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'?
ELEVENTH CHAPTER; Acts of war
The Waykeepers of Peter's Road
(Canadian National Anthem)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 20:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 17:00pm
(secret federal bunker)
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
The vast underground hall was filled with the most exclusive movers & shakers produced by Canadian society since Europeans settlers began arriving 400 years ago in The Maritimes and Quebec. Although most migration for the first 150 years was entirely french-born, the great chamber was actually hosting a gathering that was 95% anglophone or Anglo-Saxonic descended. The assembled guests also happened to be 92% male and 98% white. Everybody was 100% traditional christian, be it 'mainstream' protestants (48%), Anglicans (20%), 'accepted' evangelicals (19%) or catholics (13%).
Several groups of biblical worshipers had always been, and would always be, considered as heretical sects, not true followers of Jesus, Son of God by Joseph as in the Christian Bible, the Christ of The Cross, and so were not accepted. These were mainly the Mormons and Jehovah's Witnesses, along with hundreds of other groups that took Power away from the Big 4; small isolated sects that would always hit a closed door when petitioning for recognition and membership. The grouping already had several large cleavages in it, nobody wanted to bring in new factions that would create new splinter cells.
Everybody was 0% Jew.
No Semite-descended or related allowed; certified genealogical study in hand necessary to prove it.
It wasn't that the gathering was actually pro-Nazi or skinhead, far from it. These august men of Power and Money (with capitals on the words for a Reason) were simply quite proud of the Purity, Truth, Cleanliness and Wholesomeness of their Anglo-Saxonic, Frankish & Germanic ancestry whom they saw as the roots of the first genuine civilization of Evolved Humanity on Earth. As such, anything that wasn't able to prove it had 'untainted' ancestry in a straight line to said roots was disqualified and set-back from the group by increments corresponding to the 'pollution' in their blood. This meant that a lineage could be accidentally tainted for a few years then regain their certification of cleanliness, if the appropriate efforts were done with select witnesses present for the acts.
As anybody with a grade school History book - not printed for the Texas school system - could tell you: Humanity's presence on the planet is several times older than just the 1,600 years of the European version of the Christian religion. Egypt was building pyramids 14,000 years ago, China had begun settling the higher northern reaches of its territory in that epoch, and those are the 'big' examples. The emergence of Homo Erectus in Africa's central regions was far older by tens of millenia, as were the first written languages in the area where African and Arabic tribes convened. Many temples in India and Asia Minor are older than the legal/historical existence acknowledged to the most senior nations in white-skinned Europe. But such small facts have never stopped fanatics, racists and bigots from living fully immersed inside the story in their head, abstaining from any contact with reality.
And so it was with this gathering of Canada's self-styled 'Elite' of white-skinned, north/center Europe descended, English-speaking (mostly), apostolates of the Christian sect & cult. Many thought that being part of the white Europeans' descendancy was a necessary basis for being on the right track, but it wasn't really race that motivated or defined them, even though a first glance would certainly impart a very strong impression. It was Christian worship that was the specific measure by which they evaluated education, civility and evolution against the backdrop of the rest of Earth. This meant by the same token that any version of the Bible or Christianity that was older than the first European monks was deemed 'True, but primitive & unevolved' while all other variants that strayed from Catholicism, Anglicanism or Lutheran Protestantism were judged either apocrypha, relapsed, falsified or flat out heretical. This of course led to the thought process by which all other religions were either pre-Evolution or Infidel, and thus worthy of forcible conversion and/or extermination.
That was why the group actually had a few handfuls of women and non-whites amongst its august ranks this evening; each had made proofs of birth-ancestry, marriage or adoption into one of the hallowed lineages, and several years of personal Faith, worship, devotion to the Mother Church, and material contribution to the Power of the group. In the light of monetary profits, material gains, increased Power or influence with the voting populations, and ownership of companies that offered great trades to church-affiliated persons & companies who served them all, such small 'accidents' like birthing, gender or even race could be overlooked, for a talented individual.
And so the Waykeepers of Peter's Road were anointed, tasked with guarding the cleanliness, pureness and safety of the Holy Path of Canada's truly evolved citizens towards their legitimate, blessed, rulership in this low and crass life, and then to the Pearly Gates of Heaven afterwards. They were rivaled in this mainly by the Knights of Columbus, the Free Masons and its offshoot the Shriners, the Opus Dei and a few others that had managed to stay active through the centuries of unrelenting pressure from technology and atheist politics. The discovery of huge sexual scandals that devolved into bribery, corruption of justice and peddling of political influence obviously didn't help the survival of some groups, catholic or protestant alike as that type of sin was universal.
The Waykeepers weren't organized like those other groups or sects, though. But neither were they a Mafia, Triad or other such criminal system. Their way of things was far more like their more recently enacted international counterpart, The Bilderberg Group, in that each member remained wholly independent and autonomous. They had no formal structure, took no votes, passed no resolutions and never gave public policy statements to the media. They were convened by invitation only, hand delivered in private to the desirable individual, but never to a group or company since a group did not have a soul to convert, and could not in fact worship The Faith.
And just like The Bilderberg Group, the Waykeepers' creation was mostly due to governmental figures and the top industrialists who got the public service contracts that had begun things, with many a priest and clergyman in attendance at each annual meeting. Since their inception in 1800, the Waykeepers of Peter's Road had silently, discretely, and often anonymously, manipulated the governance and destiny of the Canadian people on a Path that led towards Godliness and Heaven's Pearly Gates.
They pushed for the building of rural roads to bring Faith & Scripture to the uneducated farmers and wild lands settlers. They guided the construction of navigable canals to allow for passage of large merchant ships, which incidentally carried missionaries too. They financed the electoral campaigns of politicians who favored the instauration of 'Sin Taxes' on everything, keeping women out of politics and 'lesser' races in their proper places in Life and Society, beneath the foot of white christian men.
The industry of printed materials was supported by the group, but only under the caveat that it was their members who should own the companies, or at least hold the upper positions in the directorates of such powerful tools to shape the minds of the population. To effectuate this, they conspired with churchmen to lean on the governments of the day to enact restrictive censorship laws that said texts or ads could be published only if they passed approval by the priest selected by one of the Province's churches to guarantee 'morality' and public decency on paper. This treatment was automatically extended to magazines, calendars, books of all sorts, and especially to censor anything printed being imported from abroad. Although, in that one, the group had shot itself in the foot since their bigoted members never realized the value, nor educational importance, of texts in other languages until the end of the 20th century. Therefore, anything not written in English was basically passed through without any real checks. It wasn't until the end of World War II that the federal government began systematically employing translators in the major customs installations to verify imported texts not written in English or French, but efforts were menial and focused specifically on finding pornography or Gay-friendly social studies. It was only passed 2001 that was undertaken a genuine effort to have multilingual translators in the airports and cargo ports to verify mass-imported texts for their purposes.
The Waykeepers ardently pushed for the creation of railways to move freight and people all year long, something even the steam boats couldn't do in the northern reaches of Canada. They pushed for the standardization and spread of the telegraph, and then the telephone, as perfect instruments of near-instantaneous dominance over one's subordinates from coast-to-coast, and even overseas. The nascent radio-wave devices received a similarly enthusiastic reception, as soon as they were understood to effectuate the transfer of orders just as fast but with less infrastructures and initial cash-down.
Because each member of the Waykeepers was filthy-rich and had many tenets of Prosperity Gospel in the personal variant of the Christian Creed they followed, all efforts from the Canadian, and American, governments to move away from solid monies over to printed paper currency were supported. This would make each member's transactions far easier to tabulate, stop losing value at market unlike Gold, Silver or gems did daily, and also render their spending habits almost invisible. And the old white men WANTED invisible transactions; a big part of maleness in the 1800's and 1900's was based on how many mistresses you could maintain at the same time, on enjoying expensive imported alcohols and tobaccos, on being present at important card games to place huge bets, etc... But, because of their churchmen allies, these comportment's were frowned upon in public, so everything had to happen in private Gentlemens' Clubs or at private estates. This led to the construction of huge manorial domains with walls and multiple wings to separate the social classes, the age groups and the sexes, all to enshrine the dominance of the white male - and his wallet - at the top of things. An exactly similar logic was at play in the early years of the 21st century when they pushed for the legalization and standardization of e-money, web banking and e-wallet apps to replace physical cheques and cards.
The latest great collective push from the Waykeepers of Peter's Road concerned the roll-back of sexuality education in the Eastern provinces of Canada which had become far too liberal, and far too factual, for the liking of the ecclesiastes and their conservative supporters. Then again, the priests were always harping about that, so it was more of a constant job than any newly imagined campaign. What was new was the Internet, recently re-baptized 'Internex' by the UEO Alliance in order to declare ownership of the hubs, along with copyrights and taxes. The electronic medium had destroyed the historical separation between broadcaster & auditor that had driven the industry, and censorship laws, for centuries and more. Now, any child with a smartphone or CPU could transmit voice, text and images to the entire planet, and this without any sort of significant church control ahead of the act.
The churches, the ecclesiastes, the entire social caste of worshipers, were all losing their power at the hands of global democracy, their chains of dominance torn asunder by the searing hot blades of Reality, Truth, Honesty and Altruism which they could no longer fetter in a locked box, unlike books or other solid mediums. Whence a boy would hate school or the public library as 'nerdy' or 'dorky', now the Web had made learning, testing and validating facts COOL the same way that contact sports had been. And the apostolates, preachers and clerics couldn't stop it's progression anymore! More and more, even hard-right conservative politicians were pushing for computer literacy, making programming and robotics classes either available as options or, in rich districts, mandatory for all. The kids were now learning "Reading, Writing & Arithmetic" right along with "Searching, Coding & Social Media", as if it were an act of the Natural Realm as sanctified by God on his throne!
That depravity (democratic flow of data) had to be put under the leash of their commandment IMMEDIATELY or else the entire social order would collapse NOW!
Or at least, that was the latest 'dog-whistle' sounded by the most orthodox denominations of the Big 4 churches who sat amongst the group. Then again, that section of the clerical wing had only gotten more strident and aggressive since technology transited from Telex machines to actual on-screen information as the Digital Age began, so it wasn't new at all. If there was one thing that even the Waykeepers could admit about their own ranks, it was that following a 2,000 year old Holy Scripture did not make a person's mind prone to accepting technological novelty and adaptation. However, the corporate leaders understood the necessity of having an educated workforce to compete with the uncivilized and barbaric foreigners, so the effort to slow down the Digital Age was never going to become as the priests wanted. Like handwritten sigils, wood block prints and then Gutenberg's screw press, the conversion to computers and cybernetics was irreversible.
However, the attempts to return the population to a more prudish morality did continue since the Waykeepers did want a docile, submissive population of peons and minions, not free thinkers. So, the attempts to curtail sex-ed simply joined to the continuous efforts to increase censorship against gay/LGBT social texts, scaling back laws seen as anti-Christian, and discretely lobbying local governments to be 'honestly moral'. This was aimed specifically at the bureaucrats whose job was the revising of applications from charities for subsidies or tax-exemption status. It was the basic, historical role of the Church to be charitable, not the place of left-wing communists or worse, atheists and 'for the people' types of groups. Charity was a tool of Power, the mark of a Lord showing his Blessed Grace upon a peasant or minion who performed well in his task, not something an entity was entitled to simply because they lived. Charity for the sake of 'Goodness', what an idiocy! And next they'll want to exempt the media conglomerates from taxes or laws because information is a 'civil right' !"
{ SQ } - { The Trudeau perspective } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 20:05pm
Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of Canada, was seated at the honor table on the right-side dais, three steps lower than the main dais, at the front of the vast underground hall. He was present with his ministers of finance, industry, commerce, justice and defense. All the delegation were white males and nominally christians, although with varying degrees of practice and devoutness.
It was not Trudeau's first presence at the yearly meeting, far from it. Nor that of the ministers he chose. The Waykeepers of Peter's Road held an event every 5 years to welcome new members at the full caucus, and also present the future heirs of seated members whose lineage was traced to the founding of the group in 1800. Initially, they had been 49 men and four priests congregated for a mass, Sunday brunch, and talks on society, business and governance in a Toronto area rural inn. Since then, the group's seated membership had grown to almost 1,900 persons, with the original 49 + 4 chairs still reserved for the original bloodlines and churches who had given them their cloak of nobility and morality through time.
Because of the harsh winter climate and civil uncertainty that haunted the streets, only a little under half of the total membership had managed to answer the invitation for the yearly Christmas meeting. At least, nobody had been reported killed or injured yet, unlike their counterparts in the USA that kept dropping like flies at every minute that passed.
"Stupid, idiotic, retarded morons who let EVERYBODY own guns without saying anything!" Trudeau mused, making certain to keep that thought silent inside of himself. Wanting gun control laws/agents would never get him plaudits from this group, but now, with the plebes, illegal migrants and criminals running loose across the southern border, and in three dozen other countries as well... No, these rich snobs would WANT people to have unfettered access to guns, so long as it were them and their hirelings who got the weapons to defend their houses and companies from the ill-washed masses of under-beings. As Trudeau well knew, these men of power thought openly that the more of the lesser plebes died off, the better off society would become, with less burdens and uncivilized heathens to be managed by the decent folks.
"Hypocrites" thought Trudeau, not that he had much leeway to say such. He may pass for a 'Pink Hulk' or a champion of teary apologies in the media, but his real personality was for more dogmatic than he let on to the open public. Not religious dogma, but a more personal, deeply rooted, creed than what most worshipers could understand since it wasn't explained to them by a priest.
"Ah, crap." the head of state whined mentally. He was thinking about the stats report that he read just before dinner, about the civil war in America raging on for the fourth day. They had confirmed over seven million dead already, counted through the satellite thermal cameras as the heat spots went cold...
Well, that turpid mess was having a VERY negative effect on the US economy, which created ripple effects on the countries that had deliveries of goods no longer moving since the dock workers and customs agents were all hiding home, or most likely dead. With the points of legal access defunct, nobody was doing business with the USA for a good long while to come, and would cause the bankruptcy of several of the Waykeepers' highest, most exalted members whose fortunes depended on US trade routes. But, that did open great opportunities for others to climb the – ethereal – ladder of importance inside the assembly, if they managed to get their own systems to stay alive long enough to become self-sustaining.
It that vein of thought, Canada was lucky that the civil unrest was just that; unrest amongst a few small groups that were still manageable by the local police forces or hastily dispatched military units. Trudeau's declaration of martial law against all openly christian acts of public worship had hamstrung the Liberal Party's voting base for the future, but it kept the country alive and moving, so they could simply delay all levels of elections until opinions were favorable again. Besides, the real final goal was for Trudeau's Liberals to sustain the country's economic motor just long enough to spread what little prosperity remained to keep a civil war from erupting. That way, the central government of Canada would stay alive long enough to secure the moving of the exalted "ruling families" linked to the European settlers towards one of the three fortified enclaves built to shelter the deserving elite.
There had been plans for such things to happen, like the drastic expansion of the Diefenbaker Airfield in British Columbia over the last 15 years. The second large-scale project was the complete modernizing and retooling of the Chantier Davie shipyards, in Lauzon – Québec, despite that it was a civilian compound. The company's terrain had been greatly expanded, quintupling in size, with many new large housing blocks, medical facilities, food reserves, underground repair garages, and hidden retractable weapons systems. The third protected enclave was the biggest in Canada to date, a project that was only 81% finished, so it would be a chore to endure as the last works were completed. It was situated inside another active military base, the Robert Borden Joint Task Force, in Rockport – New Brunswick, on the Maringouin Peninsula, in the north-eastern sector of the Bay of Fundy.
The Borden sea-base had been built in 1915 to serve as a secure rallying point for the troops going over to World War I in Europe, and was far less exposed to bad weather than Halifax, and most of Nova Scotia, which had lobbied quite strongly for the installations at the time. The base had been kept active in the 1918-39 period mostly for the maintenance of WW-I ships now affected to coast guard duties and training cadets for the navy. At the reprise of hostilities in 1939, the base was doubled in size to benefit from the motorization of industrial machines and the emergence of heavy motor trucks to deliver cargo or men. The base had then been allowed to degrade slowly between 1955 and September 2001, when the attacks in New York took down the Twin Towers. At that time, the base was reopened under reduced affectations specifically to track aircraft or ships with undetermined or hostile intents. It was in 2012 that orders for the complete refurbishing and conversion into a JTF with road & rail yard, airfield and amphibious boat docks, were sent out, along with the addition of large segregated housing, commons, medical, leisure and parking reserved for the elite of Canadian government and society.
Trudeau mused over the heavy costs of maintaining those three facilities year round with Canada's rather limited budgetary capacities. With only 57 million recorded 'legal' citizens, the taxation basin was only 1/6th of the USA and lesser than 1/20th that of China. But, given that several real and imminent threats had emerged since 2001, they had no choice about having protected fall-back enclaves on each coast and in the middle, to regroup away from where the enemy would strike or land troops. There were smaller wartime emergency bunkers, like the John A. Macdonald redoubt in Ottawa which served exclusively for the war council and military brass in case the borders were breached. Other small defensive complexes existed in each province to house the provincial government's executive until help arrived, and there were special 'outposts' built in the lowest peninsula of Ontario to watch the US border at Niagara Falls and Detroit, with the thrice blasted WAC's citadels of Sarnia and Sault-Sainte-Marie having been established for that purpose too.
And that was what really brought Justin Trudeau and his selected all white, all christian, and all male, ministers this evening to the Macdonald redoubt, hidden deep under the steep hill, across the river from Parliament. The riverine interdiction citadels at SSM and Sarnia had been activated to war footing, but not by his decision, and worse, it was an old enemy of his father who did it.
Justin Trudeau was livid as he thought back to all the misery, anxiety and moral outrage that had been inflicted on his poor father by that mongrel bastard, Franklin Henry Wise. The man had connived with the governments of Canada and America in the 1930's to create, build and manage the citadels of Sarnia and Sault-Sainte-Marie, despite all the illogical mess of the proposed contracts and legal bypasses that would be needed for it to work out. The ministers & governors of the day had been bamboozled by Wise, by his medical degrees, by his architectural and mechanical toys, and mostly by his slick, oily personality. They had all been conned by a pro, a genuine snake oil salesman like the Wild Far West used to produce every day, back in the older epochs before trains rolled West.
Wise told them about a problem that he had seen during his travels across the white portions of Europe, following World War I. New machines: big, heavy, armored, capable of moving on land or water with guns blazing and a horde of men eager for war. He told them of the U-Boot, Germany's submersible attack ships, and how they could easily slide into the docks of America to shoot torpedoes or lay mines then leave without being detected. He warned them of the large steel mills sitting idle, crushed under the war reparations commanded by the French and British, but eager to produce; if not for export, then for the national army. And many drydocks could produce large battleships, or worse, cargo transports to send tanks and men across the ocean. And this was seen as a genuine threat since Germany yet retained its colonies in Africa, to extract materials so as to pay those exact reparations that were choking them.
Franklin H. Wise painted to the ministers a portrait of a Europe that was simmering in resentment, racism and the most abject of misery. Each small village was a powder keg waiting for the match to light the powder trail, and War would happen anew. In just a few short years, Wise had argued, in barely a decade or two, the resentment, anger and shame of defeat would boil inside Germany until it exploded violently, killing millions of men again. That was when he told then about Adolph Hitler and his movement, his allies, and the deep rooted sympathies of the German 'volk', the people, the 'grass roots' that were driving this movement forward. A sympathy that was reaching high into the echelons of Power, slowly converting bureaucrats, soldiers, judges, politicians and even clergymen.
Doctor Wise had sung them a hymnal of national glory of his own, playing on the vainglorious old men's hubris and need to mark history with their names. He had given the first rough draft of a pair of complexes that straddled the mighty flows that separated Canada and the USA, based on the emplacements where his family owned commercial and residential terrains of already immense proportions. He presented the projects as simple modernization's and adaptation's of old farm lands to the new motorized / diesel fuel standards that were emerging for cargo trucks. He presented the plans as costing the two governments no money since Wise Apothecary & Chemists would pay for everything, in exchange for fixed, very low, tax rates and permit fees for a period of 100 years, renewable. Brand new roads, rails, canals, bridges & tunnels, radio-wave stations, electrical generation & wires, natural gas depots & pipelines, plus an immense increase in the production of medicines and foods all directly available to the two national militaries.
It was a nice little bundle, wrapped like a gift with shiny paper and a bow on top.
In reality, it was a dirty bomb with a timer, bolted directly onto their country's spinal cord.
Franklin Wise had created a gigantic financial, technological, societal and political tumor that had been growing for decades under his hands, until he disappeared in the late 1970's. The tumors had shrunk, going into latency, then dormancy, so Justin's father, Pierre, had dared to hope that the places of Perdition would never be reactivated again. In fact Pierre Elliott Trudeau had been viscerally enraged against F. H. Wise whom he had met in his younger years, and despised everything the older man had built or designed. In great secret, P. E. Trudeau had tried repeatedly during his tenure as Prime Minister of Canada, from April 1968 until June of 1979, and again from March 1980 to June 1984, to change small innocuous laws to place fetters on WAC, to curtail their gluttonous expansionism, and keep them in the traditional role of a corporation. To no avail; all that the Elder Trudeau had managed was to force the shutting down of production units or employee housing complexes, but not actually revoke the damnable semi-government, pseudo-judicial standing of the WAC's directorate.
That was when P. E. Trudeau decided to lie in bed with Satan to do Jesus' great works.
in 1980, when it had been a solid year without contact from F. H. Wise, he met with the WAC lawyers, whom he knew to be closely monitored by the Waykeepers of Peter's Road, and wove them a tale of potential Power, Prestige, monies, riches, material wealth and Divine Providence as evidenced by social standing and the contents of their wallets. Trudeau Senior carefully selected four old white men, much older than himself, who had sons around his age as the 'fault lines' in the impregnable loyalty that Wise's employees demonstrated. These men were pure whites and devoted christians, not the same sort of gut-churning fake-white Jew-boy as F. H. Wise and his family were known to be. And these very old lawyers, all born before the year 1900, in the generation before Wise himself, had always hated that this coterie of Juden rats could somehow design, build and manage such vast estates for decades until they had so much more riches in hand than good, devout christian men around them had left.
It didn't take Pierre Elliott Trudeau much effort to convince the ailing, and mentally failing, old lawyers to create a cabal, an organized conspiracy to slowly defraud & extort the wealth out of WAC, until it became so poor that it could no longer defend its industrial, judicial, military and political exemptions or special rights. And, if they were to become pauperized enough, they could even start to outright steal from the company's bank accounts, workshops and historical manorial buildings without anybody having any right to say anything since the legal owners would all be dead, stupid or poor anyways.
It was P. E. Trudeau who came up with the idea of the 'Heir Worthiness Test' that had bamboozled any potential inheritor of Franklin Wise's legacy. In the old British legal tradition, the Grand-Father or oldest living male was legally supreme above all other males of the family, who were themselves above all females and children. It hadn't been rare, back in the 1600's, 1700's and even 1800's to see such ridiculous tests and stipulations in the Last Will of a truly rich and important man; one last act of Power imposed vilely and crassly upon the living, to remind them that even from Death, he was still 'The Man of the House' and nothing would change that. The elderly, mentally declining lawyers he negotiated with saw nothing objectionable in the proposed legal fraud, and neither did their sons who were of Trudeau and Wise's generation. This system of extortion was so successful for the first decade that it was transferred to the grandsons, or Justin's generation, and was now being transferred to the great-grand-sons of the original lawyers.
Four generations of lawyers, inheriting their education, positions, and clientele internally as they were the actual department of litigation for WAC. What a majestic coup of strategic planning and diplomatic manipulation it had been for Pierre Elliott Trudeau; he had managed to break the mental and social choke-hold of F. H. Wise upon his employees, turning them into his destroyers instead. And all that was needed for the depraved nests of perfidy to be destroyed was to keep doing it, but a bit faster with more crude methods, like jackhammers and back-hoes instead of papers and court meetings.
Justin had been taught secretly the real truth behind the citadels of Sarnia and Sault-Sainte-Marie, just as he had been told of what lay dormant under the storied old manors in Buffalo, New York, Boston, and many other locales built by F. H. Wise under different names or companies. Justin had been told of the defunct old crone's genuine sympathies for the Nazis and their white-power creed, how he did in fact believe many of the pseudo-sciences espoused by the inhumane Ahnenerbe and its parent sect, the Thule Society for the Occult.
Franklin Henri Wise was a believer of eugenics, racial policies, social castes, social classes, and segregating all the compartments of human society so as to avoid 'pollution' from crossing the boundaries that defined the place and worth of each individual. But what was worse than anything else was that Wise was both a 'Bloodline Traitor' and a 'Race Traitor'. He agreed with the Nazis' plans so much, and enjoyed such a deep, personal friendship with Adolph Hitler, that he had impressed the military tyrant to the point that the Fuhrer granted him many personal gifts. Wise had been awarded in 1936 a 'Deutschblütigkeitserklärung' that declared him of 'German Blood' as if born a citizen of the nation. This was followed a year later, in 1937, by a certification as 'Ehrenarier' or 'Honorary Aryan' thus making Wise capable of receiving contracts from the German government, despite his actual Jewish ancestry, and jewish relatives still alive and in his employ.
Wise had developed such deep ties with Hitler on a personal level that the national leader asked his advice on medicine, science, technology, management, architecture and mechanics, including the creation of the dreaded Siegfried Line and many of the 15,000 bunker plans that Hitler had personally revised before signing them for construction. Justin had been told by his father that there had been rumors, during the war, that Hitler and Wise maintained their unconventional friendship all through the hostilities, even exchanging gifts of alcohol from the Wise farms, artworks painted by Hitler, and many other things until Hitler died by suicide, in early 1945. Up to 4 hours before the fatidic gesture, Allied Radio Command in Britain had been intercepting strangely coded communications between Berlin and WAC Manor in Buffalo; a code that was classified and still unbroken to this day. F. H. Wise had never admitted to the communications happening, and never acquiesced to revealing the code used, even once it was proven to be something he had invented. When politicians of the time wanted to drag him to court to force answers from him, the bastard had used his diplomatic immunity to rebuff the warrants, then used his judicial status to quash the inquest altogether. There never were any answers.
And that was the point of contention, the 'casus belli' for this rage that lived inside the heart of Justin Trudeau against all things designed, created, built or managed by Wise, his family and company.
The man was a Nazi, a traitor, and a like-minded monster.
When he was first elected as Prime Minister of Canada in November 2015, Justin had checked up on the destruction of the Wise conglomerate and the family that had built it. Being a normal man with a normal mind, he had been completely aghast at the situation lived by Lucas Wolenczak. Justin had never in his life thought that a newborn child or toddler should be made to live such cruelty, especially from his own birth parents. But then a further study demonstrated the depraved cosanguine marriages from the incestuous procreation program that Franklin Wise had arranged to function, despite his absence from the scene. It was such a nauseating epiphany that all thoughts of mercy fled Trudeau's mind for he now considered these beings to be unnatural spawns of an illegal laboratory experiment run amok. He would have denounced them publicly and put in jail for the illegal breeding system, but was stopped by the same reality that forbade freeing Lucas from his parents and tutors. The 'Constable – Governor' title with all its many weirdly twisted powers and exemptions would become public knowledge, and thus active on the political scene, the very moment the family was touched by the police, family court or military tribunal.
At that point, the only thing Trudeau could do to sustain the dreams and desires of his own dead father was to stay silent, not touching the mess directly. His subordinates did warn him of the frauds, extortion and outright thefts going on against the legal heir of the family and company, but he bade them remain silent so that the task have a chance at completion. In the depths of his heart, he prayed that little Lucas Wolenczak die soon, to avoid him further pain and misery on one hand, and to finally declare publicly that without a legal heir available, the WAC contracts were now void so that the company could be shuttered and seized for selling in pieces at auction. This would end that turpid chapter of Canada's history, and kill-off any chance that Nazism had of making strong sustainable roots in their country.
But ill luck struck them all; Lucas Wolenczak not only survived passed the minimal age of 10 years that was required by the WAC contracts/treaties to become emancipated and active, he also had genius-level capacities in multiple fields of science. He had begun his own company at age 9 and was already a millionaire from it at age 10! He had 'bought' the Ramshackle House in New York, followed the year after by the Wise Heritage & Trust manor in Buffalo, the very heart of the entire fell tumor. Guided falsely by the criminal lawyers, or those simply ill-educated by their peers, the child had taken a vested interest in the life, deeds and possessions of his discovered ancestor, to the point that he had decided to willingly pursue the steps needed to pass the damnable fake 'heir test'. And then he succeed at it, too!
Despite all the crimes, betrayals, conspiracies, legal wrangling and governmental abuses, the blasted child had passed the last 6 years chomping his way through every obstacle on his path, all the while progressing his prodigy-grade studies and growing the clientele and accomplishments of his own electronics company. And then on top of all things, he got in bed with The World Bank, being so capable, so performant as an adviser, that he was elevated to a permanent – external – position at the level of the directorate of Network Security Protocols.
This child was a monster, just like his great-grand-father had been.
For all the sympathy and pity that Justin Trudeau felt towards the miserably inhuman life the boy had lived to date, courtesy of his parents and their minions, he simply couldn't afford to be merciful towards this beastly creature any longer. Lucas Wolenczak had to die forthwith, and that was the reason he was present today, at the yearly meeting of the Waykeepers of Peter's Road. To explain the mess, and ask for their guidance, money, and political support, as he took the final steps to destroy the monstrous, unnatural, error of humanity that was the Wise family and its extensions.
May Jesus, their God in Heaven, have mercy on their souls if he couldn't accomplish this.
{ SQ } - { Trudeau beseeching the Waykeepers } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 20:45pm
Sitting at the Honor Table of the central dais, James Joseph Nobili, 72 years old, currently director for the Association of Petroleum Industries & Trades of Canada, descendant to one of the Hallowed 49 who founded the Waykeepers, finished sipping his coffee to wash down the small viennese pastry that was offered as the only meal course before the presentations and speeches. He was this year's nominal host and presenter, chosen from amongst the direct heirs of the 49 bloodlines as the most fitting persona for the situation that surrounded the country. As per the protocols of the Waykeepers, it was the only time in his life that he would experience this honor, since it always shifted between members to avoid creating a fixed executive stratum amongst the participants.
The group did not have an actual determined hierarchy and no solid administrative structures mostly so as to escape from the grasp of all the laws that regulated commercial cartels, political committees and churches, specifically taxation laws and hate/defamation speech laws. If they had a common organization with a bank account, they could be forcibly bent to civilian/secular laws, or even sued into bankruptcy by those menials who should know to stay quiet before their betters. As a white christian male who could trace his heredity all the way up to the farming gentry of Britain in the 1500's, in a straight, unbroken lineage, there was no way that Nobili would support any motion to weaken the group's actions & goals by creating a formally chartered association with tax numbers. It would be the height of foolishness and, from a personal standpoint, it would be the admission that peasants, peons and minions had the right to command limits unto his actions or thoughts, simply because they had voted some populist idiots to office by what they called 'democratic' process.
Democracy! What utter balderdash!
As if the plebes knew what to do about anything in society and life, let alone with freedom and their own menial existences. If the rich and learned didn't hold their hands all day, they'd vote themselves into submission to some mud-skinned cultist who would return all of Canada to the same state of primitivism as their ancestors had found them, in the 1600's when Montreal was founded. Nobili's father, grand-father, great-grand-father, and others before them, had not reached the summit of commercial, industrial and financial might by letting inferiors make the decisions for them, or steal from their businesses under the guise of 'helping the impoverished'. Not that it was a new theme; just a repeat of the same idiocy each generation came up with to pilfer from their houses what God himself had given them as just rewards for their faith and works in His Name.
Prosperity was for the Worthy, not the infidels or primitives.
James Joseph Nobili cleared his mind of the redundant thoughts as he wiped his mouth with a cloth napkin, standing at his place to obtain the attention of the assembly. He reached a wrinkled, beringed hand to press the 'speak' button on the old tabletop microphone in front of him, causing a noise to emit from the hidden speakers all around the hall. The members put down their utensils and cups, many turning their chairs around to face towards the dais at the front of the hall.
"Thank you, my good fellow members," began Nobili as part of his introduction. "Tonight we are honored yet again by the presence of the Prime Minister of our Country, Canada, the birthright entrusted to us by our hallowed ancestors. He has come to us, humble in his petition for our wizened counsel, bearing a problematic situation of the most delicate nature. We will thusly come together tonight, under the Light of Jesus, our Christ, the God of the Bible, to combat the Darkness that is encroaching upon our fair lands from all parts. There is a tremendous Storm of Evil, perfidy and debasement pounding savagely on our gates, my good brothers and sisters! Our racial and spiritual brethren in America and South Africa have consummated their Fall, their governments destroyed and societies ablaze, whilst our old mother England lies in agony, victim of the cowardly escapes of their Queen & Parliament. Elsewhere, in Australia and New Zealand, the crowds have begun to tear apart the harness of civility and evolution that our Holy Mothers, the Churches of Christ, had wrought upon them, thus showing that they would rather embrace primitive life, or worse, actual infidelity and barbary, instead of staying with properly bred humanity."
Taking a breath to look over the rapt audience, Nobili placed both wrinkled, jeweled, hands flat over his large rotund paunch that strained his starched white shirt and silver-toned waistcoat. Adopting an air of confidence that he did not feel, the elder male faked a satisfied smile as he introduced the reason the meeting had been maintained, despite the huge absenteeism foreseen.
"We have many external challenges at our borders, yes, but I have full faith in our military to repel these foreigners, criminals and parasites as they are. What I do have concerns about, however, is inside our borders already; the fell works of an old enemy coming to fruition after decades of silence. For you see, back in the 1930's there was a foul being, a Jew-boy of course, who had wrought for his person & kin a most criminally, treasonously, depraved Act of Power such as only a member of this august group should ever become the holder of. This man concocted a contract with the United-States and Canada that has given himself, and thereafter descendants, the combined authorities of a state governor, a minister of Justice, a minister of Defense, a federal judge, and a military admiral, all inside one title & position."
James gave the assembly a minute to voice their spleen or confirm that they knew the problem already. As he had expected, very few of the two younger generations had any knowledge of the mess their forebears had left them to clean. This would cause an uproar, but also be a simple, easy, cause to rally people behind. In turn, that rallying of the group to Trudeau's cause would seal the preeminence of both their Faith and Group in the plans of Canada for surviving the developing crisis.
"Yes, that's the case I am referring to. The bastard juden rassen, Franklin Henry Wise, connived and bought enormous tracts of public lands and waterways to build massive fortified industries. These constructions were done under the guise of preparing the two neighboring countries against the possible incursion of Nazi troops via the Saint-Lawrence seaway, while also creating stable, reliable, customs posts & crossings in otherwise wild zones of the border. All this did in fact get done; the roads, rails, canals and bridges were built, but on HIS private lands! A private person took control of two huge border crossings, and segments of river at the same time, right under the noses of every good, pure, christian man of Faithful standing alive in the day! What a shame, I say! What a shame! And you should see the tax reductions, the rebates on permit fees, and the marketing exclusivities the felonious Jew-boy had managed to defraud out of the governments back then! And with a century long duration, with multiple renewal options written into the damned papers, because the fools of that time thought that they were the ones in charge. Well, guess what! That blasted piece of legal trickery is still going to this day, and Wise Apothecary is now set to churn out weapons and vehicles of warfare, right alongside its poisonous drugs and rotten foodstuffs, just as if it were the most natural thing in the world!"
Nobili, raised both hands high in the air, in a willingly weak attempt to calm the jeering, screeching crowd back to a semblance of peace for the rest of the presentation. He needed the members riled and discomforted, but not to the point they wanted to do things with their own hands, as if they didn't have hirelings for such jobs. As long as the honorable men maintained enough detachment from their legitimate wrath to remember that they were MASTERS who gave orders to underlings, then things would remain as they should. At that point, the subtle manipulation of people and events wanted by Justin Trudeau would become reality. And then, James Joseph Nobili would become so much more important in the coming years of the renewed Canada, followed by his son, grand-son and descendants, of course. He was a businessman, not a charity; of course he was being compensated for his services.
"Pax Christu, my good fellow members! Pax Christu, in the name of Peter's road! I have not finished by a long ways the current situation. Now, that was a righteous wrath that you all expressed, and Jesus would be pleased to see so many valiant men of faith and learning ready for the Good Fight, despite all the ailments of their venerable ages. Even old Mister Desaulniers, an 88 year old shipping armateur from Quebec City, was trying to stand from his medical wheelchair to repel this knavery. As he should! As we all should! And we all will! So be it the will of God, as He compels us from within! Amen!"
Standing unbiden from his chair at the Honor Table of the central dais, the 91 year old Reverend Father Ignace de Providence, cardinal of Ontario for the Vatican Catholic Church, led the assembly in an act of 'spontaneous worship' by reciting the Lord's Prayer in French, which was answered to by the members in their own native languages. After the geriatric cleric was helped to sit down, the presenter took the microphone anew, having one last act to do as part of his task.
"And now, honored guests, I bring to you the Man of the Hour, Justin Trudeau, Prime Minister of our great, blessed nation, who bears unto us the grim tidings of this jewish crapulence, but, also, the solution to any problems they may have tried to inflict upon us. Please, welcome him with your prayers!"
This time it was the 89 year old Reverend Father Lloyd Flacks, cardinal of the Anglican Church, High Eminence for the Canadian territories of Her British Majesty who stood to lead a prayer. While the country of Canada had received its independence over a century ago, the Anglicans still considered them 'internal parishes' of their organization, irrespective of sovereign borders and secular laws. The doddering old priest led the congregation through a mumbled Hail Mary as a segue during which Trudeau left his chair to climb the central dais to stand at the guest podium, next to the Honor Table. Once situated, the highest elected official in the country waited for the prayer to finish and the priest to sit before addressing the crowd.
Trudeau was wearing a very chic 3-piece suit in tones of deep blue that specifically resembled the color of the Canadian Navy officers' uniforms so as to subliminally create, in the minds of the viewers, an appearance of being more formal, disciplined, and conservative, than his Liberal Party affiliation. In the same idea, he had styled his hair to be flatter and less shiny to not attract attention, and wore no visible jewelry but his watch and wedding ring. It was a subdued display of good taste while respecting his place in life as not being anywhere as rich as the people he was speaking to. And since he had come practically begging, as a supplicant kneeling before his Lord, he could not in any ways give the impression that he believed himself to be on the same level as them, and certainly not above. These people were all vainglorious, narcissistic, prideful, and extremely jealous of their money-bought or hereditary privileges; any being or thing that threatened or questioned that would be destroyed on sight.
Adopting an urgent yet humble tone of voice, the 49 year old began with a small joke to put people at ease as introduction to the heavy material. "Hello and good evening. I am privileged to once again be amongst yourselves for the annual gathering, my 5th as Prime Minister of our great country. And, I should say, I give your sustained efforts my many thanks for it is you that made the situation such that unlike our southern neighbors, we don't have to 'become great again', for we never fell! Thanks to you, our people have never lacked leadership, stability or vision, and so they never saw fit to set the land aflame to purge out the corruption of godless criminals from Ottawa, unlike the Trumpites who couldn't wait to light the wick for the dynamite sticks. In this, we have showed clearly whom it is that is Favored by Jesus, being gifted his Divine Grace by the material proofs that each of us in this room can display so proudly."
After waiting out for the small bout of polite applause to end, Trudeau began the real reason he was here tonight. "I have come to discuss with you this eve the insanities perpetrated by our ancestors in the 1930's, at the sites of Sarnia and Sault-Saint-Mary in Ontario. As was so clearly announced by our esteemed presenter, a storied family of Jews that migrated from Europe in the last years of the 1700's and chose the USA as its new home, approached the two governments of Canada and America with a complex, intriguing proposition. The leader of the family and its conglomerate at the time was the highly intelligent F. H. Wise, doctor of medicine, surgery and the apothecary arts. In reality, he was a polymath who became equally well known for his remarkable talents at architecture, mechanics, engineering, chemistry, physics and vehicular design by the time World War II ended. Somewhat of a Leonardo Da Vinci for the Industrial Age, if you will. However, he had none of the biblically inspired honesty, integrity or decency that the much lauded Maestro of Florence demonstrated all his life. The proposals he submitted to the legal authorities on both sides of the border, in 1935, were filled with loopholes, abstentions, frauds, and grossly unconstitutional overreaches of federal executive power."
Trudeau stayed quiet for a few minutes while the assembly of old men shouted, accused and whined about such great Power being sullied by the hands of foreigners, especially jews of all the unbecoming filth that could have committed this treason. After almost five minutes, the crowd calmed itself enough for the national leader to continue with his entreaty.
"Now, I know that each of you here believes as firmly as I do in a strong federal government, but one that is subject to equally strong checks, balances, and restrictions, to keep the tyrannical, or incompetent, from abusing our people in such ways as to cause destruction. A strong nation is only strong because the population that works, produces goods and creates the wealth of the country, you and your families, can have the peace of mind that their work and heritage will not be stolen right out of their hands. The guarantee for this, in both countries, is the founding Constitution. Now, the great, evil audacity of F. H. Wise was that he managed to hoodwink the two governments into using the period of uncertainty of the imminent Great War to justify crafting exemptions, exceptions, and flat-out abrogations of constitutional laws, into that hellish contract he submitted them. And, due to the weakness, the feckless cowardice, in all of the elected officials, bureaucrats, judges and soldiers of the day, that abhorrent text was signed, thus butchering our laws and sovereignty for ever."
Trudeau scanned the crowd as it sat silently, glumly digesting the first publicly spoken details of the illogical, illegal nightmare that Wise and his family had spawned. After a minute had elapsed, he continued his lopsided elocution of 'selected' facts.
"That was the greatest crime ever perpetrated against our population in our history. A relatively simple civilian man, an herb-peddling farmer from Buffalo in the USA, who never even served under the Flag of a country, had managed to contrive for himself a title equal to nobility, a position amongst the lawmaking bodies, a function that mirrored the seated judges whilst pushing them aside, and also a military rank in the top of the flagpole, equal to an admiral of the fleet. Our constitution expressly FORBIDS the merging of governmental branches, just as it FORBIDS that a person holds active stations in the legislative, bureaucracy, judicial and armed services at the same time. Yes, a reservist can have a full-time job in Parliament as deputy, or be a bureaucrat or judge, but the moment they get called back to the army for an emergency, their day job gets deactivated so they are fully subjected to their current hierarchy without conflict of interest or bypasses. What Franklin Wise did was gouge out of the established constitutional jurisprudence a damned niche of privileges, entitlements, exemptions, bypasses, circumventions and flat-out IMMUNITY from mundane laws that you, me, and every other Canadian or American has to live by. He even has CONTROL over two border posts to such a point that he can determine their working hours and the fees people are charged when passing, under the stupidly transparent excuse that the crossings are on his company's terrains, therefore he has the 'right' to bill people for the services, just like when he sold pills in his damned pharmacies."
Seeing the approving nods from the majority of the assembly, Trudeau knew he had won them over before even going into the nasty parts about what needed done. Despite being all Canadians by birth, all of them had a great deal of cultural parity with their more conservative American neighbors, especially when it came to how they perceived the laws, constitutional principles, and limiting the reach of authorities into the lives of the people they considered 'elite' or 'natural superiors' in the country. That meant that most would have an – allergic – reaction to the unconscionable overreach and butchering of their most basic societal tenets. Now, Trudeau just had to insist on the facts that the ultimate benefactor of this monstrous contract was both jewish and, specifically, a young teenager, and the rest would be done by the gathering of elderly male crones, as their inbred jealousy against other rich folk plus natural ageist bigotry against young persons took over their minds. Driven by instincts cultivated over thousands of years, the old, white, christian men would be the ones pushing for a 'final' solution so that this never happen again, not unless one of theirs was the recipient of such governmental largess.
"I don't want to put too much insistence on this, but remember just how precarious a situation our country would be in, if the legal Heir of Wise were to ascend to the position of Patriarch for that House. Firstly, he is 16 years old tomorrow at 23:00pm, but make no mistake my good brethren, he is Jew, not any type of baby Jesus, nor any kind of God-fearing adorer of our Lord. And, he is the one that started this awful anti-church frenzy of chaos and barbary that surrounds us." Trudeau shouted at the strongest voice that his lungs could push out. "He started it all! Yes, yes, yes... That moron Trump lit the match with his idiocy and illiterate, limited cognition of Scriptures, but, it was the CHILD, the jew-boy Wolenczak that used that match to light the powder trail to blast the kegs sky high. And that explosion took us out, without a care in the damned world! That is what you get when you let an immature, out of control BOY have any sorts of POWER over adult men of God in this world! Do you want it to get worse? Well, look over the brand new Great Eastern Split to see it happening already. He's the one using the space stations' weapons to carve the continent like a roasted Christmas turkey, all to his whims because he said 'now that he had control, he wasn't giving it back to anybody', and that's that!"
The Prime Minister of Canada stood silently, waiting patiently as the furor of the latest revelation ran its course through the crowd, the old men's hackles well and truly ruffled in a bad way. As the gray-headed crones got all stropped-up about things they couldn't even understand, let alone change, the elected official gazed over the yelling, shouting, and gesticulating gerontocrats who thought they ran the country in his stead, keeping his true emotions hidden. It was really becoming a burden though, to stay silent in front of this audience, as Trudeau began to realize just how fanatical they were, but also how limited their actual capacities would be in mere days. The earwig he wore in his left ear linked him to the Canadian Armed Forces cent-com; they had just confirmed that the UEO intelligence Section-7 had retro-ceded his adult parents back to the young Wolenczak boy. This happened on account that he was the bearer of Diplomatic Status, and therefore the only authority able to determine the fate of his brutish, criminal forebears.
The boy's status as Constable – Governor was now fully activated before the world.
The World Bank was certain to follow suit, given how Desdenski was attached to the teen, since he wouldn't have any opposition from the UEO's executive council. The USA's word was worthless on the international scene, as were that of the Arabic and African nations. The South-American nations were already embroiled in civil wars of their own, and Europe was descending into paralysis with civil war to follow soon. Russia and China were teetering on the brink, and weren't long for this world, especially when the armies no longer had any reason to keep the tyrants in place which would open the way for popular revolutions, just like in the early 1900's.
What then, could these stupid, fat, sickly old pigs, church-whores the lot of them, do against reality?
Nothing.
Nothing important or useful, since this was beyond a long shot.
But, perhaps this ploy could buy Canada a handful of weeks in which to quietly move the thinking, scientific and technological elites into secured bunkers while the rest of the menials and ordinaries survived as Nature would have them. All they were useful for, now, was to spread lies and propaganda about his leadership and capacity to keep the government afloat long enough to fool the masses into staying calm so the nation's head could have a 'managed' emergency landing of this doomed plane so as to save those that mattered for real.
{ SQ } - { The wizened counsel of the Waykeepers } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 21:00pm
After Justin Trudeau had closed his address, the Reverend Father Nils Werther, Cardinal of the Reformed Lutheran Protestant Church of Canada gave a short prayer of thanks to God for giving them the strength and wisdom to decide their next acts. Once the 91 year old prelate had sat back in his chair with help from a pair of lay brothers, the official presenter James Joseph Nobili took the microphone again to direct the following events on their predetermined course.
He had to earn his reward, or Trudeau would abandon him in the wilds for the beasts to feast on, and nobody would be bothered to stop him or help Nobili to escape alive. That meant that the elderly leader of Canada's petroleum producers had to cinch the active backing of the Waykeepers in a recorded declaration, and possibly in written fliers that could be tacked to walls and billboards across the nation to placate the populace until the governing bodies were ensconced in their bunkers to weather out this miserable bitch-crap of a societal collapse.
"Hear yea, hear yea, you good and noble men of God, Jesus our Lord, the Redemptor in His Almight! We here assembled, the Waykeepers of Peter's Road, have come in hallowed gathering to celebrate the Birth of the Son of God, Jesus Christ, the Light of all life, as we have every Christmas since 1800. In this august body, all faithful children of the one and only True God, do we see the only possible future and Salvation of our race and kin, the only people who can guide this land to Heaven's Gates rather than down the flaming paths of Perdition, unto Hell Everburning. And for this, the chance to see each other and congregate in Holy Faith, to read Scripture and Commune one last time before we must all go aground to our shelters against this Dark Storm, do we say resoundingly AMEN and HALLELUJA!"
Nobili raised his hands in the air high above his head, waving at the crowd to quiet down now or else they'd get riled up anew and nothing would get done tonight. The clock was going on, and them that had value to the country had to finish packing for the move to safety. All he needed now was three little things from the crowd of diseased old dudders, and his bloodline would be golden for generations.
"Pax Christu, my brethren! We must convene in peace and serenity if we wish to have any chance at establishing any sort of common cause tonight. I implore you to bear with me, in these Times of Tribulation, for yes, we are now in them Times that were Prophesied in the epoch of Rome and the Cross of our Lord." Pausing to lay his hands over his vast belly, tugging absently at the hem of his waistcoat, the white haired male tried to look as stately and imposing as he hoped to become in the coming weeks. "I know full well the traditions and creed of our august gathering. We have never given public statements. We have never voted resolutions or mandates. We do not even publicly admit that we exist as a congregation in Christ our God, for fear of being harnessed to the yoke of civilian, secular laws as if we were beasts leashed to a cart. But, tonight, needs must, and survival is the mother of all needs and necessities in this low, crass, material world we dwell in."
Nobili affected an air of humble reflection as he laid out his arguments; "We must break with our esteemed traditions in order to insure the survival of our nation's fittest, and the proper removal of those unfit to be called humans. As such, I propose that we make our history's first writs and vote upon them, signifying once and for all that them who art in Christ have no fear to tread in daylight, be it amongst honored peers, so-called lay gentiles, or even low-borne creatures of fell disrepute. We are born into this world by the Light and Grace of He who suffered the Cross; no other Will shall ever steer our Souls, open our mouths to speak nor guide our hands to act but His. Amen."
As many in the crowd nodded enthusiastically with vocal imprecations of their Faith and Belief, a few kept silent, waiting for the requests to be spoken. While a few of the oldest members were in fact almost too sick to attend or even understand everything, it wasn't only these invalids that were biding their time in silence, knowing that exorbitant demands and spurious claims were about to be passed. Hidden in the crowd were a few whom had maintained their wherewithal despite the economic collapse and accompanying threat of civil war looming over their heads. War was an occasion for profit, for social elevation, and for the disposal of enemies in mysterious circumstances. Any who kept a cool mind and enlightened disposition could come out of this ahead of all others, including from this group.
"As I have been aware of Minister Trudeau's pressing issue for the last three days, since the inception of the crisis, I have given much thought to events and the remedies needed to insure this crisis is resolved in a manner befitting the Faith and Creed of our Lord. That is to say, a way that Christians can once and for all come out on top of society, and such scurrilous events that could detract from this righteous domination of the massed lessers, menials and minions no longer occur in Canada."
"Point one; we must now and forever instruct that all military, para-military, police and judicial functions, positions, ranks and titles be afforded only to those nominated or voted upon by Parliament in the manner prescribed by the Constitution of Canada. No other laws, by-laws, rules, treaties or international agreements shall ever preclude this just, natural, order of society. ANY who attempt to deter from this, even just by verbal challenge, shall be condemned for High Treason by military tribunal and hung in public as per the founding laws of our Great Nation."
A smattering of polite applause and comments answered his plea, this point seeming so evident to the men in the conference hall that none saw the reason to get all excited over repeating what was already considered as basic decency and law. That it needed repeating aloud and emitting a formal writ for it to be respected as intended by the founders was seen as the proof of secular society's incompetence, not as a milestone in the Waykeepers' history. After all, it wasn't the churches that had demanded the abrogation of the death penalty in Canada just after World War II, it was the atheists, and now look at the state of the nation. Criminals and traitors ran amok, knowing no punishment that truly fit their crimes would ever be applied to them in this life.
"Second point; we must emit a writ unto the current Prime Minister to endow him with the Blessed Sanctity of our Faith & Creed necessary to go about the disgraceful business of seizing the unholy, unnatural elements that dwell within the Wise Apothecary conglomerate, to bring them before the military tribunal of Canada to answer for their crimes. Furthermore, we should grant writ to have the Wise holdings and heritage be seized in legal forfeiture by the federal government to pay for all the damages the damnable, out of control, disobedient runt did to our beautiful christian world. This writ would allow the ministers of Justice, Finances and Defense to establish the 'cutting lines' along which the many companies, holdings, trust funds and solid properties would be separated. Some items would naturally be returned to public domain, like the border crossing stations, or sold off at public auctions open only to those who are both Canadian and Christians in good standing with one of our Mother Churches."
This second postulate saw a much greater applause, and more animation from the old men as they were now enraptured in foul dreams of just what they could bid or negotiate from the Canadian government's hands once the well renowned Wise estates and manors were chopped and parceled for sale. Many were already imagining doing a few paltry favors for Trudeau in exchange for high value, precious pieces of the long-storied heritage that had been their financial competitor and religious opponent for over two centuries. Damn them jew rats, but they held on to their gold so damned hard! It was high time that good, faithful christian men got these precious proofs of God's Grace & Will out of their foul hands and back inside the sanctity of worshipful families, like their own.
Nobili knew he had most of the crowd in agreement with his proposals, as neither needed a great deal from the members but to sign their names on the sheet and then leave to attend their packing, and a morose Christmas day tomorrow, with their moving/fleeing the day after. The truly controversial proposal was about to hit the floor now, and the backlash would be either epic or nil, with no in-between possible.
"Point three; the last one we need to address. The federal authorities have long labored under the cruel barbs of secular whips that flayed from their souls, minds, laws, regulations and judgments any hint at the True Nature and Hallowed Purpose of Canada amongst the nations of the world. WE are one within the Light of Christ, are borne of it, and depend on it for life and Salvation in Heaven, something no biblical primitive, secular layman, infidel or barbarian could ever fathom. We need to give anew the righteous guidance and strength of our Creed unto those elected to govern the daily doldrum of national management, as was once the normality of our Blessed European ancestors in Germany, France, England and similar white nations who knelt before the Cross of Jesus. As such, I motion that this body emit a writ by which it nominates me, James Joseph Nobili, as permanent Faith-Speaker attached to the parliament of Canada and ministerial cabinet, so as to ascertain, guide, and insure their compliance to Faith, Creed, Oaths and Measures as written in Scripture per the King James bible. As I am not an actual ecclesiaste, clergyman or priest, I would not favor any church, organization or hierarchy above that of the Waykeepers of Peter's Road, but instead insure that our four guiding Mother Churches have equal access and attention when counseling our elected, nominated or appointed men. This would, for the first time in history, grant direct line of communication between the true faithful of God and those put in charge of the mundane chores of public works. Dwell on this, I pray thee."
As expected the third point made many an angry or surprised old man stand up, fist in the air, demanding what kind of power grab Nobili was getting to. However, each of the protesters had other things to worry about at home, like getting back to said home to begin with. The other important point was this; if not Nobili, then whom would it be that sits in the public eye, right next to Justin Trudeau or the next Prime Minister, as the Hand of Jesus in Parliament? Many of these protesters suddenly developed an odd complexion, a pallor and tremors in the legs that made them fall back to their chairs as they contemplated the full extent of the danger that the poor fool on the stand was going to bring down upon his own head, by his own supposed cleverness.
The Copernicus orbital combat stations.
Trudeau had said quite clearly that the jew-boy wasn't giving back control to either the UEO's blond harlot Andrea Dre, the North-American Confederation nor the European Union. He, the boy, was going to keep on holding, managing, and using quite fully the powers of these massive orbiting weapons, regardless of whatever public notices, writs, mandates, laws and regulations the Waykeepers would try to pass off as new 'Law of the Land'. The teenager would hear of their meeting, he would find out who was here, and who did what, and whom it was that bolstered Trudeau's ill-hatched scheme to deprive the boy of his heritage. That he was an abominable jew-boy, and a procreate of incest to boot, was clearly evident to all, but that didn't make them able to change things. It was still the boy who held the gun to their heads, not them. That Wise had been a hypocrite, a conman, a perjurer and an infidel were also all true to the naked eye of any christian man; but just the same, his young heir held the reins, the money, and the bloody big space guns, not them.
As seconds passed, Nobili began to develop a sweat along his brow as people suddenly stopped jeering and shouting, becoming silent and pale as if seeing a ghost, then sitting down without further ado about any of the proposed writs. This could be the best outcome, or the worse; only a vote would tell.
"As we are somewhat pressed for time as all of us have extensive travels to reach our homes to prepare for our sojourn to our assigned enclaves to endure the coming Darkness, I would ask that we pass immediately to the vote upon the points, if no objections occur. If any wish to discuss or amend one of the points, please raise your hand now, or we will vote, then print the writ sheets for your signatures and close the session. You may each sign the legal papers at the exits as you are processed out."
Nobili's proclamation was met by an almost silent room, with only the noises of a few men sipping the dregs from their cups of hot beverage or tumblers of alcoholic digestive. Not knowing whether he should feel emboldened or frightened by the sudden turn of events, James Joseph Nobili called out for the raised-hand votes on each of the three points, one after the other, giving time at each for the official scribe of the evening to count and notate the numbers. It was a cold shower of a reality check for any ambitions of great Power and authority he held to his heart. The votes were in favor of passing all three motions for creating the writs and signing them, but less than 40% of those present had voted 'yes' on any or all of the points. About 30% had voted against and the balance, some 30%, had chosen the act of abstention throughout the process, thus handing out a very weak, almost meaningless mandate to either Trudeau or himself.
Not seeing a reason to delay the end, Nobili signaled the scribe to complete the prepared writ templates with the voting numbers and brand new Seal of Peter's Road that he had created all by his lonesome, without any help, input or permission from anybody. Since they wanted to grab their ass with both hands like this, they could stay silent as he took the Order of the Waykeepers and remade it into something all of White Christendom could be fiercely proud of, unlike the current churches and groups that they belonged to.
The Trudeau solution
(Canadian National Anthem)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:30pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 19:30pm
Official bunker, under parliament
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Justin Trudeau stalked into his enclosed office, deep inside the 'official' safety bunker that was built under the canadian parliament. The structure was mostly a stand-by, a temporary redoubt to hide in until the city was safe enough for a motorized convoy to roll in the streets to evacuate the government out of the city limits and into the countryside, to the real war bunker that lay several dozen miles north and west, in northern Ontario's wild, forested hills. This safety edifice was drab, small, cramped and not the least bit safe since it was publicly know that it existed. It was even on the government's web site, like the Diefenbaker AFB! Then again, it had been build in World War II, in 1944, when there had been a credible threat of German/Nazi warships sailing up the Saint-Laurent to attack all the important ports along the majestic river.
So, after the cold war, in 1980, the bunker was declassified and turned into more of a glorified storm shelter, or stand-by base in case of civil unrest, than an actual, credible warfare bunker. The obsolescence of the structure showed in every aspect of its design; small thick doors like inside a submarine, exposed pipes and wires for easy inspection and repairs, murder slits to emplace guns at strategic corridor junctions or rooms, etc... The entire place was made of soul-warping gray-beige cement that had not aged well, changing color as time passed. The aggregate material had reacted badly to chemical soaps and airborne pollution coming through the vents from the city above, becoming a dull decrepit grayness that seemed to sap the light to convert everything into zones of shadows.
Trudeau tried to clear his mind of the dreary atmosphere as he sat in the old, creaky swivel chair behind the small desk. It was upholstered in an incredibly eye-searing shade of mud-brown that had already been considered kitsch when his father had been a child in the 1930's. The matching furniture made of plywood with a melamine particle board lamination all over the external surfaces to harden it was just as ugly and gut-churning as the pseudo-felt seats.
The door opened to let in Sean O'Reagan, the minister of national defense, and his older colleague David Lametti, the minister of justice & attorney general of Canada. Minister Lametti put a pile of paper sheets heavily illuminated with christian effigies on the PM's desk, then sat in the uncomfortable ugly swivel chairs in front of him, waiting silently for the orders they knew would come.
Rifling absently through the collection of not-at-all-legal papers, the man sighed as he ordered his thoughts to give commands that were concise yet precise all the same. "We need to pass this along to the UEO executive cabinet immediately, so that they aren't surprised when we publicly make the final moves on retaking WAC for the public domain. When they see we have popular backing for this, they'll stand back and let it be an internal matter. Plus, I want to see if we can't make this a bloodless coup by publicly offering the kid to just pack up and safely hide himself away in one of the UEO's research or medical facilities, without protest from anybody. He never knew of this shite until recently, and if our fathers and grand-fathers had done their jobs properly, none of this mess would exist. So, I want to try to convince him to hand control of everything to us, in exchange for a clear way out. The alternative being that we will try our best to destroy him for as long as we have any sort of control over our armed forces. Comments, ideas, counters...?"
The two men seated in front of the desk exchanged a short telling look, then minister O'Reagan replied softly "It won't work. You know it won't work. The UEO won't give a damn about whatever pseudo-legalistic babble a religious cult signed, especially not christians, not in this day and age. The people in the Waykeepers knew it wouldn't work; that's why the approval votes were so bloody low. The kid crashed the banks all over the planet, then sabotaged the mercenaries that were paid to come for him. He did it in public, without hiding anything. He confirmed it to Iegor Desdenski at the World Bank, going so far as to send him a copy of the attack codes he used to cripple our world. Then he hijacked the Copernicus stations, legally to boot. You know full well that as Constable – Governor he has the right and authority to request their usage to stop, reduce, or mitigate, any natural catastrophe or insurrection. He was acting according to his function, position, rank, and title, when he created that volcano in Toledo to plug the hole in the side of Lake Erie to save the St-Lawrence watershed."
Then, justice minister Lametti added sarcastically, voice full of disdain, "The contracts that created his position are based on the War Measures Act of 1918 in both countries. Two different governments signed off on the treaty that created the Coast Guard, Customs & Excises division that he's operating under. Multiple generations of administrations renewed every 5 years have reconfirmed the system and avowed its decisions in the courts of both nations, the confederation and the UN. At this point of history and jurisprudence, nobody in their right mind will believe otherwise. Except a few doddering old white crones, all so damned racist and bigoted that they couldn't come out in public until the world was ending, so nobody would punish them for their idiocy because they're all too busy staying alive to care! What the Waykeepers gave you is worth the same as novelty toilet paper with funny faces drawn on it. No judge worth his Bar Association card would accept it in his tribunal, even in the military. Do you really think the UEO cabinet will be the exception? That they'll buy it just because you smiled your dimples at them? You'll have to turn Canada into a theocratic tyranny for this to pass muster, and I can bet you that the population won't allow it. Not after Trump and his crusaders, inquisitors, and giving every old cross-humping crone in the USA the right to kidnap, beat, maim, rape and murder anybody they wanted under the claim of them being 'infidels' or some other crap."
Pursing his lips severely in an attempt to control his anger from exploding, the Prime Minister was dumbstruck as he had not realized that there could be objections or dissension to his plans for the Wise conglomerate amongst his own ministers. Belatedly, he became aware that he should have prepared some sort of speech or argument to firmly lay out his reasons for destroying the Wise Heritage so that people would follow him willingly. No matter. It was too late to dawdle about such things now. At this point, what was needed was to say his orders out loud in a structured manner, but feared he would lose his temper and verbally blast these men for their lack of faith and support in this time of crisis.
Ah well, can't be helped...
Trudeau spoke slowly, careful to stay calm and appear as rational as possible, given the circumstances that surrounded them. "I will handle the UEO Alliance and Europe, the rest can drown in their internal messes for all they're worth presently. In the meanwhile, I want the Black Operation cell that was placed near Sault-Saint-Mary citadel to activate for a preemptive strike at the boy's hiding place. I want him scared witless for his life so that when I call the video meeting with the UEO tomorrow morning, he'll beg us to let him scurry out like the tailless albino lab-rat he is, and the war will be won promptly. If he somehow manages to evade the teams completely without injuries, we might have to hit him during the conference call, but that's hardly any hardship for our men. A small shoulder-shot missile should take care of that."
Looking at the two ministers in turn, he said clearly "For the coming period of unrest, there won't be much difference between police and army. Lametti, your cops will be used mostly as part of the civil defense to create and regulate village militias, or else be integrated to the military as light infantry for urban control. Mostly though, they'll be the ones patrolling around the army bases, food reserves and hospitals, thus freeing real soldiers to go out on missions with the APC's. Right now, I want a quad of our new 'Fat Ugly Kow' heavy assault helicopters to be relocated at both Sault-Saint-Mary and Sarnia, in case we need to crack them open."
"The river's frozen solid, but not enough yet to risk rolling vehicles on it." spoke the defense minister in a tone that said he didn't like any of the plans to date. "We could try to run our infantry across on foot or dog sleds, but nothing motorized until January at the earliest. Even horses would probably be too much weight if the riders are on them during the crossing." Shrugging carelessly, the man added glibly "Also, we never had anything resembling an icebreaker on the river. It always closes completely for the season, with all boats, private or governmental, being brought to docks and warehouses for repairs and storing until spring. Nobody will have any heavy ships at this time of year, so that's a plus for us in this mess."
The minister of justice shook his head negatively, commenting "Wolenczak will have the four small 200 foot long river monitors that WAC built right after WW-II. All he has to do is equip them with a beam weapon at the bow and they'll be able to sail. Or else, he could use the Copernicus stations to temporarily carve a hot channel in the ice floes with the Basilisk-II lasers. He's got four armed boats and two armed floatplanes that we know about for certain plus many cargo ships and planes, and he's sitting on an anthill's worth of rolling stock for road and rail that can easily get a redneck refit to become dangerous. The snow, sleet, and winds won't hinder his men anymore than our troops. They've been on that spot for 150 years or more, and aren't any more afraid of winter than us. Know this, and know it well, if you send us to war against this organization, and this specific person."
Making another face of anger, Justin simply spat out "You have your orders. Leave me."
Can't this day end?
(NCIS – LA – opening theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 19:00pm
The Spanish House
Los Angeles, California, USA
The members of the NCIS special projects field team and overwatch were all assembled in the main conference room next to the OPS chamber for an nth meeting about 'stuff' and such. Again.
Henrietta Lange sat at the head of the table, waiting patiently as the rest of her subordinates sat in their usual places, tired and grumpy from the long, miserable day they had all endured. Everybody was tired, drained physically and emotionally. All longed for their beds, however uncomfortable the current accommodations may be. It would take a few days for the new armored redoubt next to the cargo port to be finished cleaning of its funeste detritus, so the emergency shelters down in the basement would have to do for now. While they had recovered control of the Deeks house and Hetty's properties were still inviolate, nobody was in the mood to endure a lengthy commute in the states they were.
"Alright, people," Hetty started up with a dearth of preambles and polite phrases that was appreciated because of how tired they all were. "I have called this last meeting of the day for two reasons. The first, and easiest, is that the DXS has nominated their permanent envoy to the Constable – Governor in the person of Mister Angus MacGyver, whom will be assisted by Miss Riley Davis. The pair will be leaving for Canada in three days at the most, to reach the SSM citadel before New Year 2021."
Taking a deep breath to steady herself, Hetty pushed forward the next bit as it wasn't her first option, nor the one she had wanted, but it was the reality they faced therefore needs must. "In the same vein, we of NCIS had to propose a person to serve as permanent envoy to the C-G so that policing & legal matters like extraditions and evidenciary transfers be handled appropriately. As such, Mister Deeks will now serve as our liaison with the North-American Mid-Line militias. It is not yet determined if he will be needed more over in Canada or be able to stay here. There will be a necessary transition period during which he will need to be in close contact with the C-G himself, but after that he will return here and exercise his functions from the head office. Most specifically, he will have his posting in the same building that I use as HQ since he will now be directly under me, as a directorate-level divisional chief for a service that covers the entire NCIS versus the entire Mid-Line."
Utter, dead, leaden silence greeted her words, extending slowly towards infinity as not one soul creaked out a single sound in response to her announcements. Blinking several times in worry, the Acting Director of the Agency gazed at each agent, throwing her hands in the air in abdication as she saw just how wasted they all were.
"Ah, to Hell with it all. Go eat and sleep. And shower some, too! That would help! We can hash this out during tea tomorrow morning so we can all have a few hours of sleep tonight. I'm staying inside the building, if anybody needs me."
Upon that, she grabbed her expensive leather briefcase and departed the room, leaving sleepy, groggy and moody agents in her wake. None seemed particularly upset that she left them to their own devices.
"Congrats on the promo, Deeks." Sam Hanna mumbled grumpily. "S'cuse me, but I'll be able t'a pat you on the back properly tomorrow after breakfast. The day we had... And the shit we did..."
Kensi rubbed both hands up and down her face as she leaned forward in her chair, having problems to stay vertical even from a seated stance. "Did she really have to send us on a resource recovery mission after that blasted demining job on Mosley's enclave? I know it ended up being a cake-walk, but still..."
Anna Kolchek griped "I hate retail stores now, for the rest of my life. And I abhor Tupperware. I finally understand what the ecologists were saying about plastics being the doom of humanity. If I ever get sent on another provisioning job that demands I manually fill bloody Tupperware bowls and pots with foodstuffs to bring back, I will volunteer for duty as basement watch-woman instead. I am fairly certain that Hetty's secrets in the lower levels would make the job more interesting and less... AAAHHH!" she exclaimed as she ran bough hands roughly through her blond hair in frustration. "Look at this insult against humanity! I have chicken soup powder in my hair! How in the name of the Angels Above did this happen?"
Marty Deeks unhelpfully explained to her "It might have been when you tried to reach for those bulk plastic bags of pasta on the top shelf by yourself, instead of asking the tall guys to bring them down. And, it could be that you didn't use a step stool or ladder either, so when you tipped the pasta bags off the shelf, you also accidentally tipped the adjacent cardboard boxes of bulk soup stock powder. And puff!"
Grisha Callen, wearing a smirk, chimed in with patently false sympathy for his female friend "At least you got chicken stock, which is yellow, so it matches your hair. Imagine if it had been beef-barley or cream of mushroom stock that tumbled unto you. That really would have clashed."
"Yeah, silver lining in the cloud and all that" added Sam, not any more helpful than his partner.
"I hate you all," Anna replied without any real vitriol. She was too tired, hungry and smelly to give any genuine effort for anything but basic maintenance until tomorrow.
Wisely, Eric Beale and Nell Jones chose to observe but remain silent, that way they could have a good laugh about it later on, when the danger of retaliation was passed. And they'd ask for details at breakfast, since some of them would surely feel more talkative after a good rest and a solid meal.
The first winds of the storm
(The Godfather – mafia theme)
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 23:00pm
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 20:00pm
Pointe-aux-Pins
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
In the deep dark dusk of the pine forest, near the Pointe-aux-Pins area, discretely camped a group of well trained, expertly camouflaged men who had been set up barely 20 hours ago. They were part of Canada's venerable regiment "The Icepack Rangers"; infantrymen trained in a way similar to the SEAL's of the USA, or the British SAS, but with a focus on cold/wet environments. All 24 men were considered veterans at ages varying from 27 to 34, and had seen extensive combat in the zones of the planet where terrorists or drug cartels thought that a mountain, glazier, tundra or swamp hideout would be unassailable by enemies. As the continued survival of the Canadian troops showed, these men had been critically wrong in their thought processes.
However, drug cartels and terror cells did not have the sorts of centennial, heavily fortified, government funded & built fortresses that Lucas Wolenczak and the Wise conglomerate operated on the shores of the Saint-Lawrence International Seaway.
The Icepack Rangers were equipped with a bevvy of tools & tech that were second to none when it came to facing the dangerous climates or ravenous wildlife of the icy Canadian tundra and mountains, in such way that even their allies from NATO had bought their gear to train with them on equal footing during their team sessions. They fielded FN P90 compact assault rifles with over-barrel horizontal magazine, ACOG Trijicon 4X32 Scope with red dot, integrated silencer, built-in LED lamp and folding 6" bayonet. Their four snipers used the recently homologated C-17 variant of the celebrated McMillan TAC-50 rifle, which came fitted with telescopic vari-cam, M203 under-slung grenade launcher and muzzle-fixed spear blade for close quarter combat or foraging. Twelve of the men carried one of the new "Slugfest" single-use, multi-mode, shoulder-fired 75mm missiles reserved against heavy vehicles, buildings or anti-personnel airburst. The present deployment had even been given the incredible luck of having received two full kits for "Beam Guards" that included fully enclosed climatised body armor, long barreled pulse rifle, large transparent riot shield, and movable electro-plasmatic micro-reactor fixed on the back of the armor's torso to feed everything by thick external wires.
Each man had the usual reinforced winter forest pattern uniform (except Beam Guards), with camp bedding, multi-tool, combat knife, folding trench shovel, large tactical flashlight, a cell/sat comm unit, several candles, dry food bars, and a compact personal med-kit, plus all the little thingies humans needed to function in the snow for a week. Each soldier had a fold-up vari-cam eyepiece articulated on the visor of his helmet, and a solid thermoplastic mask that covered the lower face to warm the breathed air while also filtering out some toxins. Since the uniforms weren't HAZMAT suits nor airtight, there was a limit to what could be done to protect from ambient poisons.
The team for this mission had been afforded a great luxury in the presence of four more members that weren't part of the Icepack Rangers, but rather two army engineers / EOD tech specialists plus two precious field doctors. These four, while combat trained and ready, would be kept well away from the coming action, serving instead as the base camp sentinels and back-up in case things turned pear-shaped. The camp was centered around a large 5-ton 8-wheel truck with attached climatized trailer for all the gear, or to serve as med-bay if they had injured. If it came to the worse possible, one of them would need to use the truck's heavy command antennae system to call cent-com in Ottawa to confirm the mission failure, in case they didn't learn it from some other channel.
The Ranger's hidden camp was a rather short six miles due north above the Sault-Sainte-Marie airfield and the outlying perimeter walls of the Wise Apothecary industrial complex. Their mission orders were to commit several quick acts of superficial terrorism by aiming at materials-only targets to instill fear into the rebellious child that wanted to play at being a dictator, so that he'd abdicate then flee without a fight. Cent-com had been formal; the personnel & families of the workers were not the enemies of Canada, not even the private militiamen as they all labored under the impression that their jobs were legally mandated by a contract with the Canadian government since 1939. The Rangers were to scare the kid and his partisans into surrendering without any bloodshed or catastrophic damages to the installations, but not interfere when the boy ran away. The stated goal was to destroy his courage, willpower and credibility by making him turn tails on his own volition, not start a massacre of workers that were in fact necessary to help Canada survive the coming civil mess.
So, the Icepack was planning a limited strategic incursion just next to the external perimeter walls besides the airfield, but not actually getting inside. In the 20 hours since their deployment, they had used the Internex and forays in town at taverns and fast-food places to garner an idea of their opposition, and were all glad they did. Cent-com had 'so kindly' neglected to tell them about the wash-down systems built into the walls and buildings all over the complex. They had also not mentioned the network of navigable wet moats and canals at the feet of these damned, three storey tall walls, nor the gate-keeps and drawbridges that secured their passage points. It had also not been specified that the walls were topped by fully enclosed walkways with murder slits on both sides, and actual machicolations underneath the overhanging patrol route to drop things on assailants at the foot of the walls. That meant that the fine details about the multiple hydraulically powered turrets bristling with weapons and the constant infantry patrols that garnished the walls had never made it to the soldiers in the field. And the fact that at least one armored, fully crewed assault train was posted in hot-idle right in the triage yard on each side of the river had also not been deemed important to speak of.
Hot fucking damn!
This cesspit sure wan'nt no drug lord wannabe's playhouse, that was certain!
As the Rangers established the lay of the land with their own eyes and local loyalist informants, the dreaded call came from Ottawa. The operation "Southern Expatriation" was a go. They now had a window of 7 hours to complete the attack since the PM wanted everything done by 6:00am so he could call the UEO brass to inform them of whether it would take genuine force to take possession of the WAC compound & assets. Apparently, the UEO navy had dibs on the brat because he was a genius that one of their new medical support ships had volunteered to house him permanently as a neurologist or pharmacologist, depending on what the kid accepted for a job. In all honesty, the Rangers didn't really care about his future, but were happy not to have to shoot a 16 year old inside his house that he had just inherited. This mission stank of politics, religion and anti-semitism in a way that made many question their oath to the crown, but given the state of the planet, they knew they'd get no better job, nor any more freedom of choice, anywhere else. Not in these times.
{ SQ } - { An opportunistic move } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 24:00pm - midnight
The first team of 12 rangers were spread 4 soldiers each in 3 armored green Hummers, slowly rolling down the nearly abandoned, forest swallowed, northern section of Airport Road on their way to the first strike target when a cellphone call came in to the corporal in charge of the first task group. The civilian loyalist was hidden deeply inside the police forces of the town. He had been assigned to monitor the traffic cameras for the night shift, as was his usual job 5 nights per week, since he was stuck in a wheelchair due to a bad back injury in his old job as a police academy instructor.
Their man had come on shift at 23:00pm, and soon called the corporal to inform him that the primary target, one genius teenager, had been spotted inside the municipal limits. The boy was traveling heavy tonight; he was in a luxury antique with a valet and driver, which was pretty normal for a rich kid out on the town. It was the news about the armored jeep carrying four militiamen in full kit with long rifles that made the corporal cuss. Then his confidential source discretely sent him a few short movie files taken directly from the traffic cams showing the group coming out of the Embers Grill & Smokehouse on Albert Street East, in the core of town. The officer swore out loud as he saw the long guns with their grenade launchers and the boy himself seemed to be wearing an overstuffed trenchcoat that hid way too many things, especially given his penchant for acid bombs and neuro-toxin grenades.
The good news was that the films were only minutes fresh, and the source told the soldier that their quarry was presently moving at a slow 30 miles an hour along Second Line West, straight towards the intersection that they were arriving at themselves. All they had to do was set up an ambush of opportunity then this entire mess could be resolved without bloodshed right away. The veteran soldiers could stop the convoy with a few sniper shots in the tires, then approach to give the government's message directly to the kid's own face, with plenty of witnesses to boot. He'd be scared stiff, give up without any real fight but some blustering and posturing to haggle himself an out, then his credibility would be so destroyed that even if he reneged, nobody would support the coward.
Easy-peasy, and no massacre of innocents, or getting in kissing distance of those damned walls, their myriad defenses, gunnery nests and armed militiamen patrols.
The corporal switched-on the group comms, including the second task force and base camp, to inform them of the ad hoc change of plans given the incredibly opportune event given to them without any cost to themselves or the mission objectives. The hummers would park directly on the pavement of the streets to cover the three avenues of escape the opponent convoy would need to roll through to reach the WAC compound, and safety. If they tried to return in town, they'd get a bad surprise since the second group was supposed to go down through the town core all the way to the river, then west until they reached WAC's lowest perimeter walls, not far from the manorial estate itself. They were supposed to shoot a pair of Slugfest missiles into the walls' walkways and guard turrets to hit close to home, to scare and demoralize the kid inside his own place of power. But, since the boy was in town already, and the second team was supposed to reach their target well after team-1 had hit-&-run the northern walls, well, this worked fine. Team-2 was going to be turning back onto Second Line Street to hammer the convoy's backside straight into the anvil of the three hummers parked in ambush.
The team-1 trucks had barely managed to position themselves across the three street segments with their two snipers running towards more remote nesting positions to have clear lines of sight when the headlights of the antique rolling saloon came into view. The intersection was poorly lit, and that was mostly from the neon signs and a pair of parking lot lampposts at the Boots & Saddles Roadhouse, barely a hundred yards away from the ambush. The VIP car was so wide and tall that the armored escort behind it was almost invisible, which would have a made for a damnable surprise if the soldiers hadn't been aware of it already, thanks to their source in the local cops. Unfortunately, there weren't any public traffic cameras around, nor street lamps or traffic lights, so they would have to do everything through their helmet cams and gun scopes.
The team's four missile carriers were placed in pairs in two Hummers, so there was ample anti-vehicle coverage. The two snipers were obliged to circle around forward, elongating the ambush's pincer formation a bit on the north and south because they just didn't have the time for better vantage, or to spot a good tree to climb in. As it was, things were seconds away from warning shots and threats, they had to get down in the bushes & shrubs at the feet of the trees, or else act as regular ranged infantry.
When the opponent convoy was just passed the driveway for the restaurant, the corporal gave the order to the missile carriers to stand up visibly and point their ordinance at the two cars. That should make them either freeze in panic or go berserk, leading to stupid errors that they would capitalize on.
It all went to Hell on the very moment.
{ SQ } - { We're under attack! } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 00:11am - midnight
The corporal saw the mess unfold when the luxury saloon gunned its engine up to 120mph in one go, then skidding hard, banking south towards the almost empty, completely unfenced parking lot of the restaurant to completely bypass the intersection by about 15 yards too soon for their ambush to be done right. Then the fuckery was well and truly had as the jeep continued right into the middle of the ambush, pushing its engine past safe-max at near 130mph as the driver made the tactical decision to break their improvised redoubt by ramming it to pieces right in the middle of it. As the jeep was making its suicide run, the side windows were lowered and the three passenger soldiers began shooting pistols at the Rangers as a form of drive-by attack to amplify their ramming rush. The two missile carriers standing behind the middle Hummer had a mere three seconds to decide for one to shoot his heavy munition at the kamikaze car while the other dodged out to safety, dropping his weapon as he did. Given the load of fuel, munitions and camping supplies the vehicle carried, neither man expected that there would be safety inside less than 100 yards, and neither could make it that far before the jeep hit them like a racing bull.
The corporal was having to track three moving events all at once; the luxury saloon, the jeep, and his second team coming on the scene as fast as they could, now that they saw the FUBAR for what it was becoming. In the blink of an eye, the jeep took a missile in the windshield but didn't explode, then the middle Hummer was hit bodily in a screech of tortured metal and polymer-ceramic alloys that exploded as it careened out of the way, almost pirouetting in the air some ten feet above the ground and twenty feet backwards, as the armored jeep was catastrophically jarred out of its course and straight into a shallow ditch bordered by thin pines and anemic shrubbery. The lead officer hurriedly waved at his second team to turn south and pursue the enemy's car for a truly good fright when his world erupted in a cacophony of sounds, vibrations and unearthly pain that didn't last any longer than he did.
Parked in low orbit at 500 kilometers above their heads, the Copernicus station #18 had shot a trio of salvos with its Hammerfell-I pulse turrets at 1% intensity. The three Hummers of team-1 were replaced by smoldering craters resulting from the impact of solid-beam shots. The Hummers of team-2 were detonated on the run by being strafed with a hail of small, 1% intensity, scatter-shot that swept Airport Road from south to north, hitting the entire pursuit crew in a pattern that was 100 feet wide by 700 feet long, covering the ambush site again along the way.
They had no warning, and certainly no chance.
The targeting & firing programs that Lucas had created & uploaded to the Copernicus network two days ago was so precise that none of his men from the crashed jeep or the saloon car had felt anything but a weird buzzing noise and some aerial vibrations while the shots were raining down. The light show, however, was not the sort experience they wanted to repeat, not from this close to the action.
The teenager fumed quite vocally as his car sped down the road, abandoning his men to survive on their own until the WAC militia could mobilize some armored transports to recover them for healing or funerals, depending on what they found on site.
Crash!
Bang!
Bang!
Crash!
The next thing Lucas remembered hearing was a loud cracking noise from the rear glass as it resisted the impact of a heavy bullet, followed by the screeching of the rear left wheel as it exploded from being shot with an equally heavy slug. The saloon swerved wildly as Lenny Herschel tried to regain control but then the rear right wheel was shot out too and a second shot to the back window exploded it towards the inside of the vehicle as the shell passed, going straight through Lenny's head just under the right ear, and out his mouth to impact the windshield in the front.
The heavily armored luxury Benz had saved Lucas and Raphael from the impact when it careened out of control into a copse of pine trees that arrested their movement quite abruptly. They were in the east side ditch, about 400 yards south of the Second Line Street intersection. As the young butler tried desperately to stop his hands, and whole body, from shaking, Lucas mused tartly that he was getting the hang of this shite way too good since he didn't seem to have any symptoms of panic or shell-shock compared to the young adult seated on his right.
Managing to undo the seat-belt, Lucas hunkered down in the comfortably wide floor space between his banquette and the driver's seat. Tugging on Rafe's pant's leg, he ordered tersely "If you can't undo it normally, cut it off with your knife. One way or another, get down before the fucking snipers splatter your brains out like Lenny. They knocked us into the ditch cuz they didn't have a clear shot otherwise, but you can bet that they're moving in on us as we speak." Urging the older male, he barked "Get free! Get down! Be mobile when I tell you, because I can't fight well enough to defend myself and save anybody at the same time. Okay?"
Still hearing odd sounds like a church bell inside his brain-box, Raphael barely nodded for fear he'd puke right there from the movement. As he bent low to hide, he also undid his belt with deliberate movements then joined his employer on the floor space. "Are we actually safe here?" he dared asked as the teenager was again concentrating on the images in his meta-goggles, just like during the ambush.
"Yes, but no." replied the adolescent in a distracted tone. "Yes, for as long as they stay at range and don't use one of the missiles they brought. No if they get a missile, or come in to close combat to make certain were all dead. Their contract might require proof-of-kill, so that's a real possibility. Stay down and silent. I need to focus on this. The Copernicus vari-cams and sensors aren't as good as the USA was told they'd be at construction, and it's night without any street lamps or commercial signage to give any sorts of ambient illumination. I have to work mostly through heat signatures, and that is not precise in the least."
After about two minutes, Lucas unfolded from his hunkered position on the floor to regain his seat on the banquette, after sweeping off with his hands all the glass shards he could see. "Come on, get up from there. They ran off. That was their tactic, you see. They figured out easy enough who was controlling the space stations, so they thought that by knocking my car out, I'd also be out of service, and maybe the comms wouldn't work anymore, so the orbital guns would go quiet. Their last shots were just to keep me from continuing to bombard them from above so they could escape out of the war zone." Pointing at the meta-goggles on his face, the adolescent explained: "They're running away quite literally, on foot, up north in a pretty straight line. I'm keeping an eye on them, all the while making them think they did in fact manage to incapacitate me, thus the space weapons going silent. They'll soon learn the error of their assumptions."
The car's radio set crackled to life as the surviving soldiers from the jeep called in for back-up and succor from the home base, not doing anything but taking a few half-hearted potshots at the snipers as they ran away from the doomed confrontation. They lost the fight, everybody knew it including them. As the WAC compound security forces were scrambling a response, the young reedy voice of Luxis sounded in the miniature speakers inset in the branches of Lucas' meta-goggles.
"I have intercepted a communication from a secret camping site, roughly six miles up north, in a straight line right along the axis of Airport road. The comms unit used and the message encryption all lead me to believe it was the Canadian military that ordered a strike against you. They are calling cent-com in Ottawa to report mission failure, hot-exfil required, with enemy pursuit imminent. The reply was for them to reach their camp for med help, then wait for orders to know what the follow-up will be. I will monitor and advise. Luxis out."
Looking over his young butler absentmindedly for injuries other than shock, the prodigy snarked aloud "Fireworks for my first full day on the job! Really, Raphael! You and your grand-father shouldn't have. I'm a much more low-key character than this, and public attention isn't my thing."
Rafe's response was, quite intelligently, to blow him a raspberry noise from the mouth, and stick out his tongue in childish retort. After seeing the Wrath of Heavens come down on the kid's enemies, what else could the young servant do for an answer that was safe?
{ SQ } - { Not a land fit for teenagers anymore } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 00:43am
Clanking noisily on its steel plate treads, the A7V chugged down the road at 40mph without a care for ice patches, snow banks or fallen tree parts. Bulldozer blade lowered to clear its advance, the brutish vehicle would simply plow through any obstacle on the road, shoving it to the ditches on either side without any care in the world. The design of the German A7V was a century old, but it worked damn well for something that should have been relegated to the pages of a mechanical history book. Belching white steam from a funnel on its highest point, the machine growled menacingly as it drove towards its master, dragging along a 20 foot trailer filled with men and equipment to support a temporary camp on the spot where the attack had occurred.
If you had asked the 23 year old woman driving the steam-powered contraption if she ever thought this metal beast would ever have a use other than dragging logs, or hauling trailers around the WAC compound, she'd have laughed heartily. At least, a month ago she would have found it hilarious to think this monster of a truck could actually be useful outside their walls. It was old, ugly, smelly, noisy, and maneuvered like a drunk elephant. She had been pretty damned pissed when the motorpool foreman had assigned her to be full-time driver for this apparatus when she began working for WAC after high school, five years ago. Now, today, with the stupid World collapsing under its own idiocy, she would tell you that this crude, stinking beast was exactly what would keep them alive and functional. If she had the time to speak, that was.
The Big Boss had been attacked, nearly killed, three of theirs were dead already and one more was seriously injured, plus the BB was still in the field, outside the walls. Sorry folks, but she didn't have time to chat, especially with the foreman riding in the cab right next to her. For once in is life, the older man kept his mouth shut about her attitude and nervous ticks as she drove them to their goal. Her teeth were clacking nervously as a bad case of nerves was slowly passing through her. She could tell that the eight militiamen packed into the tractor's armored hull were feeling the same, as many checked then rechecked their gear in the pale light coming form the engine firebox and small LED's placed around the habitat.
"Intersection of Airport Road and Second Line Street, coming up in 60 seconds! Man your gunnery sponsons and beware snipers!" called out the grizzled foreman, as he adjusted his protective goggles and sealed the neck of his trenchcoat to protect from the climate and enemies alike.
Through the glass portals that surrounded the octagonal cupola, the young driver could see over the machine's flat dorsal all the way ahead, so she easily spotted the wreckage of the master's luxury antique car, stuck nose-first in the ditch on their left-hand of the road. She howled into a brass funnel placed atop her dashboard, just between the steering levers and speed gauges, "The Benz! On the left in 10 seconds! Get ready to unload some guys from the trailer!" Her voice was carried by the old style radiophone through solid cables to eight speakers around the A7V's hull and outside to more speakers spread around the tactical support trailer hitched behind them. In response, a green light next to the funnel blinked twice, confirming that the trailer crew had heard and understood the message.
As the young adult drove passed the place where the luxury saloon had skidded off the road bed against its will, she slowed down to barely 5mph, allowing some infantry and a field medic to safely jump out of the trailer to take defensive positions around the crash site while bearing succor to the survivors. When the brass funnel emitted a loud electrical noise twice, she knew the men in the trailer had closed back their aft doors and were ready for a fight. She switched gear ratios to gain speed, clutching up to 20 mph for less than a minute until they reached the ambush site itself. On command from the foreman, she down-geared until the heavy machine stopped all movement, standing still and dark against the deep night air, wreathed in wisps of white water vapors emanating from the rooftop chimney and several valves and joints all around. While primitive by 2020 standards, the light tank looked gloriously nasty in its noisome, belching state as it stood watch over the roadway crossing, like an old dragon sleeping on its hilltop. The WAC militiamen certainly took a feel of safety and pride when they took in the sight as they disembarked to detach the trailer, setting up the light/sensor poles and defensive gunnery nests around the perimeter.
Inside the A7V, old foreman Tenders grabbed the wired telephone handset from the dashboard to call over at WAC central operations dispatch. "SSM Citadel, this is A7V-3, we're on site. We have a team with the boss and are emplacing the support trailer as we speak. I'll get out to talk with the man himself, but as it stands, both the jeep and Benz are wasted. We have one militia on his feet, one in dire need of hospitalization, the butler looked shaken but okay, and the boss was sitting in the wreckage, working through his meta-glasses but he gestured at us to keep on rolling. Over."
There was a brief noise of static in the handset while the shift chief at the other hand took the line to answer back "Roger on all counts. Get our survivors stabilized and back inside ASAP. We'll send a different convoy to recover the corpses later on, unless they're easily movable right now. We'll try to patch into the Boss' frequency from here. Over & Out."
Heaving a great huff, the foreman exchanged a look with the woman driver as he tapped the walkie unit strapped to his chest, patching into the group channel for the field team. "Alright ya lubbers! Recover the living in whatever shape they be. Get the dead if they're in one piece only, otherwise they'll have a cleaning team do it later, when it's safe. Move ya'r selves!"
A solid metallic clanging came from the rear door of the armored hull, startling the driver and foreman alike. Because of the way the vehicle was so tall and straight roofed, they couldn't see anything that close to them. However, they didn't need to stay interrogative for long as the soldier manning one of the rear sponsons unlocked and opened the door without prior permission from them. The foreman was about to yell the boy's head off for breaching combat protocols when the mop of long blond hair belonging to their Big Boss appeared under his nose, stilling his words in his mouth.
Lucas was in a killing mood, no jokes about it. "Driver! Get this motorized chamber pot in gear! The satellites have spotted where the rest of them criminals are bugging out to!" The teenager grabbed a handful of the foreman's coat belt to drag the man off the drive cab's platform, climbing up to stand besides the person at the levers. Shoving his smartphone under her nose, he pointed at the colored map of the area; "In a straight line north, up Airport Road! Here! About six miles in the forest, just after the road stops, where the forestry management trails begin. They have a camp with two big vehicles and defensive positions, but only six heat signs accounted for as we speak. There used to be four, then the two that escaped the ambush joined them. Everything's been staying put since."
The foreman asked, rather aghast; "Ya'r planning on doing a raid on them? With this outfit? Are ye bleeding daft, boy? We can'na fight against pros if they've entrenched in camp already! This beast has sponsons aplenty, but no real guns mounted on it. We're harmless, and pretty damn near defenseless too!" he barked at the teen.
Grinning madly, Lucas replied savagely "My convoy was even less defended that yours, with even worse odds stacked up in front. Guess who walked away in the end! All I need is a good look at them and I can guide the Copernicus array to do the real job for us. But! The station's sensors and cameras are crap in a can. We have to use spotters on the ground, like for mobile artillery trucks."
The driver sighed as she reached for her levers, stepping on a pedal to feed liquid alcohol into the firebox to make the engine power up. "I guess we're spotting them, then" the woman accepted as she clutched her tank into forward motion, giving the horn three little hoots to warn people that the heavy vehicle was moving out to complete the job.
"Don't be so sad, people!" Lucas snarked aloud, good and hard; "We won't be alone on our little trip into the wide evergreen yonder! He pointed through the rear porthole of the cupola, making the driver and foreman aware of the column of machinery rolling north towards them at high speed.
Now in a fighting mood, the foreman thumped the driver's seat, howling "Have it it, girly! Them varmin wanted a fight! We give 'em one!"
As the ancient remodeled A7V screeched up to its full roadway speed of 40mph, a convoy of three medium tanks passed them by at 70mph, churning the snow and ice chunks savagely in their haste to reach the enemy before they could flee into the wilds. The motor mule's crew could see through their sponsons the magnificent support that had come to their assistance for the fight.
Forceful Wisedom (Sonderkraftfahrzeug) FW-SKF-001a.
Another of F. H. Wise's throwbacks to World War-II, these half-track carriers had been designed by merging the iconic emblem of Nazi motorized might, the Hanomag 251, and the American battlefield all-purpose mule, the M3. The vehicle thusly created had a 3-seat drive cab showing a centered driver with standing gunner on each side and two officer seats behind. The fully enclosed cargo box could seat 18 men & camp kits. There were three sponsons on both long sides of the cargo box, each holding a belt-fed Mauser MG-42 and Flammenwerfer 41 that could be removed for ease of repair. The roof of the truck had three hydraulic weapons turrets. Two small machine gun cupolas, one on each side of the drive cab since the driver was seated in the middle. In the middle of the truck's dorsal was a US army M6-75mm x 50 calibers howitzer on top of the cargo compartment, with an independent MG-42 on the side, capable of pivoting 360º to shoot at anything inside 10 miles. The half-track had sloping armor on all sides except the flat roofs. The three personnel doors were set on each side of the drive cab's front, and one drop-ramp at the rear of the cargo box. A series of thin flat glass portholes could be seen in the dodecagonal base of the howitzer turret, allowing the tank's gunner to see all around without having to poke his head out into danger. Just like the improved A7V, these trucks had railway adapters, variable elevation propellers for amphibious movement, and were built around a modern steam engine fueled by liquid alcohol, or solids in emergencies.
The third half-track of the convoy stopped at the ambush site, replacing the departing A7V as main defender for the rescue team and to drag the trailer back to safety once they were all done. The other two machines did all they could to overpass then roll ahead of the transport carrying their employer to pacify & clear out the zone ahead of his arrival. The two half-tracks were already a mile and a half ahead of the lumbering A7V, with less than two miles to reach the enemy position when a harsh wooshing noise came upon the zone, drowning out all other sounds, even inside the armored hulls.
Flying at 200 feet above the ground, with barely 100 feet between them and the pine trees, were a pair of huge black & gray toned helicopters, coming in from due east, from well over town. The two machines looked like a Chinook in that they carried two motors and two rotors on the roof in a front-back configuration, but that was the end of the similarity.
Canada's brand new, never officially fielded 'Fat Ugly Kow' or RCAF – HAH-FUK-001beta.
Each motor was bigger and more powerful than on a Chinook, plus an electro-plasmatic reactor in between. The rotor groups were actually two sets of five blades stacked atop each other to create contra-rotating elements that gave a very stable flight on straight lines and a lot of maneuverability in combat. The body was 15 feet wide by 100 feet long with a large sliding door on each side, somewhat behind the cockpit, and a full-width cargo ramp at the stern. On each side of the aircraft body, neatly centered for balance, were a pair of winglets that bore a payload of misery; a quad of all-purpose missiles, a basket of 75mm rockets, a Browning cal.50 machine gun and a pulse cannon. The helicopter's chin carried a small turret with a system of vari-cams, sensors, another Browning cal.50 machine gun plus a regular pulse rifle. Pulse rifles could be seen jutting out of the four small sponsons, one at each of the 'corners' of the aircraft's body to cover all sides against incoming munitions or clear a landing zone.
This mess was now clear; Canada's government wanted WAC destroyed and Lucas dead.
They would NEVER get either, of that Lucas Wolenczak would swear his life.
The teenager barely had time to concentrate on his neuroplexic connection to send orders back to the two half-tracks ahead, the one behind and the WAC main security overwatch command that both FUK-001b opened fire with their winglet machine guns, targeting the engine block on each truck to paralyze them in place. It was an error the pilots wouldn't do again as the gunners in the two trucks didn't even wait for orders to turn their turrets and sponson mounted MG's against the flying gunships. The small caliber machine guns' ammo bounced off the armored hulls of the helicopters as much as the shells from the helo's had sparked off the sloped armor of the trucks with little success. That wasn't the same for the two 75mm howitzers though; by hazard, without even communicating, the two half-tracks had targeted the same helicopter, shooting their heavy ordinance at the cockpit and main body of the enemy.
As the #2 heavy attack helicopter exploded in a resplendent fireball that spewed shrapnel and toxic fumes at 100 yards all around, the second aircraft shot its pulse cannons at the lead truck, detonating the cannon turret's munitions cache, the entire vehicle following in seconds. A simple push on his yoke from the pilot had his chopper realigned to the left, ready to strafe the second truck with pulse bolts just as it was trying to put a 75mm shell though his cockpit. Unfortunately, the two crews managed to shoot their weapons at the same time, causing two matching explosions of fuel, explosives, plasma and shrapnelized hull fragments to cover another hundred yard circle of death.
Climbing out of the now immobile A7V, Lucas watched powerlessly the blazing carnage with a heavy heart and seething desire for vengeance eroding his self-control. Whomever had ordered this attack had truly wanted him dead, and the Wise family heritage torn asunder for plunder.
Well, fine. They could have things that way, if they insisted. Lucas accepted it. The north-American continent was no longer a placer for children and their families to feel safe. No; it was now a site for the exercise of that timeless, storied hobby of kings and popes; WAR.
{ SQ } - { What kind of reality do I live in? } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 00:56am
Sitting on the right corner of the A7V's frontal bulldozer blade, Lucas leaned heavily on the pommel of his cane, trying to regulate his breath as much as he could. In the background, he could hear poor Raphael, kneeling in the snow some ten feet behind him, as he was noisily puking his guts out after seeing the carnage wrought by the four war machines. The young servant had managed to hold everything inside after the ambush, but only due to being shell-shocked passed the point of normal reactions until they had parked here, waiting for yet another batch of reinforcements to arrive. Now, the emotional overload associated with the events had finally caught up to him, and he was showing it the only way he could. The female driver of the armored transport and the old foreman had both managed to keep it in, but Lucas easily guessed that some heavy drinking would happen later in the night, to serve as a coping mechanism for everything they couldn't allow themselves to express right away.
The prodigious adolescent winced as the strong winter winds wafted the stench of charred human flesh, baking steel, cordite and diesel from the four blazing wrecks right into his face. Despite the high temperature cremation going on, several chemicals and materials had truly potent odors when sublimated, even from the spot they were, roughly a hundred feet from the incandescent carcasses. The wind-borne smells made Raphael retch again, with the female driver joining him a bit further back from where he knelt in misery.
The foreman raised his scarf, tying it about his face in an effort to keep the smells at bay, all the while looking at his employer in hidden worry, wondering how it was that the teenager wasn't puking like the other two youngsters. What kinda a life had he lived to have an iron gut like this? He knew he was a medical doctor so he'd seen blood & guts in a professional manner, maybe even some deaths, but had he ever been party to a bloodbath like this before tonight? There had been rumors about the kid having some fight with a hotel manager and fake cop, back in Vancouver a few days ago. Still, how did he do it?
As the winds showed some mercy on them by shifting to a west – east orientation for a while, Lucas had to stabilize himself on his precarious seat by a quick change in angle to his cane, and even quicker grasping of the top edge of the dozer blade with his left hand. It was a near thing; he almost wound up face-planting in the icy snow covered asphalt right in front of the vehicle's right tread.
There was a sudden silvery – interference? – present all across his vision. It was similar to the whitish phenomenon that old analog television sets used to get when their antenna wasn't synthonized properly to the local broadcasting tower's channels. The suddenness of the event jarred the teenager badly enough to almost topple him from his thin cold metallic seat. Now repositioned stably, the boy tried to blink his eyes twice to clean them of wind-borne snow or ice crystals, thinking logically that he had simply suffered some aerial particulates coming from the inferno right in front of them. Not to mention that some of the chemicals in the pulse weapons and missiles were toxic when burned, so having temporary minor psychotropic effects from the vaporized compounds could be a normal situation.
As he tried to gather his bearings, Lucas experienced a sudden crippling pain all over his nervous system, starting from the spinal column, spreading to the extremities, then up to the skull and right into his eyes and ears. Clamping his mouth shut tight like a bank vault to keep from screaming his lungs out, the adolescent ripped the meta-glasses off his face to try giving back some buffering capacity to his overtaxed nerves & mind. Maybe this was a symptom of stress, or battle shock, or some other trespass beyond the actual capacities of the neuroplexic implants in his head? Nerve burn, perhaps?
Again, a sort of silvery blurry phenomenon flashed across his entire field of vision, the lightning-like discharges of mercury-gray seeming like badly pixelized animations that got corrupted during download from a badly shielded Internex server. It almost looked like some of the moving screen-saver backgrounds he had seen in Stanford, supposed to promote meditation, Zen-ness and calm during the stressful periods like exams or composing term papers. The display could be appealing for the young male, if it weren't accompanied by so much pain all through his entire cortex.
As a third event of this bizarre optic anomaly occurred, it changed mid-way to the same fluorescent blue color that was normally associated with the neuroplexic circuits, cables and fluids that Lucas had developed, making the youth feel that this had something to do with his implants. Perhaps a bad connection to the neural network, or maybe some sort of backlash from a cybernetic attack he hadn't perceived yet. However, who was it that could penetrate his Base 3-13-39 mathematics without being seen by the overwatch he put in place? It wasn't like he was actually alone inside his head anymore.
"Luxis, assist me!" He whispered hoarsely into the meta-glasses that now hung from the neckline of his trenchcoat. There was no response from his virtual brother, but suddenly an auditive phenomenon struck him hard; the sounds of a heartbeat monitor coupled to a heavy medical ventilator such as used on intubated patients during full-anesthesia surgeries. He remembered those noises well, for having lived with them for several months following the attack by his father, two years ago.
Suddenly, his entire visual spectrum turned white with vaporous blueish wisps streaming horizontally across, from left to right, and all sense of touch disappeared as the winter chill, the cold from his metal perch, and the solid weight of his cane in his right hand no longer came to him. All touch, smell and taste stopped registering on his mind's sensory cortex, but in a weird way that he could perceive and intellectualize their lack despite the total absence.
Then his vision got weird again, as he saw several small images, like badly pixelized photographs, floating randomly around his field of sight, like some familial electronic picture frame that had been set to rotate its contents. The images were too small, and from too far a perspective, for him to see any details beyond the fact he was certain it was his old hospital room back at the Stanford University Medical Center. A harsh tonal pulse resounded through his mind, making him groan in misery as he recognized the emergency page that called attending medics for a Code Blue in progress.
Some poor schmuck was having cardiac arrest / stroke problems nearby? Why would his mind play that sequence for him?
Enough of this. Time for the "Great Means" to be deployed.
Concentrating on the implants in his temples, eyes, and nape of the neck, the teenager enacted a complex – and dangerous – protocol to bypass whatever this mental collapse was until he could have it analyzed later on.
"Adeste Luxis, frater mei," he began, short of breath as another bout of pain wracked his thin meatless frame. "Solus mei domine est tu corpus mei," he croaked mentally, hoping that the reboot sequence for the neuroplexic implants hadn't been corrupted or deleted by outside forces.
It too five seconds for the whole world to make sense again. All his synthetic crystal implants deactivated for a full two seconds before powering back up, reloading all BIOS, OS and apps from the solid archive crystal located on the front of his left clavicle, near where it jointed the humerus. As the programs activated from a clean stance, all his perceptions returned immediately, as clear as they had ever been when he was sober. His vision was clear, clean, colorful and accurate as his last optometry checkup had declared. His hearing was back to normal, as were his feelings through the skin, nose and tongue. Whatever the problem had been, it had wreaked havoc on his entire system, biological and cybernetic, and would need to be delved into ASAP.
"Luxis! Do you hear me now? Are we connected again?" Lucas asked the blue ether anew.
"Yes, brother. I hear you. I lost your connection for 57 seconds, even though your GPS signal and heat signature hadn't moved from the satellite's field of scan. I can see that our two pursuit vehicles have been destroyed, and you only have the same three persons with you as when you left to chase the attackers. I imagine we have lost everyone." the virtual teenager spoke softly to his sibling's mind. "What can I do for you?"
Taking a deep breath of the foul air since he had no alternative, Lucas steadied his thoughts as he processed what happened to his people again. There was no time to mourn now, but soon. "I need a transport, something light and fast like the escort jeep had been, to get back to base. We need to put out the following message about the ambush and aerial attack we suffered. Our allies need to be made aware to prepare, in case they get targeted as well."
The soft reedy voice of Luxis announced sadly "I have reviewed satellite footage from the attack. I have back-tracked the helicopters to their point of origin. They had been camped in a clearing, deep in the forest halfway between Sault-Saint-Marie and Sarnia. It looks like a Royal Canadian Army barracks used in case of emergency landings or fighting forest fires. From the films that I can extract from a few of the security cameras across town, there had been Canadian Air Force decals & tags on the hulls of both, but the type and specs of the helos aren't in the official military systems. I'll have to dig deeper."
Lucas growled aloud inside his mind at the news that the government had betrayed him. He had truly thought that the beavers would have more decency and intellect than to start a fight with him during a planetary war. Apparently not. "Fine," he snarled mentally, "prepare the following message and broadcast it in the format used for Wolenbahn's 'chemical spill' public warnings. Set it to stay in the systems as a priority archive for future references."
As the teenager ordered his diplomatic contacts and military responses inside his powerful mind, several automated messages began spreading outwards, touching the lives of hundreds of people with news about the worsening mess. As his Jewish ancestors had always suffered for thousands of years, he too would now be alone against an angry, violent world that demanded his death. Well, if they wanted him, they'd have to fight for it because he wasn't going down quietly.
How the Hells did it all go so wrong?
(Canadian National Anthem)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 01:22am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:22pm
Official bunker, under parliament
Ottawa, Ontario, Canada
Justin Trudeau was sitting silently in his office, the door closed, lights dimmed at 40% and no radio or media playing at all. He was nursing a stiff drink of 1980 French brandy when someone wrapped on the door, pulling him from his thoughts back into a reality he didn't want to admit could exist. The door opened without prompting, letting in the minister of national defense who wore a grim countenance.
"I'll be blunt," he spoke tartly at his unresponsive superior. "We have received news from both the Icepack rangers and our confidential sources embedded in the Sault-Saint-Mary police. The rangers threw out their initial plans to attack WAC compound when they saw that Lucas Wolenczak was outside the walls for a small private celebration of his coming birthday. They instead tried to do an on-the-fly ambush of his convoy with a pincer maneuver; three Hummers in front and the other three coming up the rear. Somehow, the luxury car and escort jeep managed to blast through the ambush and delay the rangers' reaction long enough for Wolenczak to activate the Copernicus orbiting above. The conclusion to that was predetermined from the onset. All the Hummers and 22 of the 24 rangers are confirmed dead. The snipers and base-camp sentries have escaped into the northern forests."
Not getting any reactions yet, minister O'Reagan continued; "Just after the WAC base sent support and succor to the ambush site, our two helicopters arrived in the nick of time to interrupt the enemy's attempt to mount a hunt against our retreating soldiers. They got the surprise of seeing that the reinforcements sent by WAC were a pair of modernized half-tracks carrying heavy cannons. They had an exchange of fire that resulted in both helos and trucks exploding, but the kid's transport was much slower so he was out of the area when the blasts occurred. Consequently, we're out of 30 good men, six Hummers, two FUK's and the target is not only still alive, but also aware Canada wants him dead."
Setting his mostly full tumbler on the desk, Trudeau asked in a listless tone of voice "Is there anything else to add? I have work to do."
O'Reagan frowned at the empty surface of the desk, not seeing what work exactly was so pressing that he was being spoken to like a high school aged intern. Deciding to keep his peace for a better suited occasion, the minister in charge of the armies & borders waited a minute more before turning on his heels silently to leave. Nothing could be said or done to change this mess anymore.
Once he was alone again, Justin closed his eyes, trying to figure out where it all gone so damned wrong that they couldn't even manage to get one smarmy little runt back in line, even when using military might and heavy weapons. Just how far gone was this country, if a mere slip of a boy could arrange for the deaths and devastation of trained soldiers, each of them bearing official authority?
Passing a hand down his weary face, he swallowed his pride as he confirmed the time on the old analog clock built into the frame of the door. Near 01:30am in the east, which meant he had to wait until morning to make the call. Nothing could help it anymore, he had to ask for outside help. If the Canadian military on its own couldn't clean this up, then maybe the UEO could. Or at least, they could retrieve control of their damned space stations, making the playing field inside the national borders back in their favor anew. Taking in a deep, slow breath, the Prime Minister of Canada took off his tie, opening his shirt. He decided to get some sleep for a few hours, in his reserved bedroom, then a small breakfast before calling the UEO.
In all his musings, Trudeau forgot two critical facts that would block his attempts anywhere:
1) Lucas was legally protected by a bi-national treaty, which the UEO had no jurisdiction to affect, let alone try to usurp or shut down. Until the USA could stabilize enough to elect new governors in the states to create a Constitutional Convention to establish a new Capital, and update the electoral laws, nothing could be done about the existence of WAC. Until both countries could demonstrate a stable national governance and firm grip on their police forces, nothing would unseat the C-G from SSM.
2) Trudeau had suffered a sort of limited mental lapse causing a sort of tunnel-vision, probably due to the stresses of the entire earth coming apart at the seams. The PM put all his focus on something that was not in fact a genuine threat to Canada, on the contrary. Justin had put his efforts, and bet his entire international credibility, on the backing from an old but unknown church-group of the same sort as what had put Trump in power, which nobody would find to be acceptable behavior. And the worse for his credibility was that he went to this secret meeting in war time, all the while declaring martial law against public worship of the exact same faith, but only against the sects differing from the group that had offered to support him against WAC.
To any outsider who watched it happening, the whole process seemed idiotic and dishonest. Even once the private reasons of the Trudeau family against the Wise family were known, it would just make things worse. Every person made aware would see it as a mewling daddy's boy indulging in an old clanic vendetta - right during civil unrest to boot! - rather than a justifiable retrieval of authority and capacity by the Canadian government.
No, Trudeau's mess wasn't going to get any better any time soon.
A dirge for fallen allies
(MacGyver – 1985 opening theme)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 01:47am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:47pm
Mountain-side enclave
Los Angeles, California, USA
Matty Webber was lounging in her plush couch, in her fall-back apartment of the enclave, slowly winding down from a long and miserable day in the DXS HQ building. Getting Angus to agree to the role of DXS liaison to the Constable – Governor, and thusly move temporarily to Canada for the time being, had been a back-breaking chore. She did not enjoy sending her best agent away, and she had to send Riley Davis along with him to serve as his baseline in case he had to get mobile along the Wolenczak kid. She was losing two of the best field agents she had, but it couldn't be helped anymore. The geopolitical map they knew wasn't the same as most foreign countries were either dead, dying, drowned in civil war, or engaging in renewed conflicts with their neighbors, trying to finally win the racial, religious and border wars they had always lost in the past.
In theory, the DXS had a bigger, more active playing field than ever before. In reality, the USA had exploded – quite literally – so all the personnel she controlled needed to stay inside what was left of the homeland to insure the safety of the few honest people who were trying to rebuild this mess into a semblance of a functional nation. Sending out Mac & Riley wasn't for fun, it was necessary to establish a solid, permanent line of communications with the one person who seemed to have a solid grasp of what was needed to undo the damages the USA had inflicted unto itself.
It didn't make the decision any easier to explain, or convince the agents to go along with it.
Sighing in deep tiredness, Matty gently grasped her stem-glass to sip at the cool red wine she favored, while nibbling on some chocolate cookies as a late night snack before getting some sleep. If she could actually fall asleep before midnight, she'd be lucky.
The blaring sound of her telephone alarm said she wouldn't be. Given that said alarm sounded like the trumpets of a royal procession announcing the impeding arrival of the crowned lord, she knew full well whom she would be speaking with.
Upon opening her phone screen, Matty was surprised to see it was a recorded message rather than a live communication. The icons showed it was voice & film, with flashing red emergency tags. Curious as much as annoyed, she activated her message box to play the file on the wall mounted screen that served as Internex console & home node.
The message opened on a brick-brown background with the American and Canadian flags in the top row, the Wise Apothecary & chemists logo at the second row with division emblems on each side and in the third row underneath. Then the image shifted to show a gunmetal blue background with the logo for Wolenbahn Electronics International dead center and nothing else. The image shifted again to show a white background with a blue, green and gold logo of the UEO planetary alliance. All the opening presentation had been completely silent so far.
Now, the UEO logo reduced to 25% of the initial size and moved to the center – top of the image field to allow thick red text to flow from the bottom going upwards. As the text passed, a high quality synthetic voice read aloud the content of the message in a sneering, contemptuous tone.
"EMERGENCY – This is not a test. Please be advised, to all the citizens, residents, and tourists, of the north-American sub-continent that as of 01:00am eastern time on the 24th of December 2020, a state of total, irreversible, societal collapse has been detected in all four members of the North-American Confederation. As such, as of that moment, the North-American Mid-Line defensive treaty & plan comes into full activation. All military, policing, legislative and judicial authorities are now exercisable by the Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line and Saint-Lawrence seaway, or through his duly deputized envoys. This state of affairs will remain until such time as the societal situation in all four members of the NAC is regularized back to civility, order, peace and good governance."
The message then played again in french for several million Canadian citizens, then in Spanish for the Mexicans, and finally in Hebrew for the Israelis plus all the Jews spread around north-America. After a total of ten minutes, the message shut off on its own, but stayed in the system as a 'priority' file.
Mathilda Webber swore roundly as she got off her couch, wrapping her dressing gown tightly around her short frame before she verbally told the Internex module to start dialing four different calling lists at the same time for a broadcast of her own. She had to warn her agents to be weary of anything coming from anywhere that wasn't vetted in advance, or else they could trust the wrong people at the worst time and get killed for it.
Her message to her field managers was short & dreary; Canada had finally fallen. The USA had been first on Sunday, followed by Mexico on Monday, then Israel on Wednesday, and now their northern partner had finally done something so irrepressibly stupid or chaotic that the NAML wartime takeover message had been emitted.
Matty was no fool; she knew the last thing Lucas Wolenczak wanted was more trouble from outside his own house & businesses. His load was big enough, and messy enough, that only an amateur would try to pile on more at this time. Matty knew for a fact that the teenager wasn't an amateur, nor an imbecile, and he wasn't looking for glory. His entire psych profile indicated he only wanted anonymity and some peace in his life, not the public stage or control over society.
Fuck! This was gonna get ugly quick, no two ways about it. Especially since now she'd have to call the UEO Executive Cabinet to establish new rules to try and have some sort of national governance in progress. Good luck with that! Her few agents still reachable in other countries were sending messages that confirmed the end of Human organized society was nigh, and it would take decades before the bloody mess calmed down enough to rebuild. This would be like the post WW-II societal chaos that had wracked Europe for 30 years, but spread acrossthe entire planetary surface, and would not doubt take much longer to quell.
The second winds of the storm
(The Rolling Stones – Paint it black)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 01:55am
Western America; Wednesday 23rd of December, 2020; 22:55pm
Pointe-aux-Pins
Sault-Sainte-Marie, Ontario, Canada
The armored green jeep drove hard at 70mph on the icy road, spraying slush and ice chunks on both sides and in its wake as it powered it's way south, towards the gate-keep that protected the storied industrial complex from animals, thieves and storms. The militiaman driving the vehicle wore a grim expression under his face-mask, his gloved hands clenched harshly on the steering wheel as he acutely felt the necessity to get his two passengers back to SSM post-haste. They had been attacked once tonight already, and everything indicated there could be a follow-up at any moment.
Governments didn't like to shoot & miss; they tended to get angrier when that happened.
His boss certainly had gotten the people from Ottawa and Toronto on his case. There weren't no two ways that the two heavy attack choppers had flown all the way across the southern forests of western Ontario just to say 'high' to them. The Hummers could have been a team of soldiers gone rogue in the wake of the USA's collapse, that was plausible, but not those helos. That kinda experimental hardware was watched over with a gimlet eye, and they were Canadian birds, not Americans, anyways. So the attack had been ordered from inside, not out.
The 25 year old man chanced a look in the rear-view mirror to check on his cargo while the soldier on his right talked into the radio set to call ahead to lower the drawbridge for quick passage at the wall. It just wouldn't do in this context to wait for five minutes, exposed and defenseless, while the road deck lowered to allow them to come in. The young man seated behind him was hard to read as he had buttoned his trenchcoat collar up high and lowered his hat until only his brown eyes were visible between the two garments. However, the hunched set of his shoulders and fidgeting hands showed just how anxious he was. In contrast, the teenager seated on the right had opened the top of his coat and loosened his scarf to have some breathing room. His wide brimmed hat was on his lap, and his gloved hands clutched his cane pommel loosely, as his blue eyes peered into the fathomless depths of cyberspace through the semi-opaque meta-glasses perched on his face. The younger passenger hadn't uttered a word since getting aboard, other than ordering the prompt return to SSM, directly at the central security office.
The driver was greatly relieved to see the three storey high embattled walls raise above the trees as they approached the first guarded passage. Emerging from the sparsely forested zone, he could see the stone pillars & steel grill fence that kept people from accidentally falling into the wet moat, some 15 feet lower than the ground level. The gate-keep's massive construction towered high into the sky in front of them, it's seven storeys topped by flat roofs bearing CIWS turrets and portable gunnery that was even now being supplemented due to the call to arms their employer had issued an hour ago. The entry bastion was truly impressive, with two distinct bridges, each two lanes wide, to control in & out traffic flow, and three large rounded towers to bracket the pivoting decks. Many embattled balconies, walkways, and roof terraces were visible, including the machicolations from which defenders could dump anything they had to repel invaders. The stonework nozzles for the wash-down system were clearly identified as there were great swathes of discoloration under them from the general tests done during the week, since the civil unrest alarms were sounded.
The armored replica of a 1945 jeep thunked heavily on the steel armored lip of the drawbridge as it passed into the safety of their home's outer perimeter. A pair of WAC soldiers dressed in brown uniforms with long rifles, full-face masks and helmets signaled them to stop for the mandatory check while the steel portcullis dropped from the ceiling and the huge steel sheet barbican panels were swiveled shut to keep snipers from taking lucky shots inside the passage. The soldier on the left presented a scanner through the jeep window, to scan the palm print and eye print of the driver, along with his WAC employee card. The device blinked green, beeping gently at the same time.
At a signal from the checkpoint, a pair of 75mm Pack howitzers protruding from the ceiling were retracted back into idle position, while the home-side barbican gates were swiveled open to show the second steel portcullis raising into it's upper housing, in the keep's second floor. A set of traffic lights above the lane turned green so the jeep driver gunned the engine, getting the precious cargo out of the zone as fast as he could safely manage. It took almost 10 nerve wracking minutes of rolling above 50mph across the industrial and residential areas to reach the above ground offices that were the public façade of the WAC security apparatus. The driver and escort were incredibly relieved to have succeeded in delivering their passengers in one piece, alive & healthy as needed.
The alternatives didn't bear thinking about.
The SSM night shift manager was waiting in the building's defensive vestibule with a pair of militiamen to welcome his employer in person, especially given the crisis at hand. The man's stylish business suit and thick felt overcoat clashed badly with the soldiers besides him, in a way that could make a person question the level of seriousness the higher officials of WAC gave to the situation outside their thick fortified walls. They'd get a wake-up call in earnest tonight.
"Welcome to SSM security central offices, doctor Wolenczak." the man started with an oily tone that seemed to be the common default voice of every ass-kisser in Creation. "I'm happy to receive you tonight. How can we be of help?" he asked in an affected urbane tone that jarred badly with what the people in front of him had lived through recently.
Lucas shoved his hat at Raphael then stuffed his gloves and scarf into the wide pockets of his trenchcoat, finally responding in a cold, clipped tone that froze the air around him. "You are out of uniform, mister. As a superior manager in this organization, you are to serve as an example of readiness and proper behavior to the other employees." Taking his meta-glasses off with his left hand, the adolescent genius glared nastily at the much older adult, showing clearly what he thought of his attempted suck-upping at this junction of events. "The household militia just came to save my life from an ambush conducted using over 30 men, 10 war vehicles, heavy munitions and government backing from Ottawa." Glaring even worse, Lucas spat out venomously "We just lost 4 vehicles and 12 men tonight. Yet, here you are, prim and proper, instead of being deep in the bunker, at the helm of the ship, to make certain we have no further threats hanging around our flanks, sniping at us." Tapping his cane's mace-butt on the cement floor twice before he leaned on it again, the teen made a face of clear disbelief as he asked "Are we that safe inside the walls that the top managers and foremen can prance about without defensive clothing, or even activating the territorial defensive stance? My! If I had known that, I wouldn't have left the compound this evening. Somebody should have told me!"
Seeing what little credibility he thought he had in the eyes of the company owner evaporate like so many pipe dreams, the night shift manager plastered a stoic mask on his face, gesturing towards the inner doors to move things along. "This way please, sir. We have a ways to walk to reach the actual operations management chambers."
Silent as a tomb, Lucas nodded shortly at the man to get on with it while Raphael hid discretely inside the folds of his coat, hoping dearly not to be taken for target again tonight. Once in a lifetime was enough, thank you so very much. He did not need to be in the middle of a turf war between the management boffins and the Big Boss, especially since anybody other than Lucas was bound to lose quite badly in the end.
{ SQ } - { Map for the future, take-1 } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 02:22am
Lucas followed the night shift manager in deathly silence around the circuitous route that lead to the stairs, then down four levels, through corridors, down stairs three more levels, and finally a tall wide blast door flanked by a pair of WAC militiamen in full uniform. The manager waited until everybody got scanned by the checkpoint before proceeding inside the restricted area. After his turn at the scanner, Lucas looked around, only to see that there weren't any visible structural defenses for the soldiers nor any extra protections (weapons) around the vulnerable doorway. Since this was also a crucial intersection of corridors for this floor, that would need to be changed soon, especially if what happened tonight was any indication of coming events. After the last soldier had been scanned, the doors were opened to let the group inside.
While the security & armaments management hub was built along the codes and protocols of the 1960's when wired cameras became standard, it had evolved many times since then. The last version of cathodic tube color monitors were still in place in their consoles but modern flat touch-screens had been mounted over them. All around the outer perimeter of the vast room were ancient telephonic standards and reel-to-reel database processors that could still operate, with new mobile Wolenbahn neuroplexic mini-servers on wheeled bases patched-in to function as the actual main system. Three clusters of conference holo-projectors hung from the ceiling, creating separate work areas for the task forces to concentrate on while being able to manipulate the images, programs, and call people directly with a touch inside the silver-blue gaseous medium. Every employee of every grade had a device similar to SeaQuest's new PAL communicator and a thin touch-tablet, both built by Wolenbahn with synthetic crystal circuitry and fully patched into the neuroplexic network, thus giving Luxis full access.
This manner of keeping the old, or obsolete, technology in service in case of emergencies was part and parcel of the Wise mentality. If the new system failed, you could boot-up the old one to continue working or fighting as long as needed for the new hardware to be fixed. Lucas hadn't invented the method, but he had certainly learned it's benefits well, then applied it to each and every system, machine, or event he worked on. So far, it had worked a lot better than foreseen, as evidenced by the fact that the Canadian attack helicopters had tried to jam their cell & sat phones during the attack but their old CB channels had kept on working. Long live AM frequency radios, and HAM shack operators.
The night manager spread out his arms to encompass the room, saying proudly "As you can see, doctor Wolenczak, we have everything well in hand. The OPS chamber is a finely tuned machine, able to respond to any situation, problem or aggression the Wise Apothecary conglomerate could face, be it inside or outside the walls. In fact, given the range of some weapons systems mounted atop the gate-keeps, guard towers and principal buildings, we could have targeted and shot out the enemy ground forces and airborne vehicles up to 12 miles out."
Turning to face his master, the older man explained "We are presently limited to the 12 mile range because we don't have any missiles in use, and the beam weapons aren't finished installing. Since the creation of the SSM complex we have relied on bullet gunnery, only adding pulse and laser systems since you began taking active command of the company, about four years ago. Our treaty with the USA and Canada did give us the right to built rocketry and missiles, but, until now, the central offices had limited all R&D or deployments to RPG's, not actual autonomous vectors. We do hope you will change this soon." Making a face of disgust, the older male added tartly "The unfolding civil wars don't give us much choice in this adaptation, if we wish to survive the sorts of attacks that national army weapons can bring against us."
After one last nod to the manager's words, the teenaged doctor removed his heavy trenchcoat completely, piled it & hat on a free chair, then began to walk around the room in a clockwise direction. He looked over every shoulder, peered into each screen, listened in on every comms in progress, and scrutinized each hologram, before finishing back at the main door. The 20 minutes it took him to analyze the room and occupants had given him the time to calm his mind from the attack response adrenaline, as well as feed his mind with real-time data concerning the compound's actual wartime capacities. He could see things that could be changed immediately without any real effort, some would take a few days, and others would pile-up as long-term evolutions to be integrated into the broader WAC & Wolenbahn context.
Marching down the steps of the amphitheater to the central holo-projection hubs, the adolescent's face became even more rigid, less emotional, as he gave sway to his gigantic intellect to strategize and formulate the plans needed to correct the coming mess before it reached them. Having arrived abreast of the middle holo-table, the young genius gave his left arm a shake, letting fall loosely the connection wire from his personal system. He plugged it in the appropriate socket of the neuroplexic console, the wire becoming blue with electricity and bio-neural energies, signaling the direct merging of his powerful mind and the computers.
"WARNING! To all WAC and Wolenbahn employees across the Earth; regardless of time zones, geographic area, climates, political events or current business. This is not a drill! As of 01:00am on Thursday 24th December 2020, the Canadian government has joined the ranks of rogues & knaves by attacking the convoy of the Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line with clear intent to either capture hostages, or kill any resistance."
The young male's voice cut into all active comm lines, on all frequencies including the obsolete ones, and appeared as text on all web browsers, email & TXT apps. Any active media player stopped their current task to prioritize the video message from central office. There were no places that depended on WAC or Wolenbahn for their employment, management, contracts or supplies that didn't get connected.
All the personnel in the room turned, or swiveled their chair, to watch their young employer directly as he spoke his message, thus witnessing just how pale the night manager was becoming as the words and orders kept pouring out of the teenager's mouth. It was patently clear the boy had not asked anybody's opinion on any of the subjects he addressed, but that didn't make him wrong or stupid; the employees would wait and see what exactly it was he demanded, then they would decide their own reactions.
"As of this moment," Lucas continued after a five second pause, "We are now in a state of war against Canada, similar to that which exists with America since their central government had demanded my death for a multitude of bigoted reasons. What the government of Justin Trudeau has tried is exactly like what Trump and his supporters did; a base attempt to defraud, extort, or flat out steal by violence from all of us the produce of our labors. The only detail still unclear is which bigotry Trudeau used to justify his baseness when he gave the orders to his troops."
There was a soft murmur across the room as Lucas paused again. On one hand it was to allow the people to react without missing out on key elements of his speech, on the other it was to give himself the time for his immediate conscience to catch up to what his superior mind had cogitated in cyberspace, as it delved the neuroplexic network.
"This period of December 2020 will pass into infamy in the history of Humanity. It is without a doubt the beginning phase of World War III. Lucky for us, my family has survived through two World Wars already, plus the many wars, revolutions and riots of Europe in 1400 – 1800, and also America's Independence from Britain, then the Civil War. The Wise, and Wolenczak, are no strangers to violence, bloodshed, and civil unrest that crashes society for decades. We have endured, we will endure, and we will become prosperous again, inside these here walls of our home."
The young genius paused as the employees applauded lightly his somewhat 'okay' attempt at an ad hoc motivational speech. It wasn't the best, but it did the job. For now, that was enough to pass muster and keep the troops in line behind their new leader's project.
Speaking again, the prodigy declared in a solid tone "Immediately, we have several simple things that we can do to lower the risks of infiltration or direct attack by enemy forces. I want a full wash down of the perimeter walls with boiling water every 6 hours on the clock, starting at 06:00am until told otherwise. Further, all wall-top patrols and turrets are to periodically observe the rivers, canals and moats in their zone of control for icing. All are tasked with removing by beam weapon fire all ice floes that could serve as bridges to cross, or cover for a diver to hide under. Our best defensive asset is the system of thick, embattled and armed walls, but it won't help if the enemy can reach them to plant explosives, or penetrate the wet docks and out-pipes. Which means also that from now on, each and every water gate-keep, échaugette, postern and discharge pipe sluice control rooms are to be manned around the clock by armed personnel. We will place teams of 2 in all cases, to allow for one to use the bathroom safely, and to alleviate the boredom of solitary sentry duty. A single soldier tends to fall asleep if nothing keeps him busy or interested, so we will create schedules for paired postings at fixed stations, and for mobile patrols as well. It's much harder to silence two men at once rather than a single, isolated sentry who only checks in hourly or at physical mark-points."
Several lower managers were beginning to tap on their touch-tablets or desk screens to prepare for the changes in defensiveness level required by their new common master. Many were surprised that there were already written orders appearing in their workflow system, specifically crafted for their compound section or activity department. Damn, the kid was fast!
The teen's voice was heard again as he continued "As of now, personnel defensive level and protection will be paramount. We can rebuild walls and machines. I can design better computers and programs. But humans cannot be rebuilt, nor recycled. Therefore, all WAC & Wolenbahn personnel are expected to be issued the complete set of defensive uniform corresponding to their sector or activity, and the appropriate weapons. This will be followed with mandatory training in general survival skills, basic combat skills, weapons usage & maintenance, as well as first aid to help yourself or injured colleagues. This equipment is not a joke, and the training time demanded is not an option. It is now part of your basic job description, and all hours spent on training will be paid at your normal rates, as per your collective conventions or contractor's agreement. Please note that any registered pacifists who refuse to carry weapons will have to wear visible patches on their person at all times, and replace the weapons training by extra martial arts and paramedic training, with remuneration as normal."
There were a few sour faces in the room, but many more nodding in agreement at the good, common sense of this measure to insure the safety of every person on campus. They were in a planetary war now, it wasn't time to pussyfoot around anymore. People had to gear-up, train and get ready for a fight, or expect to get left behind in the cold if they couldn't help themselves and others. The fact that all materials, time & efforts would be paid as per the standard wage agreements assuaged a lot of bad feelings that such a decision could have garnered. No actual protests were voiced, and the neuroplexic network did not detect active refusal in any properties or vehicles where it was linked. Consequently, Lucas continued rolling out his preliminary wartime plans.
"Given that we have been betrayed and attacked by everybody in sight, Wise and Wolenbahn are now shutting down all out-bound shipments of anything to anybody. All production units will be tasked with crafting only those things we need for our internal needs, those of our few remaining allies such as the NCIS and DXS in America, or what we may need to pay local militias or warlords to buy services like safe passage for our convoys. Our production emphasis will be on the proven, functional remedies that have made the reputation of our house, and multiple foodstuffs, even from other brands or styles than what we used to manufacture. So, I expect that all efforts be made to upkeep and repair the greenhouses, livestock barns, crop fields and outdoor pens. We need those for our own food and medicines, just as much as for trade. This means not only laborers, but sentries as well, and placing small armored guard sheds at all spots where the soldiers could be exposed to the climate or enemy snipers. Keeping the plants and animals alive won't help anybody if the enemy manages to bomb the harvesting trucks or transformation machinery, or put poison in the finished products."
Multiple managers blinked or looked taken aback at this latest decree. Not in a bad way, though, but more in a 'why didn't I think about that?' kinda way. After about ten seconds of reflection, pretty much everybody who heard/saw the orders understood the logic in them and agreed. They needed a reliable food supply to eat, not just to sell for profit. And the ability to trade with the surrounding groups that would emerge from the war-torn countryside was sound foresight as well. It was a good thing that the new boss wasn't waiting out to see if the governments would/could recover on their own. After the nuke and the economic crash, getting society united enough to restart the central governance would take years in the best scenarios.
Lucas waved his left hand a bit, having more to say. "We are presently packed into buildings that were never meant to serve as more than emergency shelters for a storm or short riots, not several years following national collapse or international war. While the original manorial grounds were built to house all the families of their employees permanently, that only covers the manor itself, not the rest of WAC all around SSM, nor Sarnia, nor in fact most of our other facilities. That means that we will be putting in place an 'emergency territorial growth plan' in which we will delimitate geographic areas to be cleared out of – anything – present, followed by decontamination and construction. In order to keep our families and precious crops, livestock, machines and homes safe from looters and vermin, these zones will necessarily be embattled with moats, walls, keeps and human patrols around the clock. There is no logic nor survivability in growing food or animals, only for criminals or foreign enemies to come steal them in broad daylight. So, yes, that means we'll be doing things the feudal way, just like WAC in SSM and our other manorial holdings. The good news about this part is that my family has built many more estates than are actually in service. One in Edmonds, Washington state, is being activated as we speak, and I have more in Florida, Texas and South California, plus a few Wolenbahn warehouses spread around the USA. That part of the expansion plan will be relatively easy and quick for starters, until we get into the hard-core expansion through conquest & terraforming schedule."
The teenager raised his voice just a bit to silence people so he could finish before any comments erupted in the crowds. "Plus, since the war has killed off the monetized economy, the whole mess brings an overwhelmingly good news for all of you. Without legal money we can't charge you rent to pay for lodging, or apply salary deductions for services by the company's departments. In counterpart though, we can't legally pay out a salary in worthless coinage, so we'll be establishing a grocery basket system that will be correspondent to your job level, plus a few extras for seniority and multiple members of the same household all working for WAC. On top of this, we will be converting several of the small paying restaurants around campus into company cafeterias to make certain everybody is fed enough to work their shift by supplying breakfast and lunch around the clock in buffet style. Now, this money-less method is just the basic survival setup; I want to see what survives in the USA and Canada before making it permanent. If it does become final that both countries are dead, then I will have to use my emergency powers to create a new standard money to pay for jobs, goods and services. If such were to happen, I can assure you that all collective conventions and contractor agreements would be re-priced, given the ongoing wars and absence of any societal net to cushion you in case of health, financial or judicial issues. As of now, in case of illness, WAC will handle it inside since nobody has any choice about it. If I want workers that work, I have to care for them myself until things stabilize."
There were actually loud cheers and a lot of clapping when the teen finished his point. This was ambitious indeed, but a sound plan for both short & long terms, plus it had the benefit of looking out for all of their families, not just the pocketbook of the higher management or stockholders. The fact the kid was already checking to make alliances and potentially create a regular money to compensate the crashed currencies was awe inspiring, and a morale booster for everybody who heard him speak.
One female employee in the mid-tiers of the amphitheater rose from her chair, lifting an arm in the air to wave, having a question to ask. Lucas used his meta-glasses to zoom-in on the woman's ID tag to get her name properly before gesturing at her to ask away. Suddenly very self-conscious as she remembered that she was being broadcast live, the middle-aged caucasian lady nervously fidgeted with her blouse sleeves as she asked shyly "What about the money situation? The food baskets are pretty self-evident, we all get that. But how could you resolve the actual money issues? Many people, including some inside WAC, have lost pretty much everything when the banks crashed. Honestly, if it weren't for this job inside the walls, we'd be starving, homeless, or getting beaten & killed out of our few provisions by looters. How can you, or anybody really, restart the planet's whole economy?"
She had asked her question in a pitiful tone that confirmed for Lucas that his global anti-church, anti-bigotry cyber-raid had hit inside his own house. On the other hand, the boy had already known that the statistical probabilities were that some people employed by WAC or Wolenbahn had in fact committed spurious alliances, or provenly debased gestures, with cults and neo-Nazi similars. His answer would stun several people in a bad way, but he would not detract nor deviate from this. Idiotically attributed acts of mercy borne from national moral weakness, or personal intellectual laziness, had gotten his ancestors hunted & sacrificed to the butcher's block for centuries, when they refused to fight the religious fanatics all the way to the end. He would not make this mistake; unlike them, he would fight so as to not leave surviving enemies in his wake.
His face becoming as fixated as an alabaster statue, the adolescent genius answered in a severe tone that showed no compromises would be afforded those that harmed his person. "I can appreciate the situation the people affected are in, madam. If it weren't for the elaborate scheme of estates and shelters my ancestors took almost 600 years to build across two continents, I would probably be stuck in a snow drift trying to find some trash papers to burn for heat, all the while gnawing on different, frozen refuse and scraps to feed myself. HOWEVER! I will not be taken advantage of by the same people who knelt before the altars of foul, non-existent deities that demanded the destruction of all Jews, the breaking and sexual exploitation of all children, or the denial of learned intelligence. If anybody thinks that I will stupidly house racist, ageist or anti-science sectarian fanatics, going so far as to also feed and pay them whilst they work their fell misdeeds towards my death or enslavement, then I can tell you that you are wrong! DEAD wrong!"
As a wave of unease swept through the room and network, Lucas glared harshly at the people, unable to stay completely calm as he continued. He ended up shouting most of the following: "For centuries my racial ancestors have been persecuted by multiple races and religions, oftentimes for nothing but peasant superstitions and general fear of what was different. Up until the times of the Catholic Inquisition, when it became a 'known fact' that Jews were murdering good, white, catholic babies to use their raw fat in alchemic potions to turn lead into gold. The same gold that would then be used to bribe officials for illegal privileges, or pay for attacks against the Holy Mother Church of the Vatican by her own already declared enemies, the protestant kings. All of this nonsensical shite killed-off hundreds of thousands of my far ancestors, only to culminate in the WW-II Holocaust that exterminated close to 7,000,000 Jews! Plus almost as many Gypsies who happened to also be related to my distant racial roots! For the last 2,000 years, since the lies of Christian sectarianism began spreading out, thronging hordes of barbaric murderers have lined up at my family's gates to take turns at torturing, raping, and executing us, then displaying our mangled corpses on the village plaza like trophies. Or should I say like pornographic icons, so they could all wank at them together to prove publicly just how manly they all were! And then, not satisfied with destroying us Jews by themselves, the damned christians then went about CONVINCING the Arabs, Hindi, Africans and Asians into doing the same! Where do you think this will end if I don't stand up for my survival? Where will this lead if nobody fights this damned psychotic disease called religion?"
Nothing but utter silence resulted from his proclamation, since nobody could say anything without destroying their reputation in public, during a well recorded meeting. As the crowd tried to process mentally and emotionally what the young boy had just shouted at them, he powered his way over any potential counters or objections that could be voiced.
Snarling in rage, Lucas asked venomously "Do you know what 'Wir hätten sie alle töten sollen' means in English? It's the rallying cry of the fascists. The pious wish of all Nazi, skinhead and christian-power apostles the world over. It's German for 'We should have killed them all!'. Just that! Just the wish that all Jews should have died in WW-II! That's what people are praying or chanting in the pews for! They're writing in their blogs or social media for it! They send open letters to newspapers, and email to their elected officials about it! All in the hope that the crooked-nosed plague of juden rassen will finally be ended in their lifetime! And take a look out of the fucking windows! Take a look at the damned BLOODY continent! They tried yet again! What do you think Trump and his church-whores were about, if not a second Holocaust!? They even targeted – ME! – as the focal point of their new crusade against all things that weren't white-skinned, servile idiocy to their phallocratic dogma!"
Grasping the pommel of his armament-cane with both hands, the teenager leaned forward over his walking stick, trying to regulate his breathing to calm himself. Having an attack of rage while carrying the load of weapons he presently wore hidden under his sleeves wasn't a good idea. If he lost control enough, he could massacre almost everybody in the large room before the blast doors were opened to let help in to save them. Closing his eyes, he felt a bone-deep tiredness seep through his mind. No matter how potent and well made his brain was, he was still human. His sleep schedule during the last week had been a mess, which now showed by his waning energy, despite that he'd been awake for only 12 hours by now.
Exhaling a deep sorrowful sigh, the young prodigy panned his gaze across the tiers of the room, sweeping over the faces of the employees, attempting to spot any imminent threats right away. Nobody was jumping towards him or aiming weapons at present, but that wouldn't last. His next set of orders would see to it that his enemies would multiply like maggots in a decaying corpse; an analogy that fit the current societal context of North-America exquisitely.
"Let me make myself clear," the adolescent rasped out hoarsely, "I am the Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line. I am duty-bound to the legislative, executive, policing, judicial and military branches of authority by title, rank, position and function. I not only apply existing laws, I can alter them or craft new laws as necessitated by the circumstances of society, war, or climate. And amongst my many attributed duties are the application of Low, Middle and High justice, in the civilian, criminal and military tribunals, where I act as convening authority, judge, and executioner. At need, I can also act as the prosecuting party if no one else is available, nor competent enough to lead the case to conclusion that matches the evidence at hand. That means that I am the person who decides who goes to court, on what charges or proof, how the trial is done, when & where it happens, and what the sentencing guidelines will be. Because yes, there are so many cowards and morally defunct fools that I will eventually need to be that involved, to avoid injustice or, conversely, weak ineffective law-keeping."
Shaking like a leaf in fright, the woman still stood in front of her console, with her arm in the air again to ask something else. Receiving a nod from Lucas, she swallowed hard to clear her throat then asked again about the families impoverished. "I can understand that you don't want to finance churches or gurus, and, really, we all do. But what about the families that are broken? Even if we take religion and politics off the table, what will happen to them? Are we all doomed to rot in poverty? A lot of us were already living paycheck-to-paycheck, despite that WAC had some of the most generous salaries and benefits in the whole of Ontario for decades. How can that be solved? I don't ask that you pay people who want to kill you or burn your house, but there are hundreds of thousands of innocents that were affected by the cybernetic attack on their bank accounts. Shouldn't they get some reprieve at some point?" She pleaded with her hands joined in front of her heart, tears leaking down her face as she exposed far more of her own plight than she thought to.
Pursing his lips in frustration, Lucas replied dryly "I will give you a technical response, just to prove tat I already have a solution in hand, thus shutting-up the doubters and fools. Be advised that any moral judgments and arbitration's will be far more complex and protracted, and carried out at a later date, one person at a time, with proof in hand." Not getting any protests or comments, the teenager continued on his last point. "Money is easy to fix. For me, at least. I have worked with the World Bank for years and have reached a posting as counselor to their Network & Transaction Security Directorate. I have copies of all the master encryptions, applications and operating systems they used since 2015 so as to build the testing systems by which new apps or new procedures were proofed. Also, I was one of their most prolific, and reliable, supplier of security softwares for the last three years in a row. All I have to do is use the WB's planetary interface to create the retail-level customer service apps and accounts they didn't have, and the solution is done. Once each person has an account in the new cybernetic structure, I can just do like a game of Monopoly; give each player a starting amount then let their own fortunes, skills, intellect and character do the rest. In other words, Yes, I can settle the money issue all by myself. And yes, it is that easy and quick to accomplish, since I can just use the list of WAC employees and dependents to seed the database core."
"Then, why haven't you done it already?" asked an older white male across the room.
"Because I don't want to." replied coldly the angry teen. "I have learned that several dozen people, at the least, were involved in an inter-generational scheme of fraud, extortion, and outright theft, against my family at large, and me specifically. I will not simply throw cash around, just to see it land in the hands of thieves, traitors, and murderous fanatics, who actively work to see me die. I will recreate the banking apparatus when, and only IF, it does not put my life in danger or profit my enemies."
As several people were beginning to scoff in disbelief at his method, or shout in fearful anger that he would let them hang in the cold until he was certain of his safety, Lucas used the neural interface to send an ear-splitting tonal pulse through the speakers around the room and network broadcast. "Shut the fuck up, you damned barking bitches in heat!" he screamed out at them, red in the face with visceral rage that was almost past his capacity to hold inside. "Before anybody else tries to blame me for their lack of money or banking services, let me remind you about a few hard facts."
Raising his left hand, he showed one finger, "Point one: if the banks had done their jobs as they were obliged to by law & contract, the cybernetic attack would never have penetrated as deeply. The big-wigs wanted to keep putting exaggerated dividends in their purses, so they scuppered most of the 'soft' expenses over several years, thus opening breaches in their transaction & account security. That's their fault, not mine."
"Point two," he spoke with a second finger raised, "Everybody I attacked was GUILTY and DESERVED it without any doubt whatsoever! I targeted organizations known to be racist, sexist, ageist and preachers of 'exterminative evangelism', also known as 'CRUSADE'. In other words, I aimed to burn down groups that were publicly stating in their worship, in written media, in social media, and in their lobbying of governments, that killing anybody they didn't like was a 'holy act' that god demanded of them. I aimed to silence, neuter, and shut-down, publicly avowed mass-murderers like the Ku Klux Klan, neo-Nazis, skinheads, white militias, sects, the damned 'Sovereign Citizen' movance, and thousands of Holocaust deniers that dreamed the Nazis could finish the job at last. I aimed to emasculate those who use religion as a mask for their pedophiliac exploitation, breaking and murdering of children. And I aimed at those who had publicly stated that they wanted – ME – specifically to be tortured, raped, broken and killed in a public spectacle for their masturbatory enjoyment, even though that's not what they called it in the media, when interviewed by reporters."
Putting up three fingers, Lucas growled "Point three, and last one to make. Who the Hells do you think will support and back this damned money you want so much? YOU? All of you are weakling, mewling peons who weep, wail, screech and tetch, but do nothing else, except maybe sit there with your hands held out, waiting for somebody to give you the alms you think you're entitled to get for free!"
Scowling fiercely at the crowd of workers, Lucas trembled with barely contained fury as he screamed out a resounding "Oh, fuck no! It certainly isn't any of you! If anybody will have to work on this, it'll be ME, or people that I compensate from MY resources! Not any of you! Did you forget? For a money to have any value, people have to TRUST that it has WORTH. That means that you take the coins or bills to the emitter and ask for their value instead of the numerals. In other words, the 'backing' of the cash in your hands would be MY precious vegetables, fruits, livestock, medicines, machinery parts, softwares, or even medical services in MY hospital. You would only be – users – of this money, never its owners, and never really responsible for making it work in the daily lives of people. All the concepts, all the design, all the cybernetic programming, all the physical networking & service points, would be done by ME. Plus, of course, the unavoidable manufacturing of coins, bills, notes, cheques, bank-books, ATM & credit cards, etc... It would all come from ME and MY resources, through MY territory, made by MY employees..."
"And WHY, again, should I do this? WHY should I pay for this?" Sneering at the lot of scared, anxious people the adolescent asked snidely "What do I look like? An idiot? Do I look like a dumb missionary on a charity crusade to save the savages from their own stupidity? Is it MY job to give to the poor until I myself am destitute so badly that I'm thrown out of my own company and household? Not bloody likely!"
Grabbing his coat & hat from the chair to put them on, the young genius ordered the manager harshly "Get this lot of headless chickens in order by morning. I will be far less merciful come sun-up. We have several wars going on all around us, our walls are besieged, and our resources limited by manpower and the winter, so I won't be kind to gormless fools who put our survival at risk! Get your damned pack of mules in line in the convoy harness so they can all pull in the same direction together, or leave the job to someone who will get it accomplished on time!"
Gesturing curtly at the two escort soldiers that brought him down, he ordered "Get me to the nearest public bathroom, then up to the surface. Have a transport, whatever's available, waiting in front so I can get back to my damned pile of rock on the riverside."
Watched by three dozen pairs of weary fearful eyes, the master of the land departed the chamber, leaving a pernicious climate of anxiety and oppression in his wake. He had wanted to bolster morale, to buy some time before the big problems came down on him. But no; it couldn't wait. He should have known that some bloody bitch of a church-whore would clamor, all weepy and doe-eyed, for privileges and money they had no right to have in this life. Well no, they weren't gonna pull one over him, not like they did with his ancestors and the rest of humanity. He knew what these people were, who they worked for, and what their end-game was; it would NEVER be allowed to happen as long as he lived.
{ SQ } - { Betrayal most foul } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 02:54am
Barely outside the blast doors of the OPS chamber, Lucas changed his mind, ordering curtly "Soldier! Isn't there an office here reserved for the Lord of the Manor? Isn't there – MY – office in this building so that I can monitor and control things during crisis? Take me there instead. I have things that need to be attended tonight, and I'll be doing it from here. Just show Raphael where the servant's guard room and kitchen are located so he can serve me properly."
Nodding once in silence, the senior militiaman gestured with his free hand towards the left-side corridor, taking the lead to guide the group to its new destination. As they walked, the man touched the side of his helmet, calling back to OPS to update the surveillance team dedicated to overwatch & service for the main Boss of the Land. They would cancel the transport then warn the managers that the owner of the office in question was on his way to claim back his property from them.
This would not be fun for anybody.
Lucas had visibly reached the end of any reserves of patience, tolerance or self-restraint that he had ever possessed in life, and that was a whole lot more than the average human to begin with. But when the teenager saw that over the last 4 decades the top management officials had been taking their eases with what belonged to his family, and him specifically, things would change fast & hard.
The soldier was wise enough to understand that the lower rungs of the hierarchy would probably follow whatever plans the kid came up with because they lacked imagination of their own, had no alternatives to offer, and didn't have the backbone to take-up responsibility like Lucas did. These crying wieners would have to shut-up & put-up, just like they did all their lives. But the top brass, they had skin in the game; the rich & mighty mini-bosses at the top of the ladder would not accept being reminded so harshly that the ladder went up much farther than their exalted positions. The blow-back about those changes would be bad, and happen quick. If Ottawa had attacked Lucas directly instead of the entire Wise Apothecary compound, it was because they expected to have support from within, betting that the current leadership would be friendlier to them than Lucas would.
Ah fuck, but they were screwed bad!
The (metaphorical) stench of internal warfare wafted around the soldier's mind as he guided his charges around the subterranean corridors towards the luxurious private offices that had existed since the construction of the management redoubt. Old doctor F. H. Wise had presided the design, schematics and construction in the last years of the 1970's, just before his disappearance. Like the other Wise properties, this sector exhibited an Old Europa style that reminded of the 1800's, when large cast iron machines made the ambitions of men advance through all climates and wars. The sudden change from gray cement walls with exposed pipes and wires over to stained hard wood paneling with brass lamps and console tables along the walls to hold flower pots, old rotary telephones and oil lamps for emergencies, was quite jarring. Seeing the cluster of four secretaries' desks, all built of the same heavy varnished oak with decorative inlays, plush swivel chairs and antiquated office machines still at work told them they had reached the proper place.
Passing between the two pairs of desks placed on each side of the central path without giving them any attention, Lucas took out the ring of master keys from his jacket, searching for the one that bore the icon matching the door barring the way to his office. Finding it after a minute, the teenager ignored the gawking, and protesting, nighttime secretary in favor of just putting the key in the lock, making the device 'thunk' loudly as it triggered, letting the door pivot open at a slight touch. Admiring the craftsmanship of the heavy panel as it swung outwards, Lucas observed the actual thickness of the door, and the heavy wooden beams that composed the frame around the entryway. This was a reinforced door, probably two thin sheets of varnished, inlaid oak glued over a slab of steel, if the sound of the lock was any indicator. He was betting that the frame was similarly built; steel structures sunk into the concrete walls, floors and ceilings then, covered by decorative woodwork.
Directly inside the managers' enclosed sector were a long common conference room occupying the left side and a wall of glass panels and doors on the right, with a clearly defined passageway in the middle, going all the way the back wall, to an ornate wooden door.
The right side had six doors, meaning five separate offices for the three shift managers, head secretary and the actual Chief of Security. Each small room had a desk with plush swivel chair, four small hard-back chairs for guests, built-in bookshelves and a cast iron stove to give heat as well as keep the person's tea simmering. Brass bracket electrical lamps adorned the walls, with a few iron candlesticks and antique paintings in gilded wood frames. The sixth door, right inside the secluded zone, was for the washroom that the managers, their secretaries and private guests used.
The conference area was dominated by a monumental stacked stone fireplace with cast iron tools and pivoting brackets to hold kettles or pots aloft above the flaming logs. The long central table was crafted of massive segments of varnished oak with brass wire inlays topped by a half-inch thick slab of green marble with a massive baroque candelabra in the middle. Twelve regular wooden armchairs were set on each side of the table, with a large upholstered swiveling throne at the head, and a standing lectern at the foot. Two wooden wheeled serving carts were parked besides the fireplace, with bottles of diverse luxury alcohol, glasswares and barman tools on the left, a heavy silver Prussian samovar with porcelain tea set and silver utensils on the right.
The goal of the trip was the door at the end: the private office of the Wise who was in charge of the compound at the moment, as evidenced by the wide brass Wise Heritage logo inlaid into the veneered surface of the reinforced door panel. Lucas fiddled with the key ring again, putting the appropriate key into the large victorian styled lock, working the mechanism easily then pulling open the heavy but well balanced door.
Ignoring yet again the verbally emoting elderly female secretary that was trying to stop him, the young genius marched into his private domain at long last, realizing that the recent events in the OPS chamber had taken a more damaging toll on his own equilibrium than he had thought. He put his hat and trenchcoat on the cast iron coat-tree besides the door then walked briskly to the private lavatory visible through the open door, on the right hand of the room. Willingly disregarding all activity and speaking from the other people around him, Lucas shut the door behind himself, deciding that as long as they weren't shooting at each other, he didn't care about it.
Taking off his suit jacket, the adolescent opened the toilet seat to finally set himself comfortably to drop some weight from the heavy meal he'd eaten earlier. As things were, he had absolutely no idea how he'd managed to live through the evening's violence without vomiting from disgust, or losing conscience from fright. Closing his eyes, he took off the meta-glasses to stow them in the left breast pocket of his shirt as his body automatically did its job without attention from his part. Rubbing his forehead wearily, Lucas was happy to discover that he was simply tired. The migraine he had feared was coming didn't actually coalesce so he would be able to finish his night in peace. Fifteen minutes of silent contemplation later saw him washing his hands, then passing a cold washcloth over his face and neck to cool down from all the stress he had just experienced. As he was drying his hands, he began to register the details inside the small square bathroom that he had willingly blinded himself to upon entry.
The room was a square barely 6 feet on each side, with the toilet on the left side of the door and the vanity console on the right side, just in front of the privy. Spanning the entire back wall were two heavy oak built-in armoires and a set of open oak shelves between them for linens. The waste basket and laundry hamper were placed on the floor-level of the shelving stack. A pair of brass brackets held hybrid lamps similar to those of the manor's tower, one on each side of the shelves, attached to the solid wood frame posts. The setup was a bit antique, but still luxurious as per the standards that F. H. Wise always demanded of everything. As he observed the furnishings, Lucas sneered in disdain when he found a small round metallic indent in the lower part of the frame of the vanity's mirror. That type of indent had one single use; the same in all Wise buildings and vehicles. Raising his left hand to the mirror, the teenager flipped open the top of the heavy gold ring that had once belonged to his great-grand-father and clicked it into the secret locking system. He gave a strong counter-clockwise twist to force the old mechanism to work after decades of disuse, wondering honestly if he would be more disappointed by it working or staying jammed closed.
The young man's effort was rewarded by a solid 'thunk' when the metallic parts of the device worked as designed some 50 years ago. The hidden clasp released thus allowing the old decorative mirror to move on its unseen hinges, lifting upwards by the top-side pivot like a garage door. Behind the quarter-inch thick steel plate was a foot deep alcove with nine small TV screens stacked 3 x 3, two thin panels full of old style switches, knobs & dials stacked atop each other just under the screens, an antique intercom console similar to those in the manor's watch-room and office, and five more little round metallic locks at the very bottom with a weird embossed glyph under each.
Without any effort on the teen's part, the old security system activated, secret cameras powered up to give Lucas a grainy yet colored view with sound from nine different locations around the management offices. He could now see in the master office itself, in the conference room, in each closed office of the managers and head secretary, the 'reserved' bathroom, the reception area and the entry point in the public corridor outside the zone. A quick review of the horizontal panels under the screens showed they were the controllers for the closed-circuit TV's, each panel having 12 monitoring sites connected to them, so there were a lot more places under hidden surveillance than what was shown. Lucas realized that each TV had individual controls that could select which camera was on-line, adjust image quality, sound level, but also had two more buttons. One button for a speaker hidden near each camera to interact with the people in the room, while the flip-switch was a remote 'master' lock controller that allowed to forcibly open or close any door in the security zone from these panels. The intercom's three old rotary dials were designated for the manor house proper, the WAC's estate at large, and an outside line, with the option to use the wired handset or the mike/speaker built into the unit.
Yep, great-grand-daddy had been a control freak as well as a paranoid bastard.
"Well, what do you know?" Lucas asked softly to the empty air around himself, as he perused seriously the control boards and screens for an advantage or booby trap, because yeah, his G-G-D had some of those stupid thingies hidden around, too.
One of the monitors grabbed his attention as he saw that Raphael Chadderton, having finally taken off his trenchcoat and hat, was deep in a raging argument with the night manager and senior secretary in the front part of the office zone. Turning the knob for the sound, the young genius was immediately appraised of a threat skulking behind his back, right inside his home.
"You will be silent and obedient!" screeched the elderly woman at the young servant as she wagged her right index at his face in a threatening manner. "I am your great aunt! I am an adult, unlike you! You will obey me when I command, or face punishment immediately!" she screeched venomously at her younger relative in total disregard for his dignity or integrity. "You are a damned CHILD and subordinate! NOT a lord, chief, minister, director or manager of ANYTHING!" she shouted waspishly at his face, spittle flying from her mouth like a small rabid poodle having a seizure.
Lips pursed in utter anger and disdain, the night manager put in his opinion with vitriolic tones that left nothing to imagine concerning his wrathful disposition. "You ungrateful, disgraceful little bastard! After everything you put my poor nephew through with your rebellious ways! He had prepared such a wonderful, productive life for you. What did you do with his plans? You spat on them and stayed inside the manor house, stuck in the past, attached to the flank of my brother Erasmus like a damned leech put there by some medieval quack. You could have been a real doctor, a surgeon! But no! Instead you lowered yourself to being just a stupid, meaningless, INFERIOR servant to a dead house, kneeling to an inbred mongrel, spawned incestuously between first cousins at the behest of the monster that built this decrepit charnel pit of a family. And now, you disobey yet again. We are ashamed of you, boy!"
Walking briskly to the side of the night manager, the elderly woman wrapped her right arm around his shoulders, crooning in a sickly-sweet way. "There, there, my love! Don't give yourself a coronary over that malicious, evil boy! It's not your fault that your brother's weak blood flows through him, the same as it did our nephews and nieces. If Erasmus had been stronger willed, and a better person, this depravity wouldn't be happening today. Only him is responsible for the family breaking apart, and the way this indocile pup keeps yipping at people, instead of obeying as is right and proper."
Looking kindly at his wife of five decades, the old manager replied lovingly "You are correct my dear. I cannot bear the fault of my older brother's weak mind and failed fathering. I can only look upon my own line, smiling at the success that we have become. A pity others can't say the same." Turning to face Raphael again, the old man snarled viciously "And you, boy! Do you have anything to say that could be useful? Do you have a solution to silence this menial little bastard that plans to take over the world as all damned juden always try? We have a bloody jewish rat in the office, and you aren't doing anything to stop his power-mongering, nor his attempt to seize from our hands that which we have toiled to grasp and claim since my father's childhood. Speak up, coward! For once that we actually want to hear your weak, discordant voice for something, and you stay silent! What a waste and coward you are!" the old grand-uncle spat at his descendant, full of contempt.
The 20 year old boy shook his head sideways in forlorn denial, trying desperately to find a fault or discrepancy that would prove to him that this wasn't really happening, that his relatives weren't truly asking him to betray the very foundation of the company and household they had lived with for decades. Alas, it wasn't to be; the old traitors were well and truly preaching hate, betrayal and destruction against everything that Raphael had ever hoped to be a part of in his life. He wasn't a prideful boor like his grand-uncle, nor an egotistical bastard like his father and uncles, so living a simple life of honest labor in service to a family that had made medicine and community health their reason for existing was enough for his taste. It was his great misfortune that many of his kin felt they deserved a more exalted station in life, even if it came from theft, fraud and extortion against those that had helped them to thrive for more than six generations.
It made his gut churn like he had swallowed lye.
Making a face of disgust at his elderly family, Rafe said in harsh, unforgiving words "I hope that you face off against Lucas himself, instead of the militiamen. You backstabbing fools deserve to see with your own eyes the power and status you tried to steal being wielded at your hides by its rightful master. And after what I lived through tonight, I'm pretty sure you won't last long in this fight. No matter how many allies you THINK that you've accumulated, they won't win, not against Lucas Wolenczak. Not in this life or the next. He broke the fucking planet and he's rebuilding it already! What can you and your low-paid mercs do about that? Can your capacities even compare to his?"
Face red with anger at the challenge he received, the night manager sprinted forward to slap the young man in the face, screaming in impotent rage when Raphael managed to dodge the blow entirely, quickly going behind a secretary's desk to keep some distance between himself and the rabid old crone. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest as his relative shouted insults and threats at him, interspersed with commands to stand still for the punishment he had earned for challenging his elders like a juvenile delinquent that escaped from jail.
Raising both eyebrows at that particular invective, Raphael snarled out "I ain't no jail bait, you fucking asswipe! T's not cuz I think different than you that you have the right to say to people that I'm a criminal or a threat to society! Keep yar trap shut if you can't be polite about folk!" he screamed, fists clenched in front of him in a threatening gesture.
The old manager rapidly backed away from the young adult, suddenly well aware that the 20 year old would not be the easy target he had been when he was only 10. Twice bigger, athletic, and having a solid character to rely on, Raphael Chadderton wouldn't be picked on or abused anymore, not as his older kin had inflicted on him for most of his life to date. Seeing with his own eyes the fruition of what he had feared would come – an INDEPENDENT boy – the manager backed all the way to his wife, grabbing her arm to guide her out of the office area so they could be safe from the rebellious upstart. The elderly couple were barely one foot away from the entry door when a squad of twelve militiamen arrived, decked out in their field kits with extra guns and explosives, as ordered.
"In there!" the night manager screeched, sounding like an offended little schoolgirl given how his voice had raised several octaves in his anger. "The rat-bastard is locked inside the last office! You'll have to drag him out like a rabbit from his warren, but you won't have far to go." Pointing an arthritis crooked finger at Raphael, he spat viciously "And take this one too! He's due for a trip to the posts! A good whipping in front of a crowd will put him back in his proper place – at our feet! – like the inferior, menial BOY-CHILD that he is!"
Rafe didn't wait; he turned away from the group to sprint towards the master office, hoping to make it in time to shut the door in their faces then call for help via one of the many comms placed around the room. He doubted his ordinary cell phone would pass through the thick layers of concrete and stone, but he could try that as well if the land lines were blocked off.
The armed men, all woken up from their beds recently, reacted far too slowly to both the orders and the young male's sudden panicked escape. Their response time was further hindered because only half of them were actually trained militia employed to protect the Wise estate, the others being simply ordinary workmen loyal to the money the night manager had promised them for their obedience. Even then, the seven 'professional' soldiers were some that should not have been kept in service due to their laziness and general lack of skills for the job, if it weren't for several managers wanting to have brutish minions on hand for shady acts, like tonight. As it was, the young butler had just passed the door between the secretarial zone and the upper managers' zone when the heavy door pivoted close all on its own, without the fleeing male having done anything to it. The loud hard 'BOOM' of the panel hitting the frame resounded through the sector, followed by the equally obnoxious noise of several mechanical locks triggering, barring the mercs' way to the deeper zones.
The old secretary missed no time in screeching her rage at seeing her grand-nephew escaping from their angry violent intentions for him. Pushing her husband with both hands, she commanded "Get in there, you fool! He's going to help the demon-spawn to get away from us! You can't let them regain control of the estate or all our decades of work are lost!"
As the elderly manager ran for the locked door, his militiamen followed, all of the twelve men getting inside the secretarial area, becoming alert for combat as they did. Then everybody shuddered in surprise when the main entry door pivoted closed behind the last soldier to walk in, locking itself in place solidly. As the startled adults looked alternatively between one door and the other, a static-y noise was heard throughout the office as the intercom activated. The voice of Lucas Wolenczak was heard by all, foretelling of much misery to come.
"Well, if it isn't the traitors I had been warned of." the sarcasm laden words dropped from the ceiling like pelting hail. "I thank you all for making my search so much shorter and cleaner. I shall reward you by making your deaths similarly short and clean. You may weep in despair. I am a generous lord, I will not gainsay your emoting in public at this point. However, please don't beg for mercy; it would be a waste of what little breathable air you have left, and quite useless as I have already sentenced you."
The people in the secretarial zone began to scream and throw themselves at the armored doors, trying to shoulder-bash them open while several militiamen were looking through their belts for something other than flash-bang grenades and rifle magazines that could destroy the locking devices. Within seconds of Lucas having spoken, a loud hissing noise began, forewarning of dire things. An orange gas began to drop from holes hidden around the molded decorative wood work at the tops of the walls and around the central inset lights. Quickly, a stench reminiscent of sickly-sweet rotten prune filled the room, making the people inside start to choke and vomit. Even the militiamen were not spared as they had put on their helmets but didn't have any gas masks or filtration devices to protect them from the toxic gas. It took forty seconds for the last person to fall down unconscious, the surgical-grade anesthetic having finally accomplished it task despite having been long passed its safety date.
And so weep the damned souls
(SeaQuest – season 1 theme)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 03:17am
Western America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 24:17am (midnight)
UEO central building
New Cape Quest, Florida, USA
"Bloody fucking Hells Everburning!" screamed the desperate Andrea Dre into her bed's pillow as the vidphone kept on ringing despite it being 3:00am after a 20 hour work day. Turning around to lie on her left side so she could gaze all her seething rage at the blinking, shrieking glass orb sitting atop her nightstand, she howled again when she saw the number of lines trying to connect with her all at the same time. "Override! Dre, Andrea, SG – Alpha – 001 – UEO credential green!" she screamed in a last ditch attempt to silence the evil device.
The glowing orb, gleefully it seemed, replied a trite "War measures act in progress. Override denied."
Andrea finally sat in the bed, if only so she could lay a hard resounding smack on the damnable glass orb so that it could finally be silent. Some bastard may have hacked the software, but bypassing the physical power-off button wouldn't be happening. Gods but her husband was lucky to be sleeping in their apartment rather than with her in the office's ready room.
"ALARM!" the glass orb screamed even louder, reaching into the 150 decibels from the placid 65 it had previously employed. "Incoming war-time conference call! Multiple diplomatic lines! ALARM!" it shrieked even more shrilly than before. And now the blasted contraption was also strobing a glaring red color that illuminated the entire bedroom and parts of the corridor and adjacent bathroom.
"AAAAARGHHH!" the secretary-general howled as she used both hands to grab the globe, yanking on it hard enough to pull out it's power cord and Internex cables out of their wall sockets. By a miracle of Heaven, the accursed thing finally became inert.
For all of four seconds.
That was how long it took for the emergency lithium battery to power the orb back to full strength while the small CPU routed the network signals from the wireless antennae built into he walls around the room rather than the physical cables it normally used.
And so it went "ALARM!" yet again, "War conference requested!"
Rabid beyond any capacity to verbalize or express in sounds civilized beings could intellectualize, Andrea knelt on her bed to rev up her right arm for three good spins before launching the glass orb out of the 20th floor window in a manner that would make a Major League Baseball pitcher proud. The communication device kept on flashing and screaming until it hit the asphalt, exploding into a thousand minuscule pieces that could never be rebuilt.
Exhaling a sigh of deep, satisfied contentment, the blond haired woman lay back in her bed, snuggling into her pillow as if it were a large fluffy teddy bear. She closed her eyes, took in a deep breath to calm her frayed nerves, and was about to release it when calamity struck.
"ALARM!" came the shrill sound, emanating from every device in the ready room, including the small digital clock on her nightstand, her personal cell phone, and even the damned canister lights built into the ceilings and around the bathroom mirror.
In the office portion of the suite, the holo-projector came alive, the virtual teenager's blue & silver form coalescing into being even as his own reedy voice added to the cacophony in progress. "Madam Dre!" he pronounced in a serious tone, "Your presence is required for a conference concerning the application of the War Measures Act and the North-American Mid-Line defense pact of 1940. Please make yourself available in the immediateness of the moment." the phantom child commanded imperiously from his bubble of whitish gases.
"Blast them all to Hell and back!" Andrea shouted in impotent rage as she stumbled out of bed, grabbing blindly for her dressing gown even as she tried to shove her feet into slippers for the time being. Power-walking to the holo-projector, she dragged her shaking hands through her hair in a vain attempt to tame the messy mop in lieu of grooming for the conference. As she approached the imager, she could see that all the incoming lines were being routed to her office's wall mounted Internex monitor so they could all be visible. She would be faced with Lucas Wolenczak, Matty Webber, Hetty Lange, Nathan Bridger, William Noyce, Justin Trudeau, and the commanding officers of the US National Guard in multiple states touching the WAC's estates and industrial buildings. A total of 17 individuals, most of which she had never met in her life as they were in jurisdictions other than hers.
"Attention! The incoming lines are connected. Beginning the conference. Please be aware that only those with an active level-5 comms system have been displayed on screen; all others are present by voice-over-IP only. Proceed." spoke the floating boy, again giving her orders as if he were one of the member confederations' leaders. She really needed to ask Lucas to reprogram that out of him.
The large viewer activated, automatically splitting into ten little images that showed multiple people who all seemed to be just as angry about having their night interrupted as Andrea did. In fact, Nathan Bridger looked barely awake in his reading chair in his cabin. Matty Webber and Hetty Lange were in their bedrooms, wearing long dressing gowns too. Admiral Noyce was bare chested, quite seriously slouching onto his desk, leaning on his arms while a thin line of drool came down the left side of his gaping mouth. The poor US national guard commanders who were visible weren't any better as they barely had their brown T-shirts on. Canada's prime minister was still dressed in his button shirt from the previous day, seeming to be completely mentally absent despite his physical presence on-screen. It quickly became apparent to all what the problem was: the angry, rabid teenager who was fully awake, fully dressed, and spitting venom at all comers with little discernment.
"All right, you bastard spawns of church-whores!" Lucas growled in barely suppressed rage in lieu of opening statement to the conference. "I have had enough of your criminalities! I tried to keep a civil manner, and I even tried to help people stay alive despite all the warfare and general chaos wracking the planet." The boy's face took on a nasty mien as he glared at his auditors. "But, for all of my GENEROUS attempts at keeping the world afloat, there are still FOOLS that plan and conspire to attack, damage and kill me to steal my property. For nothing but material gains, for a chance at grabbing a few measly pieces of metal, plastic or crystal to wave as trophies, SOME people have made the decision that killing off the last good chance America had to come out of the civil infighting was indeed the most profitable option." His glare worsening, the youth growled "I have a differing opinion on the matter, and the means to impose that view as the operating directive that men, beasts and machines will follow."
Taking a calming breath, Lucas expounded "If you wonder why I have called you all at this hour, you can direct your questions to PM Trudeau, but I warn you in advance! From his mouth, you will receive only the lies of a murderous thief. I have just survived an attempt on my life carried out by less than 30 Canadian soldiers who were using the official machines of their national army. Their is no doubt as to whom ordered this attack, nor what results were demanded from the men."
Andrea Dre passed both hands down her face, asking aloud "Justin? Is he right? Are you the one who ordered this attack? Or someone inside your government that didn't agree with the Mid-Line treaty?"
Trudeau replied blithely "It was commanded From On High, as a righteous purge of Infidels and Rebels against the true and pure Christian Order of our lands. I have conferred at the summit with several hundred of our country's most important church elders, Faith leaders and owners of industry; conservatives of lofty station and high status all of them. They concurred that our national sovereignty was being treasonously challenged by this BOY-CHILD and the hole in our flank that his estate represented. That spurious treaty was created in a scurrilous manner, crafted by charlatans then accepted by weakling knaves in both countries, whom were conned out of massive pieces of their nations' sovereign land & law. Neither country has any constitutional text that allows for handing over control of border lines, border crossings, military hardware or control of organized militias to anybody other than the national government, as duly elected by the People. And yet, somehow, this clearly illegal treaty was argued, written and signed by the leaders of the day. How and why they signed, that particular illegality has never been enlightened publicly, and wasn't recorded in the classified military archives either. It was a completely closed-doors, back-room sort of deal between cowards and an emulator of 1920's east-coast mafia dons."
The Canadian leader made a vague gesture with his right hand, as if he were waving off the subject or its consequences as being unworthy of conversation. "Given the conclusions of our loyal holy ecclesiastes on the matter, we decided that since the country is already in turmoil, we might as well commit to fully repairing the damage done back in 1940 by undoing this treaty. Since our much respected industrialists, staunchly conservative and convinced capitalists all of them, have assured the Canadian government that their manufactures will stay active and supply our armies during the fights, then we have a clear popular support for this action. I know that as member and leader of the Liberal Party it may seem weird that I value conservatives and religious people so much, but, in reality, all leaders of our nation have always known just how important to our prosperity they are, to the point that they must always be consulted before high level decisions are finalized."
The commander in charge of the Michigan national guard division, the man who had to deal with both Sault-Saint-Mary and Sarnia citadels as his immediate neighbors, shook his head in despair as he contemplated the true depth of the folly he was hearing. Gathering his courage, he asked out loud without waiting to be called up: "Excuse me sir, but are telling us that your decision was sponsored, or even commanded, by some priests and businessmen who had a meeting then wrote you a what? A blessing? A crusade charter? How does that work out in international law, anyways? And didn't you institute martial laws a few days back? Wasn't there a forbiddance against cults manifesting in public or influencing government across the country? Cuz I could swear that's what you said back then."
Sneering in contempt for the soldier who dared to ask such a probing (and problematic) yet completely valid question, Trudeau replied dryly: "I don't expect people who work in such profane conditions as the military to understand the complexities of society and Faith in the rarefied stratum of life where these decisions are made. The assembly of august, blessed leaders that I consulted have been in charge of industry, finance, law-making, politics and religious policy in Canada for 220 years. They represent the four greatest churches of Jesus our Lord, the God Christ our Redemptor, to have ever graced our nation with the eternal wisdom of Biblical Truth. These many leaders gave due consideration to the situation with great gravity and aplomb, making certain to give it far more reflection than this mere slip of a boy-child ever did. Also, I would have you remember that HE was the one who started this damnable state of affairs with a global hacking attack against all churches and faith servants. That, and many other problems with his character and person, have weighed in the Balance of Justice against letting him continue to hold any position or power in society and life. His death was ordered From On High, and will be carried out, regardless of the mewlings of weaklings, cowards and infidels."
The guard commander asked, clearly upset by the news, "Are you telling me that you passed martial law in your country just as a transparent way to steal and extort from this guy while also kicking out any church that didn't put votes and cash in your party's box come election time? Is that what all this damned back-room shite with priests and holy orders is all about? Again? Just like Trump and his stupid crusaders tried to pull on us, not even a week ago?"
Trudeau made an even uglier sneer, snarking out "As I said; you can't expect a career soldier to understand the complex system of laws and decisions at the level where I have to work, to keep the country alive and functional. Whatever similarity you see between D. J. Trump and myself are purely visual mirages, not actual facts and events. I make my decisions based on genuine wisdom delivered through valid, and valuable, counsel. He only listened to his immeasurable ego's delusions, or the perfidious lies of preachers from New Age sects that were not true christians of the Bible."
Lucas smirked widely upon hearing the Canadian PM hanging himself in public so easily, keeping silent as Andrea Dre began to shout insults, threats and promises of pain at Trudeau and any allies he had managed to garner in the last week. Admiral Noyce was finally awake enough to be exchanging hand signals with Nathan Bridger silently to plan the coming events. Webber and Lange were conspiring silently via hand signs as well, then their screens went dark as they disconnected from the utterly useless conference; they had a privileged link to the C-G and that was how the Game would be played out. The rest of the national guard commanders began to shout their own invectives at Trudeau, Dre or both, and given the level of rage going around, nobody knew how long that would last.
Trudeau and Dre were in the middle of exchanging some particularly 'intimate' insults when Noyce and Bridger disconnected without asking first. They were followed immediately by Lucas who had seen what he needed, and the link had been open long enough for Luxis to back-trace everybody's signal all the way to the console of origin, no matter how shielded or spoofed it was. The two brothers now knew where Justin Trudeau was hiding, and how to get at him for permanent neutralization. This was clearly demonstrated when the screen showing Trudeau's dimly lit emergency bunk room abruptly shifted to a noisy interference of white & black lines with the words 'signal lost' written in red in the middle. After that, the rest of the call was disconnected without any of the remaining participants doing anything as it was the network that did everything automatically under the guidance of Luxis.
{ SQ } - { The Fall of False Pride } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 03:28am
In a bleak, cold, snowy December night, four beams of coruscating redness dropped from the cloudy skies, punching through buildings, hillside, bedrock and human made concrete to excavate the Wold War II bunkers hidden under the parliament of Canada. The historical edifice was practically vaporized by several terawatts of raw photonic power and the frozen under-layers of the ground exploded as they heated catastrophically, never letting enough time for dilation or expansion to occur safely. Water and multiple varieties of minerals, stones and crystals were atomized into a gas of free-floating particles hot enough to be considered plasma. The EMP and radiations discharging from the cloud certainly lent credence to this evaluation.
Where once stood the proud natural hill, there was now nothing but a smoldering crater some 1,000 yards wide by almost 300 yards deep, shaped like a wok. The death toll would rise to nearly 8,000 humans, mostly the soldiers, RCMP and various bureaucrats that were needed to keep the antiquated bunkers working through the crisis. The only good news was that their families had been lodged outside the limited facilities, thusly giving them an unplanned chance at survival. How they would accomplish that without a central government or their primary support, nobody could tell.
An update nobody wanted to hear
(NCIS - LA – theme)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 10:11am
Western America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 07:11am
NCIS portuary enclave
Los Angeles, California, USA
Hetty Lange sat primly at the head of the table, despite being bone-tired and already well passed ready to give up on this damned war, civil, religious, racial, planetary, all of the above. In testament to how weary she truly was, she had taken off her suit jacket to drape it over the back of her chair, leaving her in only the stylish (and expensive) pear-colored designer blouse which had the sleeves rolled up to the elbows. Despite the fact she was trying to concentrate on the laptop CPU sitting on the table before her, her face and rolled sleeves gave the gathering teammates an impression that she was in the middle of wet-works, with the blood & guts flying around.
Exchanging a glance, all the field agents and tech support silently agreed to not bother her from her screen until she decided by herself that she was ready. The veteran crime fighters were of the opinion that there was enough crime, terrorism and depravity in the streets around them right now that risking life & limbs on their boss' anger wasn't a good move. It was a clear case of "The worst poisons come in the smallest, daintiest vials" and all that rot.
Sighing in deep frustration, Hetty frowned nastily at the monitor, making several of her people wonder if they shouldn't find something useful to do elsewhere before she noticed they were all sitting, waiting idly for her attention. Taking her glasses off her face, the elder woman asked "Miss Jones, if you could be so kind as to engage the conference monitor on the wall, please. And mister Beale, a refresh of my tea would be greatly appreciated. The idiots were active last night, and I am afraid that the lack of sleep is making me somewhat un-energetic this morning. Thank you."
She leaned back into her chair, closing her eyes while massaging the bridge of her nose to alleviate the onset of a tiredness-induced headache that wanted to lodge right behind her eye sockets. The smell of freshly poured tea hit her nostrils, immediately acting as a balm on her aching mind. Opening her eyes, she left the glasses hanging around her neck from their lanyard as she concentrated on grabbing the porcelain tea cup, greedily gulping half of the piping hot brew in one go. Resting back in the chair anew, she held the warm cup to her chest, absorbing the healing warmth into her old, worn heart.
Nell Jones had performed competently as usual; the main conference monitor was alight and set, as were the individual laptop CPU's emplaced at each seat around the table. This was the setup Shay Mosley had built, but analysis by Hetty and her team had shown it to be both valuable for the machines themselves and capable for the jobs needed. It would bother them for a few weeks, working with this machines and furniture, but, eventually, the emotional stench of treason they associated with Mosley and her sect would dissipate, leaving them with nothing but bland, neutral work tools just as they had in the Spanish House or the Boat Shed.
"It is my sad duty, Hetty began as she pointed with her tea cup at the large wall-mounted screen, "To confirm to you the destruction of Ottawa and the Canadian federal government, last night around 03:30am, by way of the Basilisk lasers mounted on the Copernicus orbital stations. It was confirmed during an emergency conference call around midnight, on our clocks in LA, that the prime minister of Canada had attempted to have the Constable – Governor of the North-American Mid-Line assassinated or taken hostage by Canada's official military forces. A mission group of 30+ men and some 7 war machines were involved in the attack, and destroyed by WAC's militiamen. The Canadian troops suffered over 95% casualties, whilst WAC losses were declared 'classified' due to wartime protocols. Given that PM Trudeau himself confirmed the attack during the vid-meet, the follow-up from doctor Wolenczak is, I believe, what could be deemed 'natural consequences' in the situation."
Grisha Callen snorted inelegantly, snarking aloud "If some street gang of dope pushers sent 30 guys at my house to kill me, I'd give back as hard too. Come to think of it, I did do just that a few weeks back, with a batch of sicarios from the Soza cartel that thought NCIS was easy prey."
Kensi Blye grunted her assent "Yeah, gang-banger tweens with knives bigger than their dicks coming at a team of three federal agents carrying pistols and flack jackets? That wan'nt gonna go down well for them, but they clearly didn't see it that way. Idiots."
Marty Deeks asked softly "Can we please focus on the blond haired elephant sitting on the table, please, people? Cuz in case you didn't realize it, the death of Canada's government means that now Lucas Wolenczak is the highest federal-level constituent authority on BOTH sides of the border,and there's nobody above him to run an appeals process through anymore."
Sam Hanna frowned interrogatively as he inquired "And that changes our lives how?" Looking at Hetty, he pointed out "We've already been through this argument a couple days ago. With DC dumped into the sea, he's the top chair above the US military, the state legislatures and all law enforcement. What's the nuking of Ottawa gonna change for us?"
Deeks groaned wearily as he waved his hands around expansively, clearly upset and worried by the turn of events. "Well, first of all, it proves like I said; he won't return control of the space stations to the UEO or anybody while he's alive. That means EVERYBODY on the mud ball is screwed. Secondly, as long as Canada's government existed, he was partially bound to the will & judgment of forces external to just his personal mind. Now, he's alone on top of the pyramid and he's not in a sharing mood cuz he's been shown clearly that everybody saying they're his friends are actually out to kill or extort him."
"And that means that he'll be more prone to acting in a tyrannical manner, possibly begin to exhibit paranoid symptoms through his decisions and behavior." Eric Beale completed after Deeks.
Nell Jones nodded sagely, adding "And the planet has lost Canada as a stabilizing influence. As long as the northern giant was kind, considerate, and alive to trade resources and products with its neighbors, they could have lessened the Fall of America and, maybe, hastened the recovery as well. Now, we have bloodshed on both sides, plus popular revolutions happening in all the countries of the south-American sub-continent, including the Antilles and hundreds of islands in the Yucatan region. The Gulf of Mexico is ablaze, and there is a great chance that the unrest, fueled by drug cartels and rebel factions cut out of the national militaries that collapsed, will crawl up north to us, if it isn't stopped where it is."
Callen quipped sarcastically "Such a small thing, stopping global unrest and rebellion. I'm sure we can fit that in for Saturday morning, after brunch."
Anna Kolcheck snorted in her coffee, trying to not let it back-up through her nose as she waved a mock-menacing fist at her friend. After finally clearing her airways, the young woman suggested "Why not let Wolenczak handle the riots? He wants to be the Big Boss? Let him do the job it entails."
Hetty replied in a cold voice "Because we would like to still have a livable planet with a modicum of human life left, when this bloody multi-front war is done. Wolenczak is clearly not bothered by such fine details of politics, military strategy and wartime ethics."
"Aaahhh!" Deeks snarked good & hard, "Avoiding genocide. That's always a good reason to not ask somebody to handle a problem for you."
Anna came back at it though: "Yes, and I agree. But,what then? How do we stop the civil unrest and gang cartel wars from climbing north to our lands? Especially since we already have our own wars of race, religion and politics to survive." Then she shivered badly, wrapping her arms around herself. "And winter. Let's not forget this is all happening in winter. Damn, couldn't they have chosen a different season to wage war? What happened to fighting in spring or summer then harboring home until the snows had melted? Idiot peasants, the lot of them!"
A small smattering of snorts and giggles answered her grumpy attitude, which had the young female agent glaring malevolently at all & sundry for their amusement at her expenses. However comical her words, the situation itself was far from funny. The automated weather stations on the ground and similar satellites in orbit kept on broadcasting through the Internex the state of weather across the planet, and things were worsening. The heat blast from Washington's explosion had created an unusual elevation of temperatures all over north-America's eastern seaboard and part of the Atlantic ocean, but that was already dropping down back to seasonal norms. The ongoing winter snow storms and wind gusts sweeping across the continent from west to east and from south to north seemed to have been worsened by the radically changed topography of the land mass, especially the disappearance of many mountain ranges and soft water bodies that surrounded DC until a week ago.
Anna was right about the winter. With the continent reshaped through digging a wide gash in the side of it, the Polar Vortex and other wind patterns had changed. Instead of keeping the cool air up north then across the Atlantic to reach Europe, the winds had shifted southwards to cover most of the central and southern USA landmass before a good portion wasted itself through the new Great Eastern Split and the no-man's land of glassified islands. Only about half of the cold, snow bearing winds made it back up north to recover the old patterns across the Canadian Maritimes then the Atlantic and Europe.
Hetty rubbed her forehead tiredly as she tried to order her thoughts. For some strange reason, they wouldn't take shape. As she looked at the faces of her team arrayed around the table, her entire visual spectrum suddenly turned white with vaporous blueish wisps streaming horizontally across, from left to right, and all sense of touch disappeared. All touch, smell and taste stopped registering in her mind, but in a weird way that she could still perceive and intellectualize their lack, despite the total absence of input.
Then her vision got weird again, as she saw several small square images, similar to pixelized badly scanned photographs, floating randomly around her field of sight. The images were too small, and from too far a perspective, for her to see any details beyond the fact she was certain it was a modern hospital room. Suddenly, a harsh tonal pulse resounded through her mind, which she recognized as the emergency page that called a Code Blue in progress. Why would her mind play that sequence?
Before Hetty Lange could ask herself further questions, the entire world dissolved around her, leaving such absolute nothingness that it could not even qualify as a void. Then she herself disappeared also.
An update nobody wanted to hear, bis
(MacGyver – 1985 opening theme)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 10:14am
Western America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 07:14am
Mountain-side enclave
Los Angeles, California, USA
Angus MacGyver was calmly walking out of the bathroom, still wet from the shower, wearing only a large fluffy towel wrapped around his middle when he stopped mid-stride. Blinking a few times, he decided to just roll with the flow and accept that this would in fact be one of 'those' mornings that nothing could change for better.
Sighing as he girded his patience, the blond haired young male accepted gratefully the porcelain mug of steaming hot coffee, fixed just to his taste, immediately taking the first slow gulp that set the entire universe back to rights. Aaaah, java! If everything else could be so good or simple in life...
Smirking at her best agent's open expression of bliss, Director Webber sipped from her own beverage, content to stay silent while the younger man went about dressing and grooming for the day. She quite kindly looked out of the bedroom's sliding doors that led to a private balcony while he put on the essentials then gazed at him as he sat in the matching sofa to put on his socks and grab a bite of the cold vanilla glazed brioche she had brought for him. Still bare-chested, Angus was more interested by the food than modesty, especially since when you lived in California, you got used to gymwear, beachwear and thin or short tropical clothing 10 months a year. The rest of the population wouldn't give you any choice as they would all dress like that anyways, so you accepted or moved out.
After munching through half his pasty, he nursed his coffee mug with both hands, letting his wet hair to air dry on its own while the rising sun was warming up his tanned skin in a pleasant manner. Not in any hurry to delve into the mess the planet had become, he also glanced out the glass doors, observing the morning activities of the neighboring houses. When Mathilda put down her empty cup, he turned his attention to her, taking a sip of warm courage as he let her initiate the impromptu meeting.
Matty gave her colleague a genuine smile, saying easily "I normally don't take liberties with my employees like this morning, but I was up most of the night to fix another problem that occurred. So, after a two hour catnap, I decided to walk around to clear my mind and saw that the cantina two streets over had decided to opt for a 24 hour schedule. I might be miserable, but maybe some solid food could cure that, and then I thought to share with a friend, since I was coming over anyways."
Responding to her smile with the frank dimpled smile that was practically his default facial expression, Angus nodded in thanks as he raised his mug in salute, using the gesture to sip some before settling down to hear her out. Giving her a bratty wink, he crossed his legs at the ankles, then making deliberate faux-provocateur gestures to adjust his towel a bit better around his legs, much to the amusement of the older woman.
Shaking her head to clear away the grin that wanted to emerge against her will, Matty joined her hands atop her lap as she chose her words carefully. "We have experienced a catastrophic deterioration of the situation during the night. The Canadian government thought it was a good idea to try to extricate Lucas Wolenczak from his position of Constable – Governor, then forcibly seize the heritage left to him by his family. It was a rather blatant attempt at theft, extortion, a proof of institutional corruption, and all of it was done under the thin blanket of having received permission from a group of religious laymen, barons of industry, who backed the idea. Mostly because the young doctor is in fact so very young, and jewish although that one was never admitted. The initial impetus came from the prime minister, Justin Trudeau himself for reasons unknown, and was acted upon by Canada's Icepack Rangers at Sault-Saint-Mary riverine citadel."
MacGyver closed his green eyes in misery, wondering when exactly would human stupidity stop. "How big of a hole is there? And how in the bloody Hells could anybody forget that the kid controls the weaponized satellites in orbit? Shouldn't that, on its own value, have stopped this idiocy from happening? Don't their soldiers have functional heads on their shoulders?"
Mathilda shrugged, inelegantly but to the point, as she replied "Ottawa's gone, taking nearly 1 million people; the entire Canadian federal government was atomized inside of five seconds along with the municipal agglomeration. In the same time frame as the weapons were shooting, network wide public warnings were blaring that since ALL countries of the North-American Confederation are now defunct or outlaw, the CG at SSM was assuming all governing, legislative, judicial and military functions until the countries could be rebuilt. No estimate given as to how long that will take."
"Shit!" exclaimed the younger agent as he palmed his face with his free hand. Gulping down the rest of his coffee in one long swallow, he set the mug on the small round table between them, assuming a thoughtful position as he tried to process what it all meant for them. "Am I still going over to SSM with the NCIS reps? Are we still even operational anymore? I mean, anybody can see that we'd need to keep working together to survive this – apocalypse? – and the only way to do that is by working in communities. But, as an agency, or as a branch of the US government, do we still matter? Do we still exist at all or are we just another bunch of unlucky mercs & civvies put in the same bag?"
Fiddling with her fingernails, Matty considered the questions seriously, wanting to give the man, a good friend just like his father had been, an honest answer as he deserved. She never got the chance.
Overcome by some episode of – something? – Matty palmed her forehead tiredly with both hands as she tried to order her chaotic thoughts. For some strange reason, they wouldn't take shape. As she looked at the face of her friend, her entire visual spectrum suddenly turned white with vaporous blueish wisps streaming horizontally across, from left to right, and all sense of touch disappeared. All touch, smell and taste stopped registering in her mind, but in a weird way that she could still perceive and intellectualize their lack, despite the total absence of input.
Then her vision got weird again, as she saw several small square images, similar to pixelized badly scanned photographs, floating randomly around her field of sight. The images were too small, and from too far a perspective, for her to see any details beyond the fact she was certain it was a modern hospital room. Suddenly, a harsh tonal pulse resounded through her mind, which she recognized as the emergency page that called a Code Blue in progress. Why would her mind play that sequence?
Before Mathilda Webber could ask Angus to call for medical help, her entire world dissolved around her, leaving such absolute nothingness that it could not even qualify as a void. Then she felt herself disappear from this emptiness also.
Another worthless vid-meet
(SeaQuest – season 1 theme)
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 11:30am
Western America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 08:30am
UEO flagship SeaQuest
Great Eastern Split, USA
Commander Jonathan Ford was reading through the night shift's report with a deep frown on his face as he passed over the events that lead to the destruction of Ottawa. Raising his brown eyes over the PADD to glance at the captain, he asked "Have you reached the part about the beavers yet?" The younger officer didn't really know the CO that well, so he couldn't tell if he had or what emotional impact it had on him. Personally, Ford had neither family nor friends in the area, so he wasn't bothered much. Beyond the basic fact another genocide had occurred, which was truly horrible, is what he meant.
"Yes, I have." Bridger replied in a neutral, detached tone. Looking over his own PADD to his subordinate, the veteran sailor shrugged, hiding not so well just how affected by the news he was. "I didn't have anybody in Ottawa. The few people from Canada that I knew date back from my time in active service for the US Navy, over 30 years ago. It was back when my design team was going around the parliaments of NATO members to secure financing for the SeaQuest's construction. Man, what a mess of politics, graft, favors, corruption and ineptitude that had all been..."
Ford made a safely noncommittal "Hmmm" in response, not wanting to touch that particular period of history with a twelve foot pole. Dealing with Washington DC was bad enough, but dealing with all the capitals of thirty countries over a bloody white elephant project that benefited almost nobody... No, he didn't need to start his shift with something like that history lesson. He would honestly take a math-heavy engineering class, or even another (shiver of dread) cultural sensitivity training day, over talking about old politics.
Smirking amusedly at his officer's grimace of disinterest, Nathan Bridger declared sotto voce, like a cloaked torpedo coming in for the kill, "At least the young doctor Wolenczak did us a favor. He burned off the biggest hot spots of useless politicking, mindless activism, corruption of office, peddling of authority, diversion of Justice, and religious extremism that were poisoning our world." Bridger took a slow gulp of tepid coffee, pointing at his junior with the metal cup, saying "For that alone we should be grateful to him, in the end of things. Plus, it will make our budget & supply planning easier, too."
Looking at his senior, Ford wondered if the man was insane, so depressed from the start that he never cared, or simply became resigned to the mess as it was because nobody could change anything. Well, no, that wasn't true. 'Somebody' could change things and did so quite often, but the trauma induced in the Earth and surviving populations by the changes made anybody still 'normal' wonder if it was worth anything.
"I'm not insane, drunk or in a fugue state, commander Ford." the captain said, an undercurrent of mild amusement coloring his voice. "I simply admit that in the context of the worse scenario ever planned by our nations, our new Constable – Governor has managed to find ways to establish some guiding light to show us the way through the tornado clouds. Yes, we'll get dinged by flying debris and offal along the way, but we have a chance at survival, and eventual return to prosperity, that we didn't have without his intervention in the processes at play. It may not be clean, pleasant or even desirable, but it's what's working. Therefore, unless you have an alternative hidden in your foot locker, I suggest we spend less time on spurious moral judgments of his person & character due to his youth, and instead figure out how to interact with him without getting fried like Ottawa did."
Blinking a few times, the black skinned male could only finish his line of thought at the same point as his captain. They had no alternatives, and nobody had either the resources or personnel to pull off a fraction of the jobs being handled presently by Wise H&T or Wolenbahn. Their choices were between accepting this new, supposedly temporary, government system until the rebuilding was done, or abandoning everything to become hermit survivalists lost on small, isolated islands of the Pacific.
Not much of a choice, was it?
"Fine. You have several points, captain Bridger. I can see that." the commander grumbled as he stood up from his chair to go for the bridge to begin his shift. "But I can see plenty of ways this will blow up in our faces badly, and not too far away in the future. Super genius or not, teenagers are not angels of patience, and this one has been brought to the brink too many times already. His kettle's on hard boil already, and it's only a question of time before some stupid idjiot redneck finds a way to plug his spout. Then he'll build up a head o' steam and the blast will shred everything in sight. Mark my words."
The older mariner drained his cup, getting up for his own shift on the bridge as well, as he answered blithely the dire predictions of his underling. "What you say is true, commander. That's why it's up to level-headed, experienced, and specifically honest, people like 'US' to give this young man the reliable information needed to elaborate community rebuilding plans in a civilized way. But, to keep him calm and civil, we need to actively protect him from crazies or fanatics so that he doesn't feel justified in cremating the rest of the mudball, as he proved capable already. If we do our jobs well enough, he won't go ballistic. Is that game plan clear for you?
Nodding once at what he easily recognized as a final order from above, the ship's second highest officer in service responded "Crystal clear, sir. We serve, support and protect, as always. I just don't think any of us ever thought we'd be in a situation where America was back under the rule of what is essentially a colonial governor or some petty provincial aristocrat."
Smirking openly, Nathan replied glibly "Be careful when you assign pejorative implications to the word 'provincial' my friend. The Canadians have split their country in 'provinces' rather than 'states' like the USA, and they wouldn't take kindly to being spoken of as backwards or less civilized." Giving the younger man a playful wink, the captain quipped "They might even give you a cold shoulder for it."
Groaning in dismay, Ford shook his head in despair as he exited the ward room, wondering how bad the day was going to get, if they were already suffering from 'cold' jokes about their northern neighbor before the shift bell had even rung. "God help us all, we need it!" thought the officer as he tried to power-walk out of the area before the captain decided to order him to escort him to the bridge. Hopefully, the older male needed a few things in his cabin before following, so Jonathan could possibly have a few minutes to cool down before facing the organized mess that was the bridge.
{ SQ } - { And what now? } - { SQ }
Eastern America; Thursday 24th of December, 2020; 12:00am (noon)
Jonathan entered the bridge by the left clam doors, having walked all the way from the ward room in an effort to clear his head. It was almost a success when the holo-imager next to his station glowed brighter, suddenly showing the upper bust of the virtual young teenager that served as assistant when they had technical difficulties. For some weird reason, the floating blueish child was actually looking around the room but not paying attention to any specific person or event. Could the AI be so advanced as to experience curiosity, or boredom?
Those were NOT the types of questions that Jonathan D. Ford wanted to contemplate right in the middle of a planetary societal collapse, thank you so very much. Couldn't this damned day get any simpler? Please?
"Why are you active?" the officer asked abruptly of the image as it ended its panoramic tour of the room towards his standing form. The illusionary boy glanced at Ford, unblinking, for several seconds before answering blandly "I'm just looking around to make sure you haven't sunk the ship, or tried to shoot at allies, while our backs were turned. Given the mess humanity has become, we expect you'll take on passengers or cargo, even questionable stuff, to trade for necessities, money, or obtain passage rights in certain difficult areas. Such is the situation at hand. But losing the ship or trying to kill off the few allies we have left are not permissible." The ghostly child blithely finished: "Therefore, we watch you. Closely. Very closely, and very often."
Pursing his lips to keep himself from verbally blasting the impudent piece of software back to its proper place in the chain of command, Jonathan Ford was saved from making a fatal error when the right side clam doors opened to admit the captain. The older man was accompanied by his old friend, senior lieutenant Manilow 'Gator' Crocker, the ship's chief of security & weaponry. The rotund sailor was explaining something to the captain when the speakers around the bridge emitted a tonal pulse to obtain the attention of all crew.
"Attention, command crew of SeaQuest! Incoming line from Sault-Sainte-Marie citadel. The CG is online for the captain. Over." explained the holographic child, now present on all the gaseous emitters around the vast room. He seemed more present also, as if the machines were putting out more gas to grant him more density, making him almost palpable despite being blue-silver anyways.
"Comms! Put it on the main screen. I'm sure the debris survey & plotting can be handled in the background for a few minutes. I doubt the CG will hold us for any longer." Gesturing to Ford as he walked besides him, Bridger softly ordered "By my side, commander. Let's give a united front, or else the new boss could decide he needs to start fixing us. We ain't broke or out of tune, so git."
Once the two officers were standing in the middle of the deck, just fore of the massive command dais, the sailor at comms toggled in the external line. The poor junior officer had the scare of his life when he saw the IP stats change from private/corporate (low) to governmental (diplo/high) right in front of his eyes, without any efforts on his part. Extending an arm, he yanked the uniform sleeve of his colleague to start them looking into the problem before deciding if the captain needed to be told. It didn't take more than two minutes into the public, live communication for the trio of comms analysts to realize why the system had changed without their agreement. It had been pushed from the very top.
The main viewscreen split in two images, one having the expected adolescent doctor and the other bearing the presence of Andrea Dre, secretary general of what remained of the UEO. Which, at this point of history, wasn't much anymore since most had betrayed, deserted or gotten killed. Before she could say anything, the rectangular frame around her shrunk and re-sized to allow for a third image to join them, this one being admiral Noyce, who didn't look at all pleased.
"Captain Bridger, admiral Noyce, and the traitorous bitchess Dre." the teenager sneered the woman's name with vitriol dripping off the words. "As we are all present, I will emit your orders. As of the fall of the Canadian government during last night's botched attempt on my life, I have assumed all command functions for the joined military forces of the North-American Confederation, including Canada, the USA, Mexico and Israel. Thusly, a change in your standing convoy orders and active survival protocols is necessary."
Prioritizing internal security over external safety, Lucas Wolenczak began issuing a slew of tersely worded, sometimes harsh orders. His demeanor and tone showed clearly who was in charge, and the first order declared what the consequence of challenging that would be.
"Admiral Noyce. As your last act before the dis-assembly of the UEO structures, you will arrest the traitor Andrea Dre on charges of Treason, Sedition, Espionage, Sabotage, Peddling of Authority, Selling of State Secrets, and planning the execution of all heads of the Confederations to usurp penultimate control of the UEO following the artificially created planetary panic. You will hold her for transport by way of the DXS jet plane that will be coming to you in two days. She will be arraigned and judged under standing NCIS laws & protocols in Los Angeles. The details for everything about the process will be coming through Henrietta Lange who is the new permanent director of that agency. Madam Dre will be facing the death penalty, via public hanging on the courthouse steps, if found guilty."
Choking silence followed the adolescent's pronouncement of doom.
William Noyce asked for clarifications to his orders, because they were necessary and because he wanted to give the ship's crew time to process what they were hearing, lest they say or do something stupid in front of witnesses that forgave nothing from anybody.
"My apologies, Constable – Governor Wolenczak, but aren't you the constituting authority over the entire territory? And weren't you granted executive, legislative, judicial and military powers as per the old contract? Why then have NCIS handle anything? Also, did I hear correctly that you want the UEO to be dismantled? I do trust you'll tell me how and when, to have some idea what you expect."
Grumbling not so subtly about self-important old gray-heads and porcine sailors that should know better than to interrupt the work-flow of geniuses, Lucas replied tartly. "Yes, I have all those authorities and powers, that is a proven fact. NO, I don't know what my ancestor did to bamboozle the two governments of the day into signing that anti-constitutional aberration of a treaty. And, in case you failed to notice, I alone cannot manage four entire countries, let alone the bloody planet, even if the wars weren't happening. So, I'm happily taking advantage of the existent structures and personnel still at their postings to get things done."
Taking a breath, the teenager explained in a calmer tone; "As for the UEO, it was a badly conceived idea created only to con people into thinking that the 'Veto' system of the old UN charter had been ripped out and replaced by true will of the population basins. In fact, by having the seats of Assembly held by Confederation rather than Nations, the effect was the same since the big, rich colonial powers could simply silence dissenters inside their Confederation rather than face them openly. What the Trumpists did in 2017 when they destroyed the UN was nothing but legalese sleight-of-hands under a cloud of political sophistry. Nothing really changed, except a few new countries got nuclear or biological weapons as gifts for joining one Confederation over another."
Waving his left hand idly, the boy asked "Tell me, admiral, what has the UEO to offer the world at present? Which members still have any semblance of societal functionality or industrial capacity? None but those under my direct purview, is your answer." The blue-eyed boy shrugged. "What can I do about this? Not much, at present. All the Confederations are collapsing and dis-assembling due to internal stresses, mismanagement and abuses of authority by the Confederate Executive Cabinet. Even in the NAC, the oversized weight of the USA and its religiously welded-on partner, Israel, didn't make for happy family dinners. Besides a religious drive, nothing geographical or societal made sense in that particular Confederate montage. All the others at least had physical borders, shared climatic zones or access to common rivers and sea shores. No. The UEO was a creature born criminally, falsely, in zealous haste to replace something that was unwieldy and ailing, but not deathly so. With some genuine willpower, effort and a few thousand man-hours, the charter could have been revised and voted anew, without national vetoes, or this arrogantly dominant crust of 'superior' members with permanent seats on all the councils and committees. The fundamental fact is that America, helped by the Europeans and Israel, wanted to hijack control of the planet's law-making and military systems, so creating a new cat's paw was necessary. For all the Trumpists' complaints of opacity and lack of accountability, the old UN was actually far too transparent and reported to too many masters for their usurpation to work."
Noyce nodded once, typing rapidly on his keyboard below the camera's field of sight, as he received the explanations and details required to carry out the jobs without worsening the mess. As he finished writing a few urgent words, the bald veteran sailor said, almost absentmindedly, "Oh, Andrea! Don't worry about the verdict. Those recordings about your pal Malcolm Devries and the suboceanic hotel complex will be admitted into evidence, along with your orders to Section-7 to clean up your treasonous mess. So if you have any ideas about playing the poor victim of political persecution because of your 'conservative' views and decisions, don't. Just don't. You wasted our time, resources and efforts enough as it is."
As Noyce finished his off-handed speech, Andrea Dre's office door was busted down by a squad of armored soldiers who literally jumped on her to bind her hands, frisk her entire body, then stand her up in front of the monitor as a young asian woman wearing an all-black uniform entered the wrecked room to stand at attention before the camera. Not receiving further instructions from either of the two heavies on the screen, she gestured shortly to the soldiers to drag their burden out of the room, closing the terminal before she left as well.
If anybody in the SeaQuest's bridge had any doubts as to who was commanding them, those doubts were now being silently dropped in the trashcan. Without protests or questions.
Addressing the ship's controller, Lucas Wolenczak declared "Your convoy is wasting its time and resources on the current mission, captain Bridger. Everything east of the Great Split is vitrified or swept barren by radiation and fallout. You will inform the convoy's admiral about the change of course and head back down to Florida, to assume defensive perimeter stations around New Cape Quest. Make certain that he calls me within the following hour. If he doesn't, I'll have to consider that he either lost control of his ship, or turned traitor. I'm being very generous and tolerant as I am." the young man threatened to the great surprise of everyone in the room. Even Bill Noyce was frowning in surprise.
"Excuse me, doctor Wolenczak," asked Nathan in careful words, "But why are you saying this? We have had no signs or symptoms from the rest of the convoy that anything was amiss, or that they were thinking of going AWOL."
Snarling in anger, the genial adolescent countered "Then why are none of them present for the vid-meet, despite having been warned of it as of 11:00am on your clocks? Is this just plain ageist snobbery or yet another slight because I'm jewish?" the boy growled, anger visible despite his iron self-control.
Nathan blinked twice then turned to the comms team at the back. "I was never warned about any requested or planned vid-meet at noon! Was anybody aware?" he barked aloud, angry as well, and even maybe a bit scared. This kid solved problems by disintegrating them with lasers. Making him angry enough to roast the boat wasn't on the agenda for the day, not if the captain could help it.
All three comms techs shook their heads negatively in unison.
The captain had no choice but to report the situation to his new direct superior. "It seems that the message about the schedule never reached us, sir. We'll look into it immediately, and report ASAP when we find the cause of the disconnection."
Nathan blinked. Then blinked again.
Silence.
Utter, penultimate silence.
As in, he just went deaf as if he were born without ears.
He could not even feel the vibrations from the ship's movements through the sea.
Looking around the room, he saw that everything was weirdly off-color. For some strange reason, the crewmen and furnishings wouldn't keep their shape, becoming instead blurry blobs of undistinguished colors. As he looked at the face of his subordinate, his entire visual spectrum suddenly turned white with vaporous blueish wisps streaming horizontally across, from left to right, and all sense of touch disappeared. All touch, smell and taste stopped registering in his mind, but in a weird way that he could still perceive and intellectualize their lack, despite the total absence of input.
Then, Nathan's vision got weird again, as he saw several small square images, similar to pixelized badly scanned photographs, floating randomly around her field of sight. The images were too small, and from too far a perspective, for him to see any details beyond the fact he was certain it was a modern hospital room, but not inside the ship as the walls were painted gyprock sheets, not titanium alloy paneling. Suddenly, a harsh tonal pulse resounded across his mind, which he recognized as the emergency page that called a Code Blue in progress. Why would his mind play that sequence?
Before Captain Bridger could ask commander Ford to call him some medical help, the entire world dissolved around him, leaving such absolute nothingness that it could not even qualify as a void. Then he felt himself disappear from this emptiness also.
Not a happy birthday to me
(Police sirens & ambulance air horns)
Eastern America; Thursday 27th of December, 2018; 15:09pm
Western America; Thursday 27th of December, 2018; 12:09am (noon)
Wolenbahn Electronics Factory
Stanford University, California, USA
Lucas Wolenczak came back to consciousness in a spastic state, panicking and disoriented for a few seconds as his senses synchronized with reality. From the ultra-sharp definition of what had been inside his neural pathways, his own organic eyes were a rather nasty trade-down, and his ears were worse.
Everything seemed slightly blurry, in the mid-range, becoming focused only close-in or farther out than 50 feet. Despite blinking repeatedly, all he saw still had some weird silvery-blue film around it, like the aura of a ghost in movies or spectral object in video games. And the strange energetic chirping in his ears just wouldn't go away...
"Pulse is stabilizing!" a strange voice said next to him. A foreign hand covered in blue latex gloves gently peeled further open his eyes one at a time as a penlight was shined into the pupils and maneuvered to inspect around the sclera for damages or debris. "His eyes seem okay, but those damned contacts look fused or glued to the surface. I really don't think we're equipped to take those out." the voice said, not really addressing any person in particular.
"Not unless you know how to use the machinery in this lab, we don't." a different voice replied. "Maybe the kid himself can guide us when his head's screwed on straight." the female added with clear sarcasm, heedless of the mess.
Lucas slowly blinked his eyes, becoming more awake and aware of the situation as it unfolded around him. He would have asked for details, but the emergency aeration tube they had tracheotomized in his neck was being bothersome about it. At least it meant he was avoiding most of the awful smell of roasting human flesh that was coming from somewhere on his far left.
Wiggling a bit, he wasn't the least bit surprised to find himself securely attached at ankles, hips, shoulders and head to a full-boy backboard for med-evac. Punching the tube through his throat for ventilation would have been downright stupid if he were still mobile as most patients panic when they wake up with a set-up like this. As it was, the teenager, who had recently turned 14 just three days ago, settled himself comfortable on his spine and thin, meatless muscle masses to wait out whatever was going on around him.
Moving his eyes a bit showed him he was inside the prototyping chamber of his electronics company in the Stanford University campus. Because he worked with many deleterious chemicals and had already been injured to his head a few times, Lucas had taken the habit of decorating his buildings and work spaces with large medallions that showed clearly the name of the organization, city, edifice, floor and room usage for easy locating himself if he got his head banged again.
Which, you know, seemed to have happened again.
And, if his memory was recovering correctly, that bastard Lawrence was the cause, again.
Will wonders never cease? (very heavy sarcasm).
Grunting as loud as his badly abused lungs allowed, the child tried to get the attention of the paramedics that surrounded his gurney on... What was he placed on, anyways? It was higher than the floor but lower and flater than the regular wheeled gurneys used by ambulances around America. Blinking a few more times, Lucas was able to see for himself that he was lying on the hydraulic table of the room's automated assembly gantry, right under the many robotic arms that built his prototypes for him once he transferred the designs to the CNC server.
Ah, fuck! He remembered now!
Lawrence had exploited the Christmas holidays to attack Lucas when he would have almost nobody around his person to defend him as the building would be empty passed noon when everybody hit the road to return to their families.
Lucas had temporarily moved into his private office suite inside the large manufacturing edifice after being attacked by the juvenile thugs and their twink rapist, during the pre-vacation party at the Young Prodigies' Program brownstone. He would have been alone with just a pair of lonely security guards doing rounds once an hour, if only to pass their badges on the electronic clocks that kept track of human activity around the massive concrete building. Lucas had asked Wise H&T to send him a squad of security guards for direct protection until he could hire locally, but they were scheduled to arrive only tomorrow evening, if the weather permitted. As things were, the teenager had suffered from a bout of 'positive planning fallacy' in which he had planned only for the good & orderly outcome of his scheme, not for whatever mishaps or sabotage could occur.
And so, dear old dad (much, much venomous distaste expressed) had used the blind angle.
Quite literally, as he'd appeared out of nowhere to whack Lucas in the head from behind before the boy's own senses or the room's fail-safe features could warn him of an illegal intruder. As it was, the teenager was lucky to have been wearing a prototype for a soft helmet that includes VR goggles, breathing mask and audio boosting/filtering apparatus or else his head would have imitated those poor watermelon props used by the 'Myth Busters' during their shows. Scrambled Lucas brains had very much been Lawrence's goal, but the soft & pliable nature of the headgear made it absorb the strength of the impact and deflect it laterally rather than transfer it into the wearer's head.
Closing his aching eyes to concentrate deeply on his own body, Lucas banked on his long experiences as a wounded patient and a trained paramedic to realize that he had still gotten a depressed spiderweb crack at the upper rear right of the skull. Not a fracture, he didn't think, but most definitely a superbly demarcated crack. That hypotheses was supported by the way the paramedics had immobilized his head in a full clamp with foam padding and tracheotomized him without a second thought. The skull damage must have somehow affected his autonomic functions while the headgear, if disconnected or damaged, could have hampered his breathing long enough to make them fear cervical injury.
Opening his eyes again, he managed to get the lead paramedic's attention by focusing on her face and grunting three short sounds. The short asian woman was young, beautiful, and just a bit curvy under her dark grey uniform, in a way that indicated good muscles and routine training rather than the stick figure most 20-somethings tended to value. She leaned towards her juvenile patient, flashing the penlight at his eyes in an oblique angle to avoid blinding him, then leaned forward to hear him speak.
Rasping out slowly his words, Lucas inquired "Ehmm... Besides the cracked skull, do you suspect spinal damages? I can feel my back, arms and legs to all extremities, but that doesn't mean much in the situation. Also, are there any bleeding arteries or blood loss passed the 15% threshold?"
The woman blinked at him without knowing how to answer him when her colleague reminded her "He's a paramedic and got diplomas across the medical field. Answer him, he'll calm down faster that way." Smirking playfully at the boy, the young caucasian paramedic added "And then he'll promptly start telling us how to do our jobs, just because he's a doctor and there all the worse patients to get."
Snorting in amusement, Lucas tried to nod his head only to be stopped by the thermoplastic brace, so he settled for murmuring harshly passed his traumatized throat "He's right. And I do know better. I got my diplomas at half your ages. That proves it." he told them shamelessly, with a boyish grin in place.
Sighing, the head paramedic shook he head as he began to inform the juvenile about what kind of a mess his entire body had degenerated to. He had expected the multiple blunt force traumas because well, Lawrence, and maybe a few stabbings for variety. The energy burns all over were not in the plans though, and would need further analysis.
Finally up to speed, Lucas told the woman "My biological father did this to me. Lawrence Wolenczak. He entered the building, illegally since he is barred from approaching me by a court order. Ask for Judge Barnum in Buffalo's family court. My lawyer has the files and copies on hand, his card is in my wallet with all emergency contacts."
Taking a breath, the teenager explained "I was testing a virtual reality helmet designed to help paramedics and S&R teams to find victims then perform maneuvers the rescuer wasn't trained for by pumping the formation video directly to the headset as needed during the work. This could cover new tools, driving industrial vehicles, doing lesser surgeries, and so on. The headgear also has a set of external sensors to allow the remote management facility to have an exact idea of what's happening with their S&R team on the ground."
Looking at the discarded helmet lying next to the boy on the manufacturing table, the woman whistled, impressed. "So that the future of our jobs, is it? What else can it do?" she asked, honestly interested. Not to mention that the longer the patient was awake and coherent, the lesser the chances of any serious brain injuries or handicaps later on at recovery. With the kind of concussion he had gotten, anything helped.
Lucas replied with his hoarse voice, not used to speaking with a pipe through his neck yet. "In time, the helmet would be matched with an enhanced bodysuit that has hydraulics and sensors. This would allow the S&R tech to relax while a doctor takes over the suit remotely to effectuate the complicated surgeries or delicate sample testing that the tech was never trained to do himself. This is the mid-point of tele-medicine; the ultimate goal would be a completely robotic system that can automatically detect injuries and decide by itself what kinds of treatment are needed, then administer them without waiting for human input."
"Is that what happened to you?" the male paramedic asked in wonder. "Honestly kid, with the way your old man hit you in the head with that metal stock bar, I'm pretty sure he broke stuff. Your head should have gone to the next county, the way he swung that home-run two-handed."
Blinking slowly, Lucas thought about what he had been working on at the time, and replied verbally to the two medics' question. "Yeah... That must be what happened to me. I was working on synchronizing the helmet, the holo-emitter, the CAD matrix that manages my prototyping archives, the manufacturing table, and setting it all up for the fifth fine-tuning session when the door opened besides me. The way I was standing sideways to the door, it was on my right. I barely had time to see and recognize the defective retard that his movement registered. Then pain, and shiny sparkles all over my field of vision, and... Well... I guess I could say I had a weird dream for a while." The young male ended his description with a thoughtful expression which was deformed by the tightly adjusted foam pads on either side of his injured head.
Sighing deeply while making a face of anxiety, the male paramedic looked at the Stanford Community policeman who had approached to get a report. He had heard what the child said, and it matched the story from the security guard and camera recordings to a 'T'. Seeing the cop give him a negative shake of the head while pointing a finger at the form covered by a bloody shroud on the other side of the room, the medic sighed again. He had bad news to deliver.
"Hey, kid... It's about your father."
Lucas blinked in sudden anger as he rasped out "Where has the fucking bastard gone to hide now? Is he back in international waters again? Or has that fat christian pig William Noyce protected him? Tell me so that I can send the damned lawyers after him!"
Shaking his head, the young medic countered rapidly to keep his patient from making himself sick with undue worry. "Oh no, it's nothing like that! It's just... Well, something happened to your machines when he attacked you. For unknown reasons, they grabbed him and... Well... Industrial accident? Ooops?"
Blinking interrogatively while wearing a cute boyish pout (that he would never admit to in his life) the young boy tried to parse his way through the man's half-veiled words. "Is he dead, by chance?"
Nodding sadly, the female medic answered "Yes, sweetie. Your daddy's gone. He won't hurt you anymore. You can let us care for you, it'll be alright."
Lucas scared the bejeezus out of everybody in the room by yelling out loudly enough to be heard even through the 3 inch thick security glass windows: "BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT EVER!"
{ SQ } - { PREVIEW ch.12 } - { SQ }
Whe now see that what Lucas had lived in the first eleven chapters had been simply a composite imagery generated by his mind as it melded with his powerful machines during the period critical to his survival.
Now, the police and social services investigate how and why this depravity happened while Lucas himself is more in the mood to party hard, despite being in the hospital for heavy duty care, again. This will force dear Cynthia to pay him a motherly Christmas visit neither wanted to suffer through, then the lawyers get their clutches into his juvenile hide. Ah Hells! Does it ever end?
However, in the labyrinthine depths of the Pentagon, a hidden enemy gazes balefully as his prized pawn makes waves and gestures that could see him free of bondage before the year is changed. Necessity dictates that something must change or he will lose this important part of the long-term plan. Unfortunately for this beastly man, and unbeknownst to him, the child is already well aware of his influence and moving to counter it out of his entire life.