almost nobody liked using because it was so small, cramped, and had almost no choices. Vending machine pre-wrapped 'stuff' was never truly tasty so people preferred packing their meals, ordering something for delivery, or going out to nearby restaurants. Most probably the two colleagues would just grab a coffee then move on elsewhere to be alone for their chat.
Hetty led Marty to the building's poorly equipped cafeteria for whatever solid food and coffee were available since his team had skipped lunch in order to finish processing the enclave faster. All 8 critical buildings had been cleared out much, much faster than Hetty's experience suggested they would need. She had anticipated a work rate of one edifice per half-day in the best circumstances, not 5 hours for everything, not that anybody complained for the quickie job being finished. It meant their men were going to be safely housed that much sooner. After grabbing the much needed meal and liquid courage, both agents used the narrow service staircase to climb down to the second basement where the armory was located. Walking passed the weapons workshop, they marched down a corridor that linked with the second level of underground parking, entering a room that was labeled as a janitor's closet but was in fact the entryway to a hidden security surveillance room. One more of Hetty's little secrets that riddled the walls of any building she used.
Once well ensconced in thickly padded swivel chairs, surrounded by monitors, sensor readouts and flatscreen TV's that showed eight different international news channels at the same time, the pair could finally unload some stress, and give Marty the time to eat before talking. After Marty had eaten his two plain tuna salad sanwiches and drank half his coffee, adulterated with Hetty's secret booze stash, they were sated enough to dig into the problem that overshadowed everything.
{ SQ } - { High hopes deceived } - { SQ }
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 15:30pm
"You have been thinking of leaving not only the LAPD, but NCIS as well." Henrietta began in a tone of hesitation that was rarely heard from her. "Unless I sorely miss the mark, Mister Deeks, it may even be that you have been thinking of leaving all policing completely. Could you enlighten me?" she asked gently, genuinely afraid she would lose one of her best and most versatile agents.
"It isn't an easy thing to explain, the sort of emotions churning in my gut right now," Marty replied slowly as he was deep in thought, "but the concepts are simple enough to catch."
Letting out a soul-weary sigh, the blond-haired male fiddled with his styrofoam coffee cup as he tried to explain the mess inside his heart. "I can't do it anymore. I started out as a lawyer because I wanted to be part of the Public Defender's office for real; that was actually my career goal. To be the defender of the small, poor and sick who can't afford a representative but should get a good, decent one nonetheless. Boy, was that youthful idealism or what!"
His blue eyes displaying a soul-deep weariness, Marty snorted in contempt at the thoughts boiling inside of himself. "I didn't even spend a handful of years in the PD's office that I switched over to the police academy, getting trained as a detective then joining the LAPD. At that point, I had become convinced that the best remedy for the broken court system was to make certain that as few people as possible ever entered the damned thing. Because I sure saw what happens to those, even rich and powerful, who got sucked into that bottomless pit of despair called 'Department of Justice'."
Closing his eyes, the agent leaned back in his chair until his face was towards the ceiling as he continued the harrowing lifestory. "So then I tried to be the kind of cop that was honest, didn't abuse his badge, and never sent people to court or jail unless they earned it, because nobody deserved to be put in that unholy meat grinder we call 'The System'. Well, it turns out that the LAPD wasn't in the market for honest men, and putting people behind bars really is the only thing the cops, DA's and judges have to do to make it look functional. The population doesn't care, the politos don't care, so neither do the court servants. The LAPD brass quickly got fed up with my honesty, so they began sending me to undercover stings, ever more dangerous at each new mission, in the clear hopes I would either quit from fright or die at the hands of criminals when I was discovered as a cop. Then NCIS came along with a request for a 'Liaison Officer' and I thought I'd hit the jackpot at last, especially since I was the only volunteer."
Marty shook his head sideways, expressing just how wrong that foolish idea had been, and how the results didn't match the hopes he had kept alive for years.
"I wanted to help people. I wanted to lend a hand to those who were passed over, ignored, or willingly set aside in the ditch to clear the way for those in Power. Becoming an officer of the court was never about money, prestige and authority. Becoming a cop was never about being able to pummel brutes to submission, or shoot anybody that annoyed me that day. Maiming or killing people with assault rifles, grenade launchers, chemicals, or ramming them into a cruddy red paste on the pavement with a vehicle were never my desire. How the fuck did I pass from being a 'helper' to being a 'hurter' who sets the city ablaze everytime he leaves his house?"
Henrietta sighed despondently, her own weariness showing on her entire person for a rare occasion as she tried to articulate an answer that the devoted agent could accept. The problem was saying something that was honest, not bullshit or banal platitudes he'd told himself already.
"Mister Deeks, I can't for the life of me come up with an answer to that. I can only apologize for having dragged you into a situation that was far different than what I had promised when you began collaborating with our agency. It had never been my plan to change your assigned task as formal point of contact & legal advisor into a SWAT team inter-arms specialist. All those years ago when you joined our ranks, I had never foreseen that the criminal elements would become so violent, so depraved, and so completely disconnected from human norms, that rabid curs would be easier to negotiate with than what we have dealt with on a daily basis over the last 5 years. As for the circumstance that surrounds us, namely the US Civil Wars of 2020-21, I can only plead helplessness as none of us could predict just how badly things would degenerate."
Marty kept his eyes closed, trying to stave off a stress migraine as he gave his boss a snarky smirk of disbelief, not willing to let her words pass unchallenged anymore. "Yeah, about that... I don't actually believe that, that nobody saw it coming, or guessed how bad it would get. How many agencies had 'Noah' contingencies prepared? How many military contractors or 'Friends of Power' got help to prepare? The house I bought in joined account with Kensi didn't pay for itself, and we certainly couldn't afford the basement bunkers or the surveillance tech. Mosley didn't prepare that enclave by the cargo docks just on a lark. Our good buddies over at the DXS didn't prepare their enclave in the city's eastern mid-height mountains simply to get away from the trafic jams. And the Wise/Wolenczak family didn't build those massive multi-mile terrains with moats, walls, towers and gunnery nests out of nostalgia for the feudal society of the 1600's or English baronnial architecture. People saw it coming, Hetty! But they didn't stop it because they thought they could get richer, more influent, obtain more raw Power, than if a state of peace and stability was maintained. And now we poor chmucks have to clean it up, or at least endure long enough that the bastards have had their fill of war profiteering, so they finally permit us to end this to set the country to rights."
Director Lange pursed her lips in disaccord, but took the time to think before replying. The younger agent's arguments had clear validity, especially in the face of the 'Noah' protocols that were applied with a lot of differing efforts, and wildly varying results. The arguments about the Wise complexes was in a class of its own, since they had been building those industrial edifices for two centuries in America, and more in Europe. But to Deeks it was all the same; people had foreseen the wars coming, and since the 2000's close to 50% of the USA's population had been expecting, sometimes awaiting eagerly, a 'Great Holy War' to cleanse the country of the impure and infidels. Once that fight starts, the nitty-gritty details of who prepared what, why, or when, no longer matters anymore, only that they knew but never warned anybody, and were now raking in the profits just like everybody else.
"Ah, bugger it all!" Hetty griped softly. "No matter what I say, the simple truth is that you have eyes and a functional mind; you can arrive at the conclusion yourself. There have been entities preparing for war throughout all epochs of humanity, sometimes for profit when they can influence the outcome of the war, or purely defensively when they have no choices. In the middle ages, people living around the rivers of Europe fortified their towns because they knew the Vikings were coming, and would return the next spring, and so on as long as the town wasn't sacked and burned. Nowdays, we build bunkers out of poured concrete or pre-welded steel casings but for exactly the same reasons; a declared, publicly acknowledged enemy is coming on the horizon. The only variable nobody controls is how long it takes the enemy to reach our lands, and then our walls, but come they do, their troops are always on the march and never stop for more than a short pause. What you see is simply the inescapable outcome of this cyclic, self-perpetuating planetary mechanism of which we are the moving parts, the fuel, the program and the user, etc... And just like a miserable fool who not only drives while drunk and stoned out, but also has a cigarette in the mouth and a pair of cellphones all at once. Just like that fool, humanity is driving impaired and distracted, and without a care in the world for the result to itself."
Marty raised his head to glare at Hetty straight on, agreeing with her evaluation but not in the mood to let her philosophe her way out this mess. She'd sweet-talk the white stripe off a skunk's back, if given half a chance, and the man knew that he had to make a stand now or he would die in the field, still unmarried, and, maybe not even engaged anymore either.
Clearing his throat noisily, the agent replied "It's not that you're wrong on the overall concepts about humanity's warmongering, or the causalities of the present epoch's conflicts, it's that I'm at a point where I'm passed caring for it all. I'm at a point where, for my mental health, for my sanity and my very sense of identity as who 'Marty Deeks' is in this life, I have to change taks or jobs, but it has to happen or else something inside of me won't reach the finish line with the rest of me. Unless you absolutely want me to be reduced to a soulless husk that shuffles from one mission to another without any life, thought or care, we'll have to come up with something. Quickly. Like, in the coming weeks, if not days, quickly."
Henrietta took her glasses off, dumping them unceremoniously on the security monitors' desk top then passed both hands over her face, trying to rub away the moral and mental fatigue that were haunting her more and more with every day that passed. Taking a deep breath, she sipped some of her own aduleterated coffee, wincing in distaste at the lukewarm beverage but swallowing more anyways so as to get the kick in the motor from the brandy dissolved in the dark depths. After a few minutes of silent contemplation, Hetty exhaled a belly-deep sigh, coming to the conclusion that she had tried to avoid because that same gut had been giving her weird feelings about it.
{ SQ } - { Solutions as bad as the problem } - { SQ }
"I have options for you, mister Deeks, but none that I raise with you easily, nor happily, as it gives me pause and many qualms. The persons involved are not in any ways as friendly as we are made to believe, but this could be the best of all worlds, given the fact that we are drowning in a shitstorm located above an open-air cesspit. This is gonna stain everyone, we only get to choose which offal splashes us, not if or when. Do you understand the gravity of what I have held back?"
Seeing Deeks nod silently to her question, the veteran spymistress pursed her lips in distaste, making a face as if she were truly mired in a cesspit, as she described. Putting her glasses back on, she pointed at the younger agent's chest, warning him; "My options for your case aren't any prettier than the position you have presently. At first, it could seem pleasant, or at least safe due to the sedentary nature of the tasks. But that sedentarity would only be short-lived, and come to an end all too soon for all of us to be happy with it. And you could still be led into fights, or at least interrogations of enemy assets, no matter which choice you pick. We are living multiple civil wars in the USA homeland, and most countries on Earth have destabilized catastrophically, or they will in a matter of hours, by now."
"What are those options?" Marty asked timidly, almost afraid to know.
Raising three fingers on her right hand, Hetty detailed "I have three options that are readily available for an agent with your talents, experience, and the certified formation to do them well. In fact, it's because of your Law Degree and municipal policing training that you can be considered for them, otherwise, we would be having to set you as the cafeteria attendant or a janitor in the new enclave."
With a face of mixed annoyance and dread, the blond policeman made a 'gimme' gesture with his left hand, just as he gulped the rest of his cold coffee. "Okay, O'le Gal, lay it on me!"
"You asked for it, Mister Deeks." Hetty snarked back, not angry since he was in fact getting a bit more lively than before. "The first option is that I keep you in Los Angeles as our Liaison to DXS so you can guide our inter-agency paperwork, personnel exchanges, inventory swipes, etc... You would work directly under my hand, always in the same building, and would only travel to the DXS base or enclave inside the LA perimeter, never further."
"The second option is that you become our Liaison to the UEO Police & Security , I remind you that I am currently the 'Acting Director' of NCIS for the entire USA, not just my sector anymore, and it's only because everywhere else has gone dark that I'm not swamped in papers, and crew transfers to fill vacant posts, or running after stolen inventory. As I cover the country, including our out-of-border activities, and the UEO is inter-confederative, this job means a lot of long range, international traveling, although you would be posted mostly here in LA or at our office in Florida. The worst threat to your well-being should be in the form of impaired diplomats, pushy politos and some big-wig ship commanders trying to influence the outcome of NCIS investigations and processes. And those problems are only for as long as we can maintain a semblance of national management reliably enough to emulate our usual sovereignty. If the country completely collapses... Well, the DXS liaison would keep you in town, whereas the UEO liaison would put you near ground zero of our implosion."
"The third option is bitter-sweet because it fits your needs the best, but carries the worst risks in terms of seeing you in fights or direct contact with enemy assets. Also, the principal 'friendly' could hardly be considered as such, despite that he is temporarily my 'superior', as you so intelligently surmised this morning at our briefing. The 'Constable – Governor' of the North-American Mid-Line has requested that we establish a legal-attaché posting in our directorate's structure to interface with his queries, and orders, more efficiently and without the inevitable balls-giggling that occurs when adult males over 50 years old interact with him, be it in person or writing. I have been told that he expects this person to come at the WAC's compound to initiate the processes for two or three weeks, then they would only need to go back in person yearly, for 7 to 10 days to close the fiscal & legal year each December. Like the other positions, this is upper management, directly under my own position, and would be relatively safe as long as you are in Los Angeles, since I would keep you out of the field unless the HQ building itself, our our enclave, is attacked. If you get a call for mandatory travel to assist Lucas Wolenczak in person, I cannot give any guarantee of what he would ask, as the written job description we received by email is rather wide and blurry; just like the job you have presently. In fact, I have the nasty feeling that doctor Wolenczak may have taken your field work and results as the template to write the job rules and expectations, rather than the limitative writ the LAPD had given at the beginning of your tenure."
"Well crap." Deeks chocked out, "You weren't kidding about bad options and worse. And those are the only ones you have?" he asked, practically begging her to have kept something in her back pocket as a tactic to make him agree to it right away, instead of haggling for salary and benefits.
"If you want to have an employment in our agency at a level of pay, security clearance, information access, regular meetings with the senior field team, and a good usage of your full spectrum of skills, then yes, I'm afraid these are what I have that isn't just as another field team position. The closest next job would place you as either managing officer, or shift foreman, for our enclave's new defensive militia that I am planning to recruit from civilian volunteers. We will be selecting amongst the families that are pooling inside with the agents who have survived, and answered the call to come serve. That means training them through an abbreviated boot-camp for an immediate start-up, then at least one or two days of training per week, all year long, until they have the equivalent of full-cadet status, which is the best we can ask of wall-walkers whose only jobs are to scope out the territory from on high, talk into a phone or intercom, and occasionally shoot their AR-15 rifles if the compounds are besieged."
Marty leaned forward to put his elbows on his knees, his face craddled in his hands as he moaned aloud a pitiful "I'm fucked not just a little, aren't I?"
Hetty snorted in good humor at his dramatics, snarking back at him "At least we're in it togther. Think of how much worse it would be if you were alone. Not everybody would be so accommodating as to assist you during this crucial change in your life."
Raising his face to look at the older woman incredulously, Marty stayed silent because he had a gut feeling that any answer he spoke would make things a whole lot worse.
Owning a rather sizable problem
( - )
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 18:41pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 15:41pm
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
Lucas, was now thinking rather darkly about his stupid ancestor, and his equally stupid, asinine attempts at 'worthiness tests' to determine his 'true heir'. Who the bloody fucks did that sort of thing, anyways? He might as well have left the damned company to his blasted cat! At least the jobs would have been saved from closing down by sheer neglect and disinterest. Unless it was the lawyers who invented this, as a way to block anybody from taking ownership. That corruption amongst the lawyers and elected people in both countries could explain a lot.
Rubbing his forehead in depressive anger, the teenager wondered anew just how deeply embedded in the family's genetics 'congenital idiocy' was. Both his parents certainly had it, just like the grand-mothers had, and they took theirs from Wise directly. After losing a minute or two to his morose thoughts about just how much he owned, and how close to all disappearing it had been just a few years back, the boy shook himself awake, tapped his cane on the hard cement floor twice, then set to marching out of the watch room. He needed to walk, to move, to make his mind percolate all the raw data and factoids he'd just found out.
Taking the stairs, he slowly climbed down to the bedroom level to get his winter clothing. From his bedroom he called the central valet guard station, to ask for one of the on-shift people to serve as guide. As he took the elevator towards the third floor where the connection with the manor was, the cabin stopped at the kitchen level to pick up Raphael Chadderton who had decided to be his new employer's tour agent for the evening. The young adult had anticipated that Lucas would want to visit the property over the coming days so the butler had cleared some of his scheduled tasks, delegating to the junior valets and maids so he could attend the Master himself, now that he was finally present.
Lucas wanted to start with a walk around the perimeter of the manor itself, to visually see the size and shape of the structure that was now his main base of operations for the coming months. He needed to feed his prodigious eidetic memory with the unfiltered images & feelings that came with the real-life terrain, buildings and people, not dry-cut data sheets anymore. So, the pair walked out from the main entry, giving the younger teen a good chance to see in detail the masonry, steel and glass that composed the reinforced portal, as well as the layered defenses surrounding it. Afterwards, they decided to walk clockwise around the plot of land reserved for the family, as that alone would equate a 4 kilometer walk for the evening. Lucas chose to walk close to the perimeter wall, to inspect the protective curtain's gate-keeps and towers, especially the newly refurbished weapons turrets, and also to have some perspective on the incredibly tall and massive mansion structure. The 11 storeys of the flaring tower overlooked everything on the compound, since few things but industrial chimneys reached so high in the air anywhere in the WAC's complex.
Answering kindly the short salutes, and polite platitudes, given to them by the few foremen or managers who recognized them as they walked amongst the tall brick and concrete buildings of his heritage, the rich teenager took his own sweet time to tour the facility that he had only once before in his life visited. It had been a whirlwind of a tour, at age 10, when he was taking over the Wise legacy. That visit had been so curtailed that it allowed him only one day to skim over the accounting books and managerial plans before getting back on the floatplane to go visit another facility that had been in dire difficulty. In fact, other than Buffalo, New York City and Boston, Lucas had not really spent any considerable time inside any of the other manors or industrial complexes owned by his ancestors. It was a crying shame, too; these people had known how to plan, design and build stuff in a way that really merited the appellation 'Old Glory', and they deserved to be preserved in functioning state so the people had jobs and lives.
The pair of young men stopped at the rear of the private grounds, near the artificial harbor, so that Lucas could see the size and openness of the waterway, including the watergate in the external wall that separated the private terrain from the river. The sheer size of the watergate at 250 feet wide, flanked by weaponized guard towers, was designed to block access to large boats and low-flying aircraft alike, with the gunnery turrets insuring the besieging enemy would be held back forcibly. Similar guard towers ringed the shores and docks of the enclosed private harbor, guaranteeing that any assault would not crush the defenders if they managed to bulldoze through the outer walls, but instead the home force would have a second chance at repelling the charge.
Lucas sighed in heartfelt relief as his weary soul shed its burdens at the sight of dozens of workers still moving around like busy bees in a lively hive despite the late hour. The adolescent left the hangar, walking over the steel drawbridge and deep wet moat that surrounded the huge edifice, treading carefully on the snow covered cobblestones. Assisting his march with his armament cane, he slowly ambled through the 'public' working areas of the older, separately walled 'legacy' area that enclosed the enormous manor and its dependencies. This was the original beating heart of the Wise Family's economic might and technological prowess, given a new lease on life and usefulness. Feeling peaceful at long last, the young man enjoyed the feel of the open skies around him, and the clean river air rushing through his long blond hair. He extended a bare hand, letting some of the white powdery snow that was beginning to fall again settle in his palm, getting tickled by the chilled wetness of the stuff.
Taking a deep calming breath, he adjusted his wide brimmed hat and gloves, deciding to take his time walking around before retreating inside the thick walls of his heritage for the night. Thick walls that his ancestors, victims of centuries of wars, Inquisition and pogroms in Europe, had known they needed to build to stay alive. Along with underground bunkers, attic shelters, secret rooms, hidden passages, with many infrastructure backups and redundancies layered side-by-side to make certain the buildings were always defended and livable, regardless of weather or warfare. If the governments of Canada and America had bothered to look beyond the large amounts of monies paid in licenses, permits, taxes and border excise duties every year, they would have realized by now what kind of heavily armed, deeply entrenched toxic parasite they had been fostering in their lands.
"Snort! Self-blinding is such a 'beautiful' psychological mechanism. No wonder every tyrant, mafiosi or cult guru who ever existed exploited it so fully." Lucas whispered nastily under his breath, as he slowly walked around this magnificent property to his own rhythm for the first time in five years.
As they circled back around towards the front of the manorial enclosure, the young owner could only gaze in wonder at how truly majestic it was, even though there had been many phases of updates for technology and land uses. Doctor Wise had always insisted on maintaining the original aesthetics of the basal design, so all the new constructions had been built the same way; a structure of thick steel 'I' beams with re-bar and concrete clad in brown brickwork. All the window frames, door frames, balcony floors and banisters were all steel structure covered in molded concrete, often painted to look like wrought iron or wood from afar, to make people believe the buildings weren't as armored as they were. The roofs were similarly crafted; thick steel beams and girders with re-bar, molded concrete and a decorative covering of flat steel sheets electroplated with copper to make believe that it was a traditional 'ordinary' wood timber frame & copper sheet roof like other great houses of the era.
His ancestor had been a paranoid bastard and a professional fraudster.
Then again, here they were, in yet another civil/planetary war, so he'd been proven right, no?
In any ways, Lucas wasn't in either the mood or the situation to disapprove of the architectural style or engineering preferences of his forebears, especially since he was depending on it all to stay alive and free from bondage. The estate wouldn't stop a determined national army, it couldn't realistically do that, but it could scare off mercenaries, church-whores and cult crazies who might want to kill him to claim the kudos for the act. Also, in reality, it was the thousands of jobs he controlled, with the families that depended on them, that weight of societal influence is what gave him the clout to negotiate with the municipal authorities on both sides of the river to obtain protection from openly known threats like the churches and political parties. The rest, the secret sects, the hidden money movements and the exchanges of favors in Ottawa would have to be detected and dealt with by his own employees. The WAC's facility was the biggest employer in the entire region; they would need to combine the airports, ship canals, public transit systems and public works of both sides of Sault-Sainte-Marie to equal his total head-count in the zone. As long as that was the case, Lucas could pull strings locally for help to defend the houses and working buildings of WAC's, but just how much help would they get in this mess that engulfed the continent?
And that 'promised' help from the towns was contingent on his staying a nice, kindly neighbor who kept his weapons and trained militia inside his walls, out of view of the public. Given the nightmarish circumstances in the American side of things, that could change promptly. The USA side of SSM had stayed peaceful and livable because his many companies created such a large, unavoidable footprint in the social landscape. Nobody wanted to rouse the sleeping giant, nor give them a reason to leave the moated, walled and bunkered terrain they occupied for close to a century.
The expected result was too horrifying to contemplate.
For the elected officials, bureaucrats and lick-spittle's in both countries, at least.
But not for Lucas or his managers, since they had revised the domain's civil defense plans twice in the last five years, going so far as to use one of his other companies to build off-road enabled ambulances and firefighting trucks, in case climatic changes or industrial pollution caused damages and injuries inside his holdings. Building extra trains to increase the pace of deliveries to the wholesalers had been a costly but judicious choice, as those could now be used to gather and bring recruits for the workshops and militias he had instituted all around the USA side of operations. Now, what Lucas really needed were more armed patrol boats for the river, aircraft to link all the remote places he owned, and trucks to defend his grounds locally as he expanded his reach all around his many installations. Conversely, he needed to expand and solidify his network of train lines, then build some hovercraft to be able to move troops & cargo across water even in the winter months.
So, Empire building. Again.
"Oh, joy of joys. Guess Sid Meir's Civilization was back in fashion, after all." the young male thought bemusedly as he walked back towards the manor's main entry.
A dram of poison for your soul
(James Bond – generic saxophone theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 19:30pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 16:30pm
Secret bunker
Los Angeles, California, USA
Janet Noyce wiped a dirty rag down the length of a cheap wooden spoon that was covered in blood, bone shards and churned viscera mulch. The man chained on the table would not particularly care about her fussy cleanliness, but she wasn't expecting him to comment anymore. She had obtained the informations required to secure the escape of the CIA's runaway agents against the vengeance of Trumpists and White Supremacists, and so his death had finally occurred.
It was not a clean end, in keeping with the method of questioning.
The Swastika wearing idiot had bragged on open cellphone lines about his ability to guide the survivors of the White Christian Regency to the doorsteps of traitors and defectors, specifically ex-agents of the intelligence divisions and many federal police officers. He had even sent amateurish maps and lists of names/addresses by email to prove his capacity to deliver, in exchange of payment and participation in the hunt & execution of the traitors. What he promised was quite astounding, and very dangerous for a lot of Janet's friends and old colleagues if it happened to be true. Therefore, the old woman decided to abide the justified fears of her contact and proceed the capture and interrogation herself. She had the resources in place for decades, and this was exactly the reason for which they were made.
In the end of things, the man's fanaticism was matched only by his utter imbecility, but easily surpassed by his cowardice and lack of endurance for the treatments he was so willing to dish out. Janet had seen CIA cadets not finished with boot-camp who exhibited more gumption than this wiry rat, and they certainly knew better than to blab all day about pains they couldn't endure, or secret things they couldn't deliver. The twenty-eight years old wouldn't be able to denounce anybody, and the handful of men he had accidentally discovered would be safe again during their escape from the USA.
Gesturing to the pair of nondescript men wearing full body vinyl coveralls and helmets with air filters, she ordered them silently to unbind the carcass for disposal. One man opened the large cast iron door behind them, revealing the flaming core of an industrial furnace filled with incandescent wood logs and charcoal briquettes. The men now wheeled back the serving carts that held the various tools and chemicals used in their dire trade, liberating the passage for them to manually carry the dead body into the hellish pit. Five minutes of effort saw the skinny depraved fool stuffed into the voracious flames, all parts of him, and extra wood on top to insure a proper spread of the heat to guarantee a full cremation.
Without any comments to her unidentified assistants, Janet recovered her personal tools from the main table, going to one of the four large janitor's sinks to wash them for stowing back in her purse. She heard the furnace's cast iron door close and lock, the two men leaving by their own individually reserved steel doors without any questions or comments either. Everybody involved in this meeting had known just enough to be present in the bunker hidden under the sewers of Los Angeles, and had the skill sets needed to accomplish the tasks, but knowing each other's identities or making small talk had never been in the job plans.
The elderly woman finished cleaning her tools, setting them in a drying basket hung inside the sink, then began the onerous process of removing the reusable vinyl coveralls she had worn to avoid the splashes of body fluids. She dropped the helmet, booties and bodysuit in the sink she had used for her tools, calmly walking away to the sliding steel door by which she had accessed the dreary chamber. She had only one key and it opened only this door, just as the other two men had their keys which released only their own private portals. Once she was locked into her private changing room, she heard the fourth steel door open to let in the person who was today's janitor to clean-up the torture room for the next time it was needed. The cleanliness was mandatory not for the comfort of the victims or interrogators, but to destroy all evidence of the presence of any specific person or item. Ever since the days of the American Revolution whence it became evident that stealing the technologies of enemies would be the feat determining who won conflicts, it also became obvious that hiding the activities of such espionage and torture of agents was paramount. Not only to protect a country's reputation as a people of kindness, but also to hide just how much they knew and from which sources it was obtained.
Janet put on her civilian clothes, a nice little pantsuit in tones of winter sky gray that fit loosely enough to hide the wrist rigs with her knives, the ankle holsters with drop-guns, and several sheaths with knives and small Derringer pistols hung under the arms on each side. A pair of solid steel hair pins stabilized her chignon, the locket had her neck held powdered poison, and her earrings were small explosives that reacted to open air. Opening her wide carpet bag, she put her wooden tools of misery in their proper slots, next to the Colt M1911 9mm pistol with scope & silencer, to keep the movements and noises to the minimal. then she inspected the small electronic boxes, the size of MP5 players, that jammed tracker signals, rerouted social media Live-Time updating, scanned & spoofed most security sensors, and the telephone ## capture & spoof device. With all the weapons, tools, and electronics positioned and active, she put on her glasses again, shouldered her handbag, and walked out of her private room by the same tunnel she had arrived.
Janet walked slowly, her mouth pursed tightly as she mentally revised the information gathered from the menial little bastard in the last few hours. As she kept an eye on the shadowy, damp, cement tunnel to maintain defenses in case of attack, the older spy couldn't help but be angry at the depths of perfidy that some people would lower to when trying to get money, alcohol, drugs or other payments. The traitor she had processed was a complete accident; not even an amateur PI or industrial spy who saw things he shouldn't have. No! The miserable fucktard was simply a local skinhead who'd heard and seen a few families quickly packing the most basic of belongings into large SVU's not their own for a one-way trip out of the country. The fanatical bigot had not even confirmed who the fleeing families were; he just saw the organized escape combined to big black SUV's and that was enough for him to concoct a conspiracy theory for sale on the web. The fact he had in fact spotted three agents amongst the 8 names he had listed was just pure bad luck for everybody involved.
Damn! What was the world coming to, that their good, honest agents were being spied upon and hunted by run-of-the-mill neighborhood skinheads, militias and church-whores? Weren't the foreign spies enough? Weren't there enough soldiers and spies from abroad without getting the cretins from their own backyard into the game?
The veteran spymistress walked slowly, deliberately letting her wide, heavy wooden 2 inch heels clop loudly on the cement floor, the echo of her aggressive footfalls returning to her ears in a manner that soothed her raw nerves. This day was a waste. A bloody mess, quite literally, and a damned waste of time, resources, efforts and her own presence that could have been better used elsewhere. Sighing deeply in both aggravation and wrath, the elder CIA agent missed one critical clue that she wasn't alone in the tunnel, buried 70 feet beneath the streets of LA.
A small dull gray contraption crawled out of a broken ventilation grate, from a cement duct that brought in some tepid air from the Los Angeles subway tunnels about 200 feet to the left of Janet's path. The centipede-like robotic device had 24 legs on each side, a crest of short tentacles that ran half its length, small, nasty and sharp pincers on each leg, and a myriad of small blue eyes all over its body, making it devoid of front/tail anatomy. As Janet Noyce walked on, mired deeply inside her thoughts about the deteriorating landscape of the espionage world, the automaton moved quickly in the opposite direction, towards the hidden interrogation room and, hopefully, a secret computer server to hold the schedules, jobs, agents in attendance, supplies consumed and such. Even with the country in disarray, that information about the CIA's activities would be priceless at all times. The fact it was happening inside the borders of the USA, an illegal act according to the CIA's charter & by-laws, meant that internal political actors would be even more interested than foreigners.
(Sigrid – Everybody Knows)
Either way, somebody was going to make a wad of profit, if only because the four access tunnels each had their own little mechanical monster lying in wait, and the identities of the agents who came today would have a marketable value all of their own. Setting up the depraved little skinhead to take the fall by making certain his inept trawling for a cash-out cam to the appropriate eyes had simply been proper tradecraft in the Game. The Cold War may be finished, and most of the national countries may be dying quickly, but that didn't mean that truly good spies went out of business. They still had their survival, and their families, to tend to all the same.
As for whom it was that spied on Janet? Since he changed name thrice a day, it wasn't important; he'd be around, especially if it paid for him to become involved.
Homeward bound (cruel irony)
(SeaQuest – opening theme, season 1)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 21:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 18:00pm
UEO command tower; Section-7 detention level
New Cape Quest, Florida, USA
The young black soldier, dressed in the integrally black uniform with small silver insignias, walked around the prisoners, checking on the six-point harnesses, making certain that the specially conceived safety locks were sealed, the shackles closed tightly, and the length of steel chain between the limbs allowed just enough movement in the legs for ¾ strides at a regular pace.
No running allowed, and certainly not any escaping. The person who had ordered the restitution of these two had a bad habit of scorching an entire town off the map if an enemy was hiding inside. Making him angry by losing his parental units could only lead to him thinking they were complicit in their escape, to which he would react by vaporizing the UEO's planetary HQ, followed by most of New Cape Quest around it. There may be grumblings amongst the higher-ups, but nothing serious because nobody was stupid enough to think they could out-glare the Basilisk II lasers. Not yet, anyways.
The six beige uniformed sailors of the UEO's regular security forces were arrayed at six points around the preparation hall, decked in body armor, helmets and brand new, very rare and expensive, pulse rifles with bayonets. These six were chosen specifically because they had no discoverable links to anybody called 'Wise', 'Wolenczak' or 'Holtzenstein' in their lives or that of first degree relatives. All sailors who had the least bit of a doubt about any past affiliations with churches, worship groups or any type of racial activism had been kicked out in the last two days, but there were still chances for somebody to just be greedy. This pair did have plenty of contacts and friends still around.
The never publicly admitted intelligence agency, Section-7, had checked, double checked, then had three external partners check again, to select the men for the short escort from the underground prison complex up to the seaplane piers that served the UEO's HQ building. For some reason, the young spy still felt unprepared, and nervous about the security and reliability of the setup he had created.
The junior lieutenant's stressful thought patterns were interrupted by the loud, violent banging of the armored steel door as it clanged off the cement wall without warning. Admiral William Noyce had come to personally lead the convoy of treasonous ex-spouses to their just desserts, as much for the fun of hurting the perfidious retards as to insure security by his own eyes.
"Well, well, well! Look at what we have here! In'nit cute! A pair of rich, important and very busy adults taking the time out of their busy schedules to go visit their one and only son at his dwelling. Oh, but my heart bleeds at such a truly white, christianly pure and conservatively sanctioned act! Hallelujah! That's one boy that'll know the meaning of Christmas this year, in'nit?"
"Fuck you off hard, Noyce!" roared Lawrence Wolenczak, always angry, violent, and ready to scream at anything that didn't go his way. Except that Noyce wasn't intimidated by his noises, only amused as evidenced by the wide smirk he now wore.
"Hawww, Cynti!" the rotund sailor simpered at the female of the duo, "No love for your poor widdle friend Willy? How wude of you!" he smarmed childishly, knowing full well how allergic to such behavior she was as it reminded her of Lawrence when he was drunk, which was often.
"The penal convoy is ready to leave, admiral." spoke the young spy, never bothering to give his name since the admiral knew him and nobody else in the hall had any right to his ID anyways.
"I can see that, soldier, I can see that indeed. But aren't they so beautiful like this? Homeward bound for the holidays and their only child's birthday on tomorrow evening." the elder officer expounded with much bombast and wide-armed gesticulations at the chained inmates before them.
Sniffing disdainfully, Cynthia Holtzenstein declared pedantically "Nobody thinks your inane pun about our being 'bound' for anything is amusing, Noyce. Only the immature, alcohol imbibed brain of an old piece of floating detritus such as yourself could find pleasure or amusement in it." the female lawyer griped nastily, pouring as much verbal virulence as she could in her sub-optimal circumstances.
Making a wide shit-eating grin that had more in common to his precious hogs than human features, the fat bald sailor leaned forward, invading the woman's personal space quite rudely to reply right in her face: "Oh, but I know. I know indeed, my dear friend. But since you're the one in chains heading for the butcher's block, and hooks, and knives... I do believe that I can indeed be amused by my own wits, as yours have already been found lacking, and been destined for the cesspit's inhabitants as their next meal."
Signaling to the Section-7 agent, Noyce turned on his heels, passing the open door to lead the convoy to the piers, and thusly out of his jurisdiction so that the paperwork associated with them went along the ways, too.
{ SQ } - { A fateful au revoir } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 21:30pm
The heavy armored roll-down garage door activated, raising up the full 20 feet height of the cargo entry so that the funeste convoy could pass into the chilly evening air. There were almost no lights in the UEO building and annexes, with both the municipal areas of NCQ and Miami being only partially lit, as most people stayed in their homes but kept all signs of life invisible to avoid attracting criminals. After all, if there was light, then there was living people, which could only mean resources to sustain that life, or potentially humans to enslave for whatever reason you might have.
None of the soldiers said anything about the dreary climate, nor the social context around them; besides the rabid admiral and unknown S-7 agent, it just wasn't the time to talk about that stuff. They'd have plenty of time off-shift in the compound's cafeteria or in the bunks to gab about misery.
For Cynthia and Lawrence, this trip was a nightmare that was unfolding in the waking world. There were no ways to buy, rent, trade, bribe or bully their ways out of it. The chains were solid steel and the locks needed a special key that would be kept in NCQ since the matching copy had simply been manufactured in Sault-Sainte-Marie from the blueprints. Not a single chance for the inmates to escape the vehicle, let alone the individual restraints.
And now they saw the large plane, sitting on the sea waters, bobbing up and down gently in rhythm to the waves. The aircraft was a giant in her domain; 200 feet in length and wingspan, with a 20 foot wide body and two internal levels accommodating the steam boilers, cargo and passengers. Each of the four large piston engines had a 20 foot wide wooden propeller in front & back, and a black steel chimney atop the middle of the casing, slowly leaking white steam in the frigid night air. The cockpit was on the second level, in the nose of the vehicle, and the passenger's side door was opened, with a steel gang plank lowered in place to welcome arrivals.
Standing at the tip of the plank were four WAC's soldiers dressed in earthy brown uniforms composed of cargo pants, button shirts, heavy boots, belt-on body armor plates, gloves, trenchcoat and helmet with full-face opaque visor and air filters. Each soldier had a lever-action rifle with a bayonet and telescope, a pistol and hatchet in sheaths at the hips, and several knives all over.
The plane's pilot and commanding officer was standing at the top of the plank, near the plane's hull, looking on with clear contempt on his exposed face. He wore a combat uniform similar to the four infantrymen, except his was dull gray and the top of his helmet was molded to resemble an officer's forage cap with a bill and centered crest to show his rank & position.
The pilot waited for his soldiers to seize control of the prisoners before he walked down to meet the admiral, and give the necessary papers and signatures to take legal custody of the inmates. Once the soldiers gave the signal, the man moved off the plank to let them pull & push the prisoners to their fates while he processed the 'niceties' of the situation with the senior officer in charge.
Noyce settled everything in two minutes with a set of printed paper sheets already stamped and dated, to which he just manually put his signature with the Section-7 lieutenant acting as witness. The pilot separated the carbon copies for distribution, saluted and walked back aboard to the noises made by the screamed protests of their passengers who were shouting about inhuman treatment.
They were being put in the first level, in a closed cargo hold that juxted the boilers' pumps so that the mechanical noises would dampen, and hopefully silence, their whining. The pilot ignored the goings-on of the infantrymen, marching straight to his cockpit and copilot to get this miserable show on the road.
It took another ten minutes for the soldiers to stow the prisoners and safely chain them to the walls of the hold, where they learned the compartment had been designed to ferry small livestock the size of goats, sheep, turkeys or such, rather than fully conscious humans. And so, the only facilities they had access to for the trip were the rolls of toilet paper on the locked pole, with the steel trellis floor as their privy. Flushing away the offal would be done with hot water from the boilers only once, upon arrival at the Sault-Sainte-Marie complex, not before. That was why there were a gas venting pipe to send the gases & odors to the plane's furnace, and two fresh air intakes in the ceiling brought slightly warmed air from the side of the plane.
Said steel trellis floor was also their seating, bedding and, well, you get the picture.
They had been told by the infantrymen that they did not get bed sheets because they were right next to the boilers' firebox, so heat would be constant throughout the flight. If they were thirsty, they would get a mug of water each, every hour during flight, but the tin mug was attached to a chain and kept outside the door at all times when not in use. They would pass the filled mug by the pass-tray slot in the door, not open the door itself until arrival at SSM complex. Further more, several cameras, microphones and sensors were built-in throughout the entire airplane, inside and outside, for analysis of the emergency flight recorder, or live-time crisis management if necessary.
Last note; their employer had given the order to ignore all complaints, threats, bribes, promises and such, but also told them to let the two adults beat the snot out of each other if it made them feel better.
It was also strongly intimated that the two adults would see the wrong end of police and military brutality if they made too much noise, to the point of forcing the soldiers or flight crew to come check on them without a truly life-endangering cause. They'd be in danger for real, if they did that.
All threats and orders spoken, the doors and portholes closed tight, the copilot called both control towers in NCQ and SSM to advise them of their departure and flight plans, with confirmation of live prisoners in hand for transport to tribunal under the Constable – Governor. The massive steam powered ship roared to life, belching great white clouds of scalding steam in the somber night winds as she sped on her take-off run, splashing chilled salted waters all around as she lifted into the skies.
Deep inside the cargo hold, Cynthia and Lawrence could only come to terms with the reality of their son's material wealth and power, personally and by alliance. This huge contraption couldn't work without a large ground crew to repair, fuel and clean it properly, and that was normally at both ends of a flight unless the plane always had roundabout flight plans for short deliveries. No, there were no ways by which the felonious parents could deny their child's accomplishments anymore, nor could they think up of a way that would make him scared of them again so that they could gain the upper hand in the coming days.
They were truly 'Homeward Bound' as Noyce had so callously said; emphasis on the 'bound'.
Slow evening in town
(Yule canticles – Mon Beau Sapin, in french)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 21:11pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 18:11pm
Pointe aux Pins, WAC's complex
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
Lucas stood besides the desk in the master's office of the manor tower, taking advantage of the fact that his legs still cooperated with him willingly to enjoy being vertical for a while. He was looking quickly through the paper files that concerned the many cases against several lawyers of his own conglomerate, others from the Canadian and American governments, and multiple elected officials who had conspired with them. A lot of people mentioned were now retired or even dead, some for decades in fact, but many were still in place or in the employ of WAC as he read the lines of text.
My but this inheritance was getting soooo much more easy to finalize.
Snort! Not really, no.
The teenager could see pretty easily where & how he had been screwed over, since his birth in many cases, and since decades earlier than that in others. The frauds had begun in 1980, when it had been 1 year since the last contact from his great-grand-father with the company's central offices. Everything of a criminal nature since then had been the generational transfer and continuation of what was already in place. Some of the criminals were in this scheme as follow up to their grand-father, father and uncles whom had all worked for WAC, or near it in the two governments' offices that emitted the permits, licenses and tax numbers the conglomerate needed to operate legally.
Lucas pursed his lips in thought, as he contemplated just how widespread the scheme was, and just how high in the hierarchic pyramids of both partner nations. Given the age of the fraud in place, several dozen men who had been initiated into the system as mere schoolboys were now seated in the highest offices of authority, governance and justice on both sides of the North-American Mid-Line. Which meant that Lucas was basically facing judicial warfare against the very entities that conferred him his property titles, corporate licenses, and much vaunted Constable-Governor position with its diplomatic privileges and social standing.
Exhaling a long mournful sigh, the young male wondered if all the political miasma was truly worth the end result, and especially the mile-long list of mortal enemies that would result, regardless of whether he won or lost the fight. There were hundreds of high-level elected or nominated politos, senior bureaucrats, judges and military brass mixed in, and all of them wanted him to completely disappear into oblivion. Simply being quiet, minding his own business without complaints or court case would never be sufficient to get these people off his back. The men on this list were all thieves, fraudsters and embezzlers who actively siphoned monies, assets, resources and materials out of his inheritance, and they saw his being alive as a brake on their hijacking of such.
They wanted him dead.
The files given to him by Erasmus Chadderton were quite eloquent in that; the eldest men who had founded this system of fraud, embezzlement, extortion and theft, were all grouped tightly like a small sectarian cult. They had maintained tightly bound inter-familial relationships, right alongside the educational and professional relations. They had studied in the same schools and colleges, had done their apprenticeships at WAC then climbed up the company ladder or gone to work for their daddies' cabinet, just like said daddies had before them. The small group had grown its membership exclusively through birth and inheritance, almost cosanguine in how exclusively white, anglo-saxonic and evangelical they were. The upper crust of North-America's financial elite, all descended from the men who had founded the central institutions in Canada and the USA in the mid 1700's.
And they all saw him as the trublion, the parasite who was consuming what they illegally and immorally believed to be their riches, resources and assets. They all saw him as the arrivist, the poor uneducated wannabe from a different country, compared to their own cultured native nobility. The fact their ancestors had either defrauded or stolen the land at gun point from the real natives was never something these pompous, hubris-driven fools ever considered since they said it wasn't real. By their little stories they transmitted from father to son, their ancestors in the 1600's had come to a completely wild land which they settled, and it was the presence of their pilgrims with good textiles and crafted metal wares that attracted the savages to come steal from them. By the same twisted re-writing of history, they said that Lucas' highly literate and educated ancestors were nothing but poor refugees that fled plague and war, and it was good, clean, pure white men that truly founded Wise Apothecary Co, and thus their claim to its wealth, lands and all.
They saw Lucas the same way they saw the natives on their reservations, or the cultural minorities stuck in the ghetto's of large American and European cities. Subhuman wastes good only to wipe the floors and toilets, and even then, only if a robot wasn't available for the task. Well, if they thought that their racist dreams would work any better than their ageist bigotry, they were all in for a rude awakening that nothing would protect them from.
"Ahem." someone cleared their throat softly next to the entry doorway. Raising his head, Lucas saw it was his assigned butler, Raphael Chadderton, but dressed for traveling in winter climate at night, with thick boots instead of interior shoes, and a long trenchcoat bearing the WAC logo. In fact, the coat, hat, gloves and scarf were all the same as the soldiers wore, except for the color being the basic black & gold of the House servants' livery with the logo done in gold tones as well. The young adult had a calm, neutral expression on his face as he stood with his long winter coat opened, hands stuck into the deep side pockets of the thick garment.
"I see you have decided to accompany me during my slow night in town." Lucas commented as he closed the paper files, then ordering them in the desk drawer which he closed and locked. Putting the keys back in his jacket pocket, the teenager grasped his armament-cane from where it leaned against the desk and walked over to the waiting servant. "You don't have any obligations to travel at night with me, you know?" he asked, wondering why the other boy was doing this.
"Nah... I'm getting bored inside this old pile of bricks. I'm twenty years old, I need some life in my life, ya know? You don't get a lot of that inside the manor walls at night, or much of any other time either, come to think of it." Smirking brattily, Raphael mock-whispered "Apparently, there's something about the big tall walls with guns that scares people away from visiting the house. Who knew? I was sure it was the drab old wallpaper and gloomy victorian wood millings on the ceilings, but no; it's the feudal architecture that people can't let pass."
Exhaling a deep sigh, Lucas shook his head glumly, asking aloud "I'm gonna have to live with you for a looong time, aren't I?" skepticism and negativity dripping from his words.
"Only until I get a better job offer." replied the young adult with playful effrontery.
"I'll pay for your moving and retraining, if it can make it happen sooner." came back Lucas, wearing a shitty grin of his own as he slid on his trenchcoat and scarf.
"Not in this decade," sassed Raphael, "not unless you want to be the only living thing inside this heap of cold stones that's younger than the servants. Well, besides the mold in the basement, but we're not sure just when it began growing, sooo..."
"Not a problem," the adolescent replied quite glibly, "as a certified research pharmacologist, I'm well at ease with hundreds of mold species. In fact, I have more of a rapport with them than you, given that mold, at least, is respectful of the person holding the microscope. Unlike you."
Snorting in amusement, the 20 year old waved a hand nonchalantly, obviously not bothered. "I will respect your microscope easy enough, but you, that'll take time. At least until I see the first paycheck with your signature on it. Then, it'll be real that you're my boss."
"I wonder if this manor was truly built according to the old Edwardian and Victorian principles or it just has the looks." Lucas asked aloud to the empty air around them as they began to walk down the large decorative staircase. His legs were in good health, he was going to enjoy them while they lasted.
Taking the bait, Raphael asked gamely with a big boyish smile "And why would that matter? What would be the difference? It would still be a moldy pile of rock that's wet and cold all year long."
The teenager answered with a smile that was all teeth: "Because in these epochs of society it was normal for the Lord of the House to maintain order, discipline, and utter obedience, by confinement or diverse types of corporal punishments, not only on his children or grand-children, but also on his wife, his servants and house 'chattel'. This activity being rather noisy and bothersome for the rest of the household, the very practically-minded people of the epoch always included a 'punishment room' or 'seclusion quarters' in the design of the mansion. Sometimes in the basement, or a bigger attic than needed, or as an external extension abutting the main house for easy access in winter."
Blinking slowly, Raphael glared at his employer as he realized what the younger male was hinting at, concerning his general health. "Are you somehow, in some roundabout ways, trying to threaten to whip my ass into shape if I don't suck up to you? The young adult crossed his arms over his chest, so that even with the thick layers of clothing it was obvious he was more athletic and bulky than Lucas. It was a blatant attempt at physical intimidation that Lucas was well passed being impressed with, unfortunately for the poor servant who had no real idea of what his employer really was.
The younger male waved an indolent left hand as he climbed down the steps besides his companion for the evening, not in the least worried by the other's display of manly musculature. "Of course not. I saw you in those fitted black trousers this afternoon, and I can admit honestly that your physical shape is already just fine for a young man of your age. No help needed about that. Not that your well toned physiology would detract from the usefulness of the method, if it came to be. No, I was more leaning towards locking you inside the seclusion zone, to no longer hear your awful sense of humor, since it grates on my poor frayed nerves. I'm not as young as I used to be, and my patience for childish banter has waned along the way." the boy elocuted in an off-hand manner that showed he wasn't serious, for now anyways.
Scratching at his head, Raphael mused aloud uncomfortably "I can't for the life of me figure out what's worse? That you want to lock me in a soundproof room, or that you actually noticed what I look like, especially in that damned drab servant's livery that hangs just awful on my type of body frame. T's way too tight around the shoulders and chest to be comfortable, too." He mumbled thoughtfully as he walked, eyeing his employer sideways to make certain he could perceive the boy's true emotions, just in case he really were angry at him.
"I wouldn't say too tight..." replied a teasing Lucas, still smiling widely as he slid his innuendo past the guard of the preoccupied young adult. "Although I can't wait to have you escort me around the working areas of the compound in the coming weeks. Seeing you in jeans and a T-shirt should be quite a treat for my poor lonely eyes."
Raphael turned his head to Lucas so fast that he almost missed the third floor landing where they needed to pass into the main house to reach the main entry. "Waddya said?" he asked flustered since he had no idea whether his new employer was serious or not. Being the rich guy's plaything had never been part of the job description, nor had being his stress relief via acting as punching bag.
"Oh, nothing. Just the elucubrations of a teenaged boy in need of food. My stomach was talking for me; it tends to do that, when I haven't eaten in a while." the pale skinned boy replied quite insincerely as he passed the third floor's lintel and armored doors with the armed guard that saluted him.
"I'm starting to see what my mother was telling me, about enjoying myself as the only child in the manor when the others got schooled elsewhere. Having younger kids around really does suck for the oldest." griped Raphael, along with a sad pouted lower lip for good measure. He was stuck with his own thoughts and insecurities for a few minutes as Lucas became pensively silent during their trek through the venerable old mansion, until they reached the decorative stonework front porch.
The doors were opened by the nightwatch soldier who interrupted their progression with a message for Lucas. "The majordomo left this envelope and letter for you sir. He said it was important that you take it before leaving the manor's walls."
Nodding in thanks, the adolescent took the large brown envelope that emitted a soft metallic noise as it moved. Opening it, Lucas withdrew the letter and a brass ring with around 30 keys, each rather long, thick, and graven on both edges, both sides, and had a filament of crystal running in the middle. The letter explained that these were the security keys for the Manor & dependencies, the working buildings, and employee housing blocks situated inside the Sault-Sainte-Marie complex, on both sides of the river. A second brass ring with a dozen similar keys was supposed to grant access to emergency wartime shelters hidden in the forests surrounding the complex and town. To make things easier, the large oval head of each key was inscribed with the address or name of the building it opened on one side, and a miniature map of the area on the reverse. That was quite a pocket-load of metal to carry around, but Erasmus insisted in his missive that the young Constable – Governor needed to be able to assess his properties at his leisure, at any time he wished, without prior arrangements. The bunkers were a question of basic survival, especially in these trying times. It was preferable for all in the employ of the WAC conglomerate that Lucas stay alive and as healthy as possible, given that all suggested alternatives involved dismantling the company at the hands of traitors and church-whores.
{ SQ } - { Not another old shite! } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 21:30pm
It took a few minutes for Lucas to find space on his already packed equipment system but it got done, so the trip to the town for his birthday evening could progress with minds at peace. At least until he saw the two vehicles waiting outside, and what kind of car he would be riding in. The swears and cusses in over 25 languages certainly made an impression on the driver and four escort soldiers who would be coming with them out of the walls.
Clacking his armament-cane's butt-mace menacingly on the stonework steps of the grand stairs as he descended, the teenager's fuming was neither subtle nor silent. Everybody around knew something bad had just happened, but nobody knew what.
A fucking BLOODY Mercedes-Benz 1938-Großer 770K (W150) from Nazi Germany.
A damned symbol of oppression and tyranny!
The 1938 MB-770K was the car of choice for rich, powerful, and often depraved, men of stature and Power amongst humanity. Adolf Hitler loved the damned thing so much that he owned one for each of his properties, and had the III-Reich government buy several dozen to park around the country to keep available for high officials who visited the area. The MB-770K was called 'The Grosse' or 'fat' because it had a chassis that was much wider and longer than normal, with two large rear banquettes each seating three bulky adult men, plus the driver and escort seats in the front. It had superior suspensions for a smooth ride on Europe's roads which were still mostly packed-dirt paths, helped by thick cushions and superior upholstery coverings. Further visual appeal and signs of luxury were the genuine varnished mahogany wood for the dashboard, steering wheel, and all switches or levers. There were electrical headlamps outside to see the road at night with smaller bulbs inside to read during the trip, which was an incredible novelty and luxury for that epoch. The car could be ordered with a fixed roof or as fully convertible, which was the Nazi favorite since it allowed the officials to stand in the car to wave at the crowds as the vehicle moved with parades and processionals.
The Mercedes-Benz 1938-Großer 770K (W150) was such a resounding success that Hitler had the habit of giving one to each close friend, ally, or what he considered personages of high import to society at the time. That meant Marshal Ion Antonescu, Benito Mussolini, Francisco Franco, Marshal Carl Gustaf Emil Mannerheim, and Emil Hácha, along with several of the petty dictators in the puppet states that kowtowed to the III-Reich. And, of course, since Franklin Henry Wise was one of his closest collaborators, friends and confidants, so the tyrant gave the family a fucking Benz.
A big brick-brown colored Benz.
Palming his face with his left hand, leaning on his cane with the right hand to keep himself from just dropping his body to the snowy cobbled driveway, the teenager silently despaired of ever affranchising his person and family from the inter-generational soul-stain of F. H. Wise, and all the afferent crapulent bloody mess he had wrought.
Raising his eyes to glare malevolently at the shiny, freshly washed, brown car that spoke of luxury and exalted social standing, even amongst the rich and tasteful, Lucas could only groan as he realized how expensive that made the vehicle. Back then, the old joke from Henry Ford was that "you can get your car in any color you wanted, so long as it was either black, black, or black." The reason was because a lot of the colors taken for granted in 2020 didn't even exist back in 1930-40, so neither the dealers nor manufacturers could do anything else than sell you something that was basic steel-work black or a well finished, smooth-painted black. If you wanted a different color, you had to call the fabrication shop and pass a custom order, payable in advance, and you supported the cost of the work team all by yourself for that one build. The price was such extravagance that nobody ever asked that.
Except, of course, when you run the government with secret arrests & executions. Hitler had several bypasses around the normal constraints of mortal men that allowed him many realizations that others of the day would not even be able to dream about. His good friend Her Doktor Wize had liked brown as it was the classic color of the suits worn by the learned professors in all the Ivy League universities since the old black togas had been rescinded. It was also the color of the bricks and steel of his manors, workshops and heavy cargo ships, so he had learned young to love all shades of earth-brown. No problems! A phone call and three months of research later, and the Mercedez-Benz company was shipping out a customized – armored – Grosse to America for one of the Fuhrer's personal friends.
Making an enraged hand-wave at the driver and escorts, Lucas skipped all the spiel he had prepared about not needing an armed convoy to follow him since the forest-green armor-plated jeep was such an eyesore, and a provocation to all who saw it. Forget that! If anybody recognized the Benz for what it was, he'd need all the tanks, APC's and field artillery he could get to save he scrawny albino hide.
Fuck, but he hated his life these days!
"Just get to your seats and drive me to a damned chinese buffet somewhere in town!" growled the raging teenager, no longer in a joking mood about anything. What would his stupid ancestor ask of him next? That he build a functional copy of Dachau to use as large-scale bread & pizza baking factories to feed the masses? Maybe he should take for granted he would soon be competing with Weston, Gadoua, Dr Oetker, Vachon, and other giants of the baked food industry.
Damn, but he hated his introculi of a forebear these days!
{ SQ } - { Finally; some peaceful, quiet time } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:00pm
The two vehicle convoy circulated peacefully along the streets of Sault-Sainte-Marie in the northern sector of the town. Lucas had decided to stay in the Canadian sector of the municipality for the moment, until he could establish his position and credibility with the US side of the border. That, however, seemed to be on hold as the state governor of Michigan had been killed on his way to the office during the second day of the civil wars. The rest of his family had followed, mere hours after being told of his demise. Given the power vacuum and lack of credible replacements, nobody could foresee how long it would take for the situation to regularize itself enough to have somebody responsible on the other end of the phone line to speak with.
Honestly, Lucas now feared that he would have to take over all of Michigan and several other US states that abutted his territory, if only to keep their violence and chaos from spreading inside his zones of control to prevent damage to his operations and employees. His people followed him because he had proven to be a careful manager, agile politician and strategic war commander, but they would desert in droves if he failed to step up to the problem correctly with a working solution in hand. Fortunately for him, he did tend to come by solutions and resources rather quickly, if not easily, cheaply, or without bloodshed.
The small armed convoy left the WAC – SSM compound through the main north gate, next to the public SSM Airfield. They rolled along the length of the runways towards the north, on Airport Drive, then east on the street called Second Line West until they reached the heart of SSM town. From there, the driver of the hated Benz turned a few times until he found a small building with the desired kind of eatery, parking in the lot besides the restaurant. It wouldn't be a chinese buffet, contrary to what Lucas had asked for in his moment of anger, since the only few places in town were pretty ordinary and closed at 22h00pm, so they would be too late anyways. Instead, the driver had suggested to his employer that he try the Embers Grill & Smokehouse on Albert Street, since they were opened up to 2h30am on wednesdays. A quick call by Raphael before departure had confirmed that they were indeed open for business, so a reservation was made on the fly for 7 persons. The driver had been surprised to hear that the four soldiers, butler and himself got included, especially when Lucas confirmed that the company would take the whole bill to make certain the men could enjoy their late trip into town without extraneous worries about paying for it.
Their arrival was silent and ignored by the neighborhood since it was mostly commercial and therefore almost completely deserted at this hour of the evening. Even with the Christmas holiday season reaching peak, the planet-wide violence and e-bank collapse had stunted the partying & gift shopping ardors of most people who now hid in their houses with the lights closed. Besides, with the Canadian government having declared martial law with a ban on all religious activities, even in private properties, it wasn't like would-be revelers had much left to party about, let alone religious events.
As he got out of the ostentatious antique car, Lucas hoped dearly that his little excursion to give himself a morale boost for his birthday wouldn't come back to bite his bony pale ass. He didn't have much luck went it concerned his personal life, especially when giving himself material pleasures. It was like the Multiverse had a 'thing' for making him hope, only to quash everything at the last second. He dearly hoped that tonight would not end up short, or with an explosion of recriminations and violence.
"Heu, sir? Are you sure you want us grunts to be with you inside?" Asked the Ensign in charge of the jeep. Franklin Henry Wise had always liked the discipline and decorum of the Navy's ships, so he had patterned all the ranks and specialties of 'Forceful Wisedom' private security in a similar system. "There's a Tim Horton's just a few streets over. Us guys could go there until you're done."
The Benz driver stayed silent, not knowing his employer at all therefore having no idea of how he thought, nor what his mood was after the outburst at the manor. The teenager had been completely silent during the entire trip since he had accepted the suggestion for the restaurant.
Raphael Chadderton did want some explanations, if only to learn more about his new boss. "Yeah, it isn't common for a rich guy to invite the lower men like that." The young servant queried further gently "Is there a reason you insist on us coming in? Are you expecting an attack, or you're afraid the US civil wars will spill over the border tonight?"
Lucas tapped his cane on the parking lot's frozen asphalt twice, pursing his lips and sighing loudly in exhaustion as he did. The frigid climate condensed a small cloud of white vapor before his face as he exhaled his loneliness. Looking each man in the eyes as he answered the questions, the adolescent made certain each saw the truth of his feelings. "I'm lonely. I want company for a change. I have been sick for two years now, and rarely leave my dwelling unless it's a medical appointment, which sucks a lot at any age, but especially when your young, supposed to be athletic and active." Shoving his free hand in his coat pocket, he half-shrugged vaguely. "I have no social life, no friends, no contacts outside work, and even the people from Stanford are more interested in my research than my person. The week of my birthday is always a fucking bust because it's bloody Christmas that everybody's worried about, so I'm usually cast aside by everybody until their families and sectarian creed have been satisfied."
Now as utterly depressed as he had been trying to avoid becoming all day, the boy sighed miserably again. "I thought I could use this little sortie to learn more about the people and families that have served my family for decades, even when I didn't know about it. I need to start seeing you as living, feeling, people instead of just the raw statistics that the lawyers and accountants insist you are. I don't want to become the sort of employer who judges a person's worth by their profit margin like Trump did, or make believe that Wise Apothecary is a Prosperity Gospel cult where money and Power matter more than living beings."
Trying desperately not to sound as forlorn and sadly despondent as he felt inside, Lucas shrugged dismissively, uncertainly, looking smothered by his thick trenchcoat as he did. "So, I'm inviting you all to a steak dinner, but with some afterthoughts too. On the other hand, if you all really prefer a coffee & doughnut snack, feel free to use the Benz to carry you all. I will call you back when I need to leave. With my legs, driving isn't safe. Plus, I have no experience at driving in winter, anyways."
The young male steeled himself a bit then walked towards the front door of the establishment, happy to see that all six of his employees followed him. Maybe this evening wouldn't be a bust afterall.
The restaurant's majordomo was a middle-aged woman dressed in a smart business suit with an artificial blue flower in the left breast pocket of her jacket. She smiled at the group, but it seemed artificial, more so than usual when dealing with service personnel in hospitality. Lucas wondered if it were the company they worked in, the weapons several of them carried openly, or maybe...
"Raphael, do we have an account in this place?" the teenager asked. "Unless their credit card terminal works, I can always write a cheque from Wolenbahn."
Shaking his head negatively as he undid his long trenchcoat, the servant answered "No, the conglomerate directorate doesn't usually come here for meals with important clients or politos. They prefer to have everything done inside the manor itself, or in the conference room at the management edifice by caterers." Pulling a thin locking aluminum case out of his jacket's inner pocket, the young man showed the round, golden WAC logo on it. "I took some cash out of the household safe in prevision of expenses. The reporters on the CBC's six o'clock news warned that the economic collapse had caused more than 60% of card terminals and ATM's to no longer function. They told people to foresee having to pay in cash or barter for the coming months, unless they had a deal in place with the merchant."
"Ah, good." turning to the majordomo, the youth asked gently "Does your terminal work, or do you need solid money for this meal? We have both, and understand that times are not easy for anybody." He tried to reassure the woman, hoping they wouldn't be told to leave. It was entirely possible the management wanted to close the place for the night as it seemed that Lucas' group were in fact the only clients in the establishment.
Attempting a truer smile, the woman still fell short but it showed she was genuine in her emotions; it was the stress of events that was affecting her so badly, not their group or gear. "Please! No! Don't leave yet, not before you try something. Besides, you can choose any table you want. It's not like you'll have to hustle for it. Go seat yourselves as you like while I get the waiter to bring the water, bread and olive oil saucers."
Seeing the true reasons of the stiff reception, the seven new arrivals decided to give it a chance. It wasn't them that the restaurant staff had a beef with, and nobody could help the mess outside anymore, even if they wanted to. Things were just too advanced, and too far spread, for anybody to be able to change the course of events by themselves anymore. Even Lucas could only survive, not thrive for real, in these circumstances if he were removed from his company and employees.
The seven people chose a wide 12-seat table near the kitchen doors, which afforded them a view of the pass-plate and exposed them to the pleasant warmth from the adjoining room. As they placed their travel clothes on the nearby wall-mounted coat hooks and shelves, a duo of waiters came by with two carafes of water, two wicker baskets of warm bread rolls and four saucers of olive oil. They lit the small candles nested inside decorative sculpted glass globes on the tables, pulling out the chairs and placing menus at each place setting. Raphael discretely guided Lucas to sit in the middle with his back to the wall, with the four soldiers split two to each external sides of the group, while the driver and himself sat in front of their employer with their backs towards the room. The adolescent accepted the clearly defensive arrangement but let out a soft, disparaging snort of amusement as he sat down to enjoy his evening.
Their main waiter was a young black male in his mid-twenties, sporting very short hair and a goatee with small round bronze-framed glasses. He was putting away his lighter as he asked politely "Will you want any aperitifs, tea, coffee, Perrier seltzer, or other aperitif whilst you study our menu?" He took out a small paper notepad and pencil to scribble the orders he would get. These were important clients, and the only ones they had since 19h00pm, so it behooved all of the staff to make certain they wanted to come back soon. Their restaurant and families' very survival depended on this meal.
Lucas opened the conversation with a playful "I have diplomatic immunity, so I can drink alcohol if I want to celebrate my 16th birthday that way. On he other hand, the bevvy of meds I take each day for infections would definitely not react well to booze, so I'll stick to some tea. Is it bags or loose leaf?" Making a face of disgust, the teen said "If it's bagged, I'd rather have a cappuccino than taste the chlorine they bleached the paper with." Seeing the smirks on the six faces around him, he griped out at them "So what? I'm choosy about my tea. It's called being civilized, you jerks! You should try it sometime." Then, turning to the waiter, he explained with an affected air of false wisdom "They don't have many chances to leave the compound, but if you give them a chance I'm sure they'll learn fast."
Faced with a clearly amused waiter and six exclamations of protest, the youth smiled widely as he opened the leather-covered menu to see what was the chef's recommendation for the day. He was pleased to see a full selection of red meat, white meat, fish and vegetarian plates. Thankfully, Canada had never succumbed to the temporary craze of the cult-like vegans that swept the USA in the early 2000's, resulting in a short-lived but damaging ban on the industrial ranching of cows for either milk, meat, leather or bones. Overturning that idiotic law sponsored by religion-driven Hindis and similar sects combined with resident vegetarians & vegans thrown in was perhaps the only good thing the Trump administration did, in 2017, right upon taking the reigns in DC. The eleven years that this ban lasted was the least prosperous period for American farmers, nor the best in terms of culinary experiences. The other idiotic thing was that the ban covered raising cattle inside the USA but never forbade the import, so the meat & by-products still came in, just from further and at a higher price for every step of the process.
The driver of the Benz, an older caucasian white gentleman called Lenny Herschel, was tearing a small piece of bread to dip in the olive oil as he ordered a regular Perrier with lemon slice on ice. In the same vein as his employer, he joked about the fact he was the designated driver to justify avoiding anything strong for the evening. Raphael visibly deflated as he griped that the legal drinking age in Ontario was 21 so he was still dry for another miserable year, so he'd settle for a club soda on ice. The four soldiers joked around for a few minutes as they decided who would be their driver on the way back, then ordered a pitcher of ale on tap for the three that could drink safely, leaving their disgruntled comrade to order a club soda with lime. The waiter left them to peruse the menus in peace while he fetched their chosen aperitifs.
Lenny commented with a snort "You should have the 20oz rib steak, boss. You're way too thin for your age, and you're sick to boot. Ya need meat on them bones to get better. I've seen matchsticks fatter than ya're skinny arse."
Ignoring the good natured ribbing from the others, Lucas concentrated on reading the entire menu while promising himself some vengeance at a later date. He was good at multitasking like that, so he'd remember in due time. Let them laugh; he would have his turn.
One of the four soldiers must be a telepath as he scoffed aloud "Are you daft, man? That's the guy that popped a volcano on the side of Lake Erie, two days ago. If he can do that, what makes you think he can't get back at your smart-ass mouth for that jab?" the unimpressed fighter shook his head in dismay as he quickly checked the Host's Table to find something to his liking as he tore a chunk of bread too.
The older man replied in good fun "Cuz he'd have to find someone else to drive that beast around, and I don't think he'd want the hassle of another recruitment tryout on top of everything else he's got going on in the job." He popped the new piece of oil-dipped bread in his mouth, a wide smile showing he was quite amused by the way things were unfolding.
Raphael shook his head sideways as he replied "He hates the damned car with a passion. He'd rather drive around with the soldiers in an Armored Personnel Carrier than use that wheeled brick. And since the soldiers are already on duty and paid for, I wouldn't get too comfortable with the boss yet; he could still think you deserve to get binned along with the Nazi-era horror you drive." Then, wearing an epic smirk, the young servant added brattily "But take it this way: he hates the car so much that you could probably haggle to get it as a retirement bonus when he flushes you down the pipes. You could easily have a career as a historic limousine driver for grand occasions that way, at no initial cost."
Shaking his head in mild denial, Lucas mumbled distractedly "Nahn, I'll keep the despicable thingie in a cold, dark, wet cellar so that I can send you down to wash and polish it when you bother me too much with your inane chatter. Honestly! Your kin should have been called 'Chattertrap' instead of 'Chadderton'. Talk about misnaming things. It's willful false advertisement, I tell's y'all," the teen snarked with a wide smirk as the older boy again wallowed in uncertainty at his employer's sense of humor towards him.
The group were still laughing in their menus when the kitchen door opened to let out their waiter who was escorted by the establishment's main chef. As the young male deftly passed out the drinks on his tray, a second waiter, a young native woman barely twenty years old with long black hair, came bearing a steaming porcelain teapot with a small ceramic stand that held a tealight. She placed the brazier on the table next to Lucas, moving carefully since the candle was already burning, then set the teapot atop the decorative stand to keep warm. Smiling at her adolescent client, she presented the tray on which sat six different little tin pots of tea.
"Here we have the teas selected by our Barista." She presented with a soft smile and kind tone. "They are all loose leaves, organically grown in open-air fields, no chemical pesticides, and the workers are part-owners of the plantation. We have six varieties; Chinese, Japanese, Hindu, Arabian, British and Russian style blends. I will gladly prepare it as you require, and will bring out the condiments to match."
Nodding, Lucas chose "The British blend, please, with cream and liquid honey."
The young woman expertly took one spoon of loose shredded leaves from the appropriate tin to stuff a small perforated steel ball that hung from a chain, which she set to steep in the teapot. Closing the lid over the chain, she gestured at her colleague, standing besides them with his notepad in hand. "Go ahead and order, your tea will be ready when everyone has chosen their meal. This blend needs between three and five minutes of steeping to be optimal, the longer the darker the waters."
Nodding his acceptance, the teen was about to speak his choice first, since he was the employer and reason they were all here to begin with, when the chef cleared his throat to speak before him. "I apologize for interrupting you, but I was told that you mentioned some medical concerns? Are there any food allergies that we should be aware of? Any medications that make your stomach produce more acid, or the reverse, slower digestive processes? I will need to know what to watch out for when the team prepares the orders." he queried politely, thus explaining his presence. Well, that plus some curiosity as to whom could be out in group at this hour of the day, given the social situation all around them. Not many people could afford this type of upper mid-class meal these days, so the few rich types left were bound to warrant curiosity every time they came in.
Giving his most wan, harmless smile available, the teenager replied "I have some damages to my legs that have resulted in long-term infections and cramps, but nothing that causes allergies. I do take anti-acids periodically for heartburn, so no changes there either. Thank you for asking."
With no other medical situation or allergy to compose with, the chef stood by to advise the clients on their choices since he was already present. No sense in leaving right away; that could be interpreted by the clients as if he didn't care about their patronage, and people had left the table without ordering for lesser offenses in the past.
"Well, it's my birthday tomorrow night but I'm celebrating tonight. We don't know what the government will do in terms of allowing public movements, so I,m not taking any chances. So, I'm gonna live wild for a change. Get me the New York sirloin tournedos wrapped in bacon, medium – well done, with dark maple & peppercorn gravy, pub fries and grilled veggies. I would prefer the french onion soup for starter, no salad or anything else. I'll decide on dessert later. Thank you."
The men heckled him in good natured fun, asking where he planned to put all that food since the main course alone was bigger than his thin, meatless frame. The adults were still laughing at his pout and crossed-arms stance as they passed their own orders for steaks, ribs, salmon fillet and roast chicken enough to feed a small army. Which, you know, they incidentally happened to be.
The meal progressed slowly since nobody was in any hurry, and no pressing appointments or emergencies were waiting for them back at the manor. Everything was either 'current business' or classed as 'war measures' but even that was fast becoming just ordinary business in this period.
{ SQ } - { Friendly conversations } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 23:46pm
The seven men ate through their meals at a leisurely pace, not in any hurry to move, and since neither perceived any threats from the staff, all plausible reasons to go back on the road in the cold were clearly voided. A situation that pleased everyone as Mother Nature had decided to grace them with a light, slowly drifting dusting of powdery white snow, starting at 22:45pm while they were at the first bites of their main course. Seeing yet more snow had convinced the convoy team that the return trip could wait; it wouldn't hurt anybody.
By some miracle of who-knew-what, a family of five young people had knocked on the door of the restaurant at 23:00pm, asking the waiter if the place was still open, and what kinds of money or trades they accepted for some food and using the bathrooms. The young siblings were quickly ushered inside and seated so the majordomo could speak with them in a more settled manner. They were on their way to see their grand-parents, on a farm outside Sault-Sainte-Marie town, but the roads in the outlying rural areas weren't cleared correctly. The family had decided to try their luck for a night inside the village, instead of foolishly braving the nonexistent paths since they didn't think they'd get any sorts of roadway assistance if they crashed. The majordomo made a quick deal with the young people for five simple hot meals at a kind price, a much better outcome than either side had thought to get tonight, given how empty the streets and few open restaurants were.
Wanting warmth after going on for hours in the dark night on empty, unlit rural roads, the young adults and teenagers sat at a pair of four-seat tables near the WAC group, curiosity and anxiety written plainly on their features. As the meal progressed, a flow of carefully spoken conversation began to settle between the two small groups.
"We're all brothers and sisters." explained a young girl who was close to Lucas' age. She had brown hair tied in a loose tail that brushed the tops of her shoulders, clear expressive brown eyes and white skin gently pinked by the intense cold outside. "We were living with our parents in the Greater Toronto Metropolitan Area when things hit the fan, so the old folks decided to ship us out to the forest. We have been driving for the last two days to reach here, because the roads aren't all plowed right so even switching drivers at night wasn't enough. We got stuck twice, but thankfully managed to get ourselves out of the snow. Nobody was coming, and the 911 operators told us they weren't sure the answering center would be manned much longer, either. Anybody on the roads outside a town is on their own risks, because no one will come to help them. As it was, we were lucky that the service stations we passed allowed us to buy gas for the car or we'd be stuck squatting in an abandoned building, away from home and without support to get anywhere." She offered further as her relatives took off their heavy winter coats, hats, gloves and scarves to reveal fleece sweater-vests and thick denim jeans underneath the traveling gear.
The group of displaced siblings was hesitant to give more than those generic details, especially in light of the many weapons the soldiers carried, and the high quality clothes worn by what were obviously two servants for a rich person. Since the only one to wear a regular business suit and be seated in the middle like a king was in fact Lucas himself, it didn't take long for the group of siblings to have doubts about the protection detail. The other big detail that spoiled the secret was the fact the restaurant's majordomo was hovering near the large table, making certain the teenager always had everything well in reach before it was asked for, and the chef had come in person at the end of the main course to inquire of their opinions on his team's efforts.
The small family of two twenty-somethings and three teens were starting to feel distinctly out of sorts since this wasn't the type of restaurant they would eat at unless they were on a hot date, or trying to impress a potential employer. Even the 'simple' meals they bargained for were much better than the usual fast-food fare they normally bought, and the service at the tables hadn't been any less kind and efficient despite the situation. The oldest sibling, a twenty-three year old man with slightly tanned white skin, green eyes and short-buzzed brown hair kept pursing his lips in fear as he side-glanced at the convoy group periodically. The second eldest, a twenty-two year old woman who looked like her younger sister as if they were twins seemed far more positively impressed than her brother. The two youngest teen boys were switching from concentrating on their unexpected hot food or gawking at the long guns each soldier had leaned against the table in hand's reach. The lever-action rifles had full telescope, bayonet, flashlight, laser pointer and under-slung M203 40mm grenade launcher in a way that Canadians were not used to see displayed so brazenly in their streets.
As the convoy group finished clearing their excellent main course, the majordomo surprised them with a rectangular glass platter that held three dozen miniature sculpted cakes and pastries shaped in the expected christmas motifs. Small pine tree shaped doughnuts made green by mint icing, chocolate reindeer cakes with a red cherry nose, yule logs in various colors and flavors, small gingerbread houses dusted white with baking sugar for snow and sprinkles for festive lights, and phillo pastry pouches filled with apple slices, ginger, maple caramel and basted red with cherry sauce to look like Santa's gift bags. The culinary artistry was impressive, matched the quality of the meals, and was a welcome closure to a succulent birthday feast that made Lucas happy he had chosen to take the risk. He promptly asked for a red pouch to stay in the birthday theme of gifting some happiness to himself.
"Man, those are neat!" one teen boy from the small family exclaimed at the sight of the dessert platter being offered to the neighbors. "It certainly beats the dumb Vachon log cakes we normally buy at the grocery store this time of year. Every. Damned. Year." he complained with a big smile that showed this was an old fight, especially when the four other siblings had matching expressions that showed they fully supported the younger boy.
The teen girl made a face of disgust as she detailed the problem for their amused neighbors; "They're good enough cakes, you know, for stuff that's one quarter the price of what you could buy in a real bakery shop. But the moment you open the plastic wrapper, you have about three days to eat it all or it drys out until it's hard like a cinder-block, and nothing can soften it again. I know! I tried EVERYTHING, damn it!"
"My sister is a sugar bug," informed them the boy who had made the initial comment. "She hasn't yet seen a cake or pastry she couldn't eat, or add more icing, sprinkles and fruit sauce too. She's worse than grandpa's pigs, except she has manners at the table. But not by much." the brother sassed his sibling with a big smirk as the girl shrugged it off with a loud, friendly laugh.
After a few more funny barbs about siblings' eating habits and (lacking) manners, the young adult woman asked in simple curiosity "So, what are you guys doing out this late? And why the hardware? Our grand-parents hadn't warned us the bears were coming into town these days." As her mother had taught her, sometimes a point of humor can get you information freely where doubts and accusations would close the doors in your face quite harshly.
Lucas gesture vaguely with his free hand as he ate his dessert. "I am celebrating my birthday. Well, a day early. It's a habit I took at a young age. I was born on the 24th December passed 23:50pm in the night, so trying to find a decent restaurant that is either open or not full on that day, and in the evening for a slow dinner, isn't happening any time soon. Christmas always makes people close early or have packed rooms, so I got stuck having my little 'Me' time a day early, and sometimes earlier. Otherwise, it's simply my first real visit to this town in years, since the first time was a messy whirlwind of crooked lawyers and incompetent accountants. Hopefully, I'll be ale to clean it up, this time around."
Shrugging it off as just the life he had lived, Lucas had trouble recognizing the weird expressions on the young people's faces for the natural incomprehension that it was, nor what caused it. His deplorable youth and cruel family life weren't normal, he knew that even without his training in medicine. But, he had gotten so little help, so he wasn't always able to realize it was feelings of interrogation, surprise, pity or disgust that 'normal' humans felt when they learned details about his childhood. Of course, he actively tried to forget many of these gory details, and wasn't prone to hashing them out loud, so he might have developed a bit of a blind spot concerning that subject, and the emotions they suscitate in others.
"So, lawyers and accountants enough to make a problem." queried carefully the 23 year old male, trying to get a feel of just how bad this could go if his younger siblings said something that was just too 'young' or 'stupid' for the tastes of the men with guns and knives. Or their boss. That one was a nightmare; a kid the same age as his brother but so rich that adult men took orders from him, up to carrying weapons of war. He was beginning to think they should have braved the snowed-out roads right up to the farm, not stop in town despite the pressing needs. "That must be a helluva wad o' cash to have that many problems all at once. Could it have anything to do with the old wheeled saloon in the parking lot, next to the green jeep? I'm guessing antique car, old money with old relatives trying to shaft you out of your inheritance, or something like it..."
The butler and driver winced at the rather gauchely asked questions, while the four soldiers exchanged looks but kept quiet and peaceful; they didn't know their boss yet, but he hadn't given them the feel of a guy who swings at kids for asking questions of mundane curiosity. That, and they had their own questions too, but protocols and internal regs meant they couldn't have the answers openly. By accident, if they overheard the conversation, that was another thing.
Lucas shrugged nonchalantly, swirling warm tea in his cup as he peacefully digested the miniature coffee, toffee and vanilla yule log he had chosen for dessert. Taking a slow sip of tea, he waved vaguely with his right hand at the older male, which could be interpreted as confirmation or many other things.
"It's family troubles spread out over nearly 120 years, and several countries. My ancestors' little gift for my 16th birthday. Quite nice of them. And it doesn't have a refund policy, either, since the store shut down after World War II was done. Bah... I'll just hire more people to process the paperwork, and it'll get done anyways in due time."
"So, you really are the boss of these guys?" the eldest brother asked for confirmation. Lucas wasn't able to figure out what his stress was about, but he was obviously anxious and feeling under immediate threat for himself and the younger siblings.
"I am." the genius adolescent replied crisply, changing tone and posture to show he was more awake and paying attention to whatever problem the other man had to speak of. "These six are my employees, through their contracts with Wise Apothecary & Chemists, of which I am the lawful inheritor, proprietor, operator and sole beneficiary. By virtue of this, I am also the Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line, tasked with protecting the border crossing in times of natural catastrophe or warfare. These soldiers are part of the WAC security troops, as mandated by our contracts with Canada and the USA, and these are servants of my household retinue. I am Lucas, doctor Wolenczak, Lord Wise, Protector of this Land. How may I serve?" he spoke in the clear-cut, sharp words that he used when dealing with politicians and military deciders who answered only to Strength, Power and money.
Raphael Chadderton injected quickly "He has earned three doctorates in medicine from Stanford before age 15, plus many other diplomas and plaudits. He's a real doctor in research pharmacology, psychiatric neurology, and history & laws of medical practice in North America. He has a mixed bag of master's degrees, certificates and licenses that I can't keep straight, and enough patents to his name to be rated next to Tesla, Edison and Einstein. So yes; he's the boss of WAC, our employer, and no, the soldiers aren't a threat to your family. They only deploy to protect assets and personnel of WAC when necessary, otherwise we trust the Canadian police forces to do an honest job of it. And for the record, this young man shouldn't be the one you're worried about. There are far more unstable, criminally depraved bastards lurking outside than him, especially since the US prison and psych hospitals have collapsed. The guards fled or got killed, so the inmates are loose in the streets, and some are trying to find either shelter or easy prey."
Lenny snorted with malicious glee as the waiter refilled his coffee cup. "Morons! I wish them luck! Trying to find anything in this damned white shite that's falling on us! And the temperatures are gonna fall even worse. When I went to the bathroom, they had the news station playing in the speakers, and the weather people predict a damned Polar Vortex sweeping across all of North America for the next three to six days, with a half-foot of snow in most of the USA and Canada's inhabited section. If any idiot escapee from a jail is outside, or even in an abandoned structure, they'll freeze to death and be found in the spring thaw. That's if anybody bothers to look." Taking a long pull of his piping hot drink, the old driver said "You'd better put yar efforts into looking after your own skins, than fearing for threats that can't reach you up here. And be smart about it! You need a dry shelter, food, and fuel to burn. Anything else is either a bonus or a hindrance that'll kill you quick. Think 'bout that with yar gramps, when ya reach 'em."
Thinking about something, Lucas signaled the restaurant's majordomo to come by so he could ask his question. "We were speaking of emergencies and assistance. Have the police, firemen or paramedics in town issued any sorts of public notices or advise on how to go about your lives, and jobs, in these trying times? Are there new business rules or circulation laws? Other than the call for martial law and rationing of essential materials two days ago, I haven't heard anything else."
The woman shook her head despondently as she answered "Nothing on our end, either. You'd think the government would move faster, given how up & about they usually are about Peace, Order and Good Governance. We thought they'd put in better efforts at insuring we wouldn't have any lawlessness or a sudden explosion of criminality, but I guess they're concentrating on the big cities like Toronto, Ottawa, Montreal, Vancouver, and the like. Small towns like ours aren't usually the problem child in the household, if you get my meaning." Despite the calm demeanor and brave smile, it was obvious she was putting up a front that she didn't believe in.
"Well, that tells me how I'll be spending my christmas day." Lucas mumbled darkly. "Raphael, I'm going to need to see the WAC security department tomorrow morning. We need to start stepping up to the situation if the constabulary can't or won't. I also need to see for myself the recruits and training for the militia I ordered we start boosting. We may need to institute patrols and guard posts around the town perimeter to guarantee peace for the citizens. I'm the C-G, it's time I did the full job."
As the convoy group left the restaurant for their return trip to the manor, the teenager was too busy inside his own mind with planning the coming steps to see the new hope that was blossoming inside the people who had met him. Though accidental, this meeting would be determinant in the coming future.
{ SQ } - { PREVIEW ch.11 } - { SQ }
In the evening of the 23rd of December 2020, Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, is laying the legal foundations and opening moves to wage war against Lucas and the WAC's conglomerate which he sees as enemies of his country. The lengthy story behind that enmity is explored, as is the main group that Trudeau will rely on to legitimize his open acts of warfare against his temporary ally.
In Los Angeles, NCIS and DXS begin to establish permanent links with the new Constable – Governor in order to try to stop the civil wars so that national reconstruction can begin. Obviously, it doesn't work out the way they want.
The SeaQuest & convoy begin their slow progress northwards inside The Great Eastern Split as the UEO executive committee convenes a video-meeting that nobody wants to have.
Lucas, still reeling from all the informations and political maneuvering surrounding his new position and title, gets a nasty wake-up call, right in the middle of his own property. Several people are about to see just how little patience for violence against his person the young man has left.