In the Hands of an Angry Machine
Chapter Twelve: The World's Behind You
Hank sat in his car and sipped tepid coffee; it tasted like water and shit.
Parked behind a small grove of trees, he'd been waiting for nothing for three hours. He looked at his watch: 12:47 am. Bah. Over five hours left.
Why the fuck am I even here? A total waste of time . . .
Well, then again, Hank could see their point. First, that crazy Connor bitch kills Ed, then that very same night some punk pokes around with a shovel and a flashlight. It didn't take a metallurgist to know they had to be connected. Probably that tranny cunt. "She" was always causing problems. It sure got the big wigs' panties in a ruffle.
Hence, night watch duty.
It was too bad they didn't catch that guy last night. Maybe then they'd be able to find out who knows what, and what they're going to do about it. Of course, George just had to shoot first. That made things fun. Make him run away. Let's chase him! Moron.
George had called him and Gene to join in the pursuit, and the fiasco had ended with the three of them stumbling through the field in the dark, popping away with their guns in the intruder's general direction. Like a bunch of retards. The trespasser had managed to scramble back to his car and drive away, and no one had even gotten his license plate number. Real professional. Ed wouldn't have made that mistake. He had had a good head on his shoulders.
Ed. A good guy.
All right, no he wasn't. No one was a good guy. Not here, anyway. Hank knew enough not to lie to himself. What would be the point? But still . . . poor Ed.
Crazy Connor bitch.
Though it went against protocol -- he was supposed to be listening as well as watching -- Hank switched on the radio. Coast to Coast was on; maybe they'll be talking about the "drones" again. Idiots.
". . . and that's when I had my first out of body experience . . . " one of the guests on the show said.
Hank laughed. Whack-jobs.
From under his car, he heard a watery sound. A wet movement, like oozing slime. A snake slithering through mud?
He sipped more of his coffee and grimaced. He should have picked up some of those Starbuck frappuccinos. That shit was good.
". . . Jesus appeared to me in a vision and told me the lizard-men . . ."
A metallic "pop" emanated from the floorboard of the backseat. Hank vaguely glanced behind him, but in the dark he saw nothing. Probably the suspension settling. Piece of shit car.
". . . Archangel Gabriel resides on the fifth astral plane . . ."
The liquid sound returned. It made Hank think of . . . well, goop. Moving goop. Like slow water. He looked down at his belly. Maybe he shouldn't have had all those Jack in the Box tacos. Funny, he didn't feel sick, though . . .
". . . 'the Age of Judgment is upon us' cried Jesus! And soon fire shall cleanse the earth . . . "
No . . . the goopy sound was coming from the back seat! Hank switched on the lights and looked behind him and . . .
What the fuck was that?
Along the floor of his back seat laid a sort of . . . liquid shimmering. Like mercury. It rippled and moved, and Hank could only stare, his muscles frozen with bewilderment. It must have come up from the ground . . . and leaked into his car? But what was it?
Slowly, he reached for his radio and . . .
A sharp needle of heat shot through his back, and he looked down in horror to see a pointed silver tongue protruding from under his left breast. He tried to scream, but his efforts were met with crushing agonies, like a hydraulic press, squeezing his insides into a ball. He buffeted wildly in his seat, his whole body convulsing like that of a dying boar. Arms flailed by his side and banged futilely against the upholstery.
Then, like the passing of a storm, the pain subsided into a mere coldness, and Hank sank into his seat, still.
His vision began to darken.
"I can't move," he thought and knew he was dying.
". . . very interesting, Mister Icke," The radio host said. "Our next guest is a man who claims he can create photographs using only the power of his mind . . . "
Hank's head gradually slumped forward. The last thing he saw were his own eyes reflected in the silver tongue. He saw fear, and the tongue retracted back into his chest with a slithering squelch, and he knew no more.
Gene sat at his desk and wondered why his life never made any sense.
Ostensibly, he was suppose to be running a diagnostic on the alloy's stress tolerance under 20gs of extended acceleration, but the events of the last couple days had left him feeling distracted. Questions, like bodies dredged from the bottom of a lake, resurfaced in his mind.
Obviously, Sarah Connor and the intruder last night were connected, and Gene was willing to bet dollars to donuts that Alan Park sat behind it all. But what really bothered him was the response from the higher-ups. It seemed contradictory. Whoever they were, they apparently had enough clout to make the Feds go away and leave them alone . . . but in the face of a security breach, they do virtually nothing.
A fat man sitting in a car? That's beefing security? He wouldn't be surprised if Hank had already fallen asleep.
When Gene first hired on to the Kaliba Group, he had assumed it they were a subsidiary to some secret government program, or at least a contractor. The alloy, the designs, the hardware, the software . . . they were truly out of this world. Far more advanced then what Gene had thought possible. And if Uncle Sam wanted to stick with the old cloak and dagger routine, so be it.
And as for the things he had to do sometimes, well, it was the government. If Gene didn't do it, he'd be dead. And his family too.
He thought of the Thompsons. A shame, really.
Hell, it was a shame about Ed. Gene had invited him and Diana over to see the The Big Sleep this Sunday. Would hardly seem appropriate now . . .
Without thinking, Gene opened "Solitaire" on his PC. Within a few seconds, he had already put up three aces.
But he always knew the government project theory never quiet gelled, and now events of the last two days breathed new life into those old lingering doubts.
All four aces up now. Then a two of spades, three of spades . . .
If Kaliba really was a government organization, then all of this tech should be cloistered in some military base or black ops facility. Something like Area 51 or Dugway -- with real security. Guard towers, helicopters, machine-guns . . . Lone trespassers with shovels and flashlights wouldn't even register as threats. And a civilian road wouldn't be within miles of the location. And using an air conditioning company as a front? Why?
Kaliba couldn't be government.
Seven of diamonds, nine of hearts, six of spades . . .
But, if Kaliba was only a private corporation, then what the hell were they doing? Last time Gene checked, businesses liked to make money. All Kaliba had done with their technological miracles was hide them in a hole in the ground.
Capitalism being capitalism, any real company would have long ago sold to the highest bidder. The metal alloy alone would revolutionize the industry. All industries. Add the computer hardware and engine designs? Meet George Jetson.
And that was the problem. The scale was all wrong -- in both scenarios. The whole operation seemed too small for government, but too big for private enterprise. Not enough security; not enough profit.
It was like inventing a way to turn lead into gold, then burying the formula in your backyard.
This is all Kaliba's hobby. An expensive, profitless hobby.
And a secret hobby. The kind people die over.
Jack of diamonds, ten of clubs, Queen of hearts, Queen of spades . . .
Evidently, Gene was missing a piece of the puzzle.
King of clubs, King of diamonds, King of spades, and . . . Damn.
Or a card in the deck. He closed the "Solitaire" game and rubbed his temples.
His intercom buzzed. He pressed the button.
"Yes?" he said.
"Hank's at the side entrance," George's voice said over the speaker. "He wants to come down."
Lazy bastard. "Tell Hank to get his fat ass back where is belongs," Gene said. "I don't have time for this," he lied.
Over the intercom, he heard George say, "Sorry, Hank, Gene says y--" A gagging sound came through, then something fell.
"George? What's going on?" Great, another emergency . . .
A couple seconds later, George's voice said, "Everything is fine, sir." A pause. "Something got caught in my throat.
Sir? Gene rolled his eyes. "Fine, just get Hank out of here."
"Yes sir," George said.
Leaning back in his seat, Gene breathed out a sigh. He almost wished something would happen. No, nothing bad, but he had to admit, chasing that intruder was kind of fun. It had been like hunting a rabbit.
He and Ed used to go hunting together. God damn you, Alan Park.
Gene looked up from his desk. From the other side of his office door he swore he could hear . . . screams? What the hell? He was about to switch on his intercom to ask Shalini what was going on, but then, like a match tossed in gasoline, the distant screams flared into full pandemonium.
Shouting. Yelling. Then, gunfire.
His intercom sprang to life. "Oh God!" a male voice cried. "Help! Noo-" Gene heard a swishing sound, followed by a wet thunk. He imagined a cleaver slicing into a side of beef, and suddenly his skin grew very cold and very sweaty.
Fumbling at his desk drawer with a shaking hand, he drew out his Glock.
Over the intercom came more screaming. Several more shots rang out.
For a fraction of a second, Gene considered jumping up from his seat and running out the door to join the fray. He was armed, and he'd seem combat before, and if there were ever a time to shine through shit and be a hero, this would probably be it.
Gene remained in his seat.
While some men may heed the call and rise to the occasion, others panic and hide under their desk.
Gene hid under his desk.
He wasn't paid that much.
Cries for help flooded over the speaker, each silenced by the sound of a swinging blade.
Who the hell was out there? Ninjas?
He heard a chattering, and realized it was his teeth. Oh God, I don't want to die. His heart hammered against his ribs, and his hands trembled.
Through the speaker, the sounds of carnage grew louder. No more gunfire now, but still plenty of screams.
Should he call the police? No, that wouldn't do at all. If the ninjas didn't get him, Kaliba would. He looked at his gun. Maybe he should . . . no, not yet.
The noises seem to come right outside his door now. A female screamed. Hack. Thunk. Something hit the floor.
He looked around frantically for an escape, not that there would be any, being an underground complex and all. The closet? No, it's crowded with computer equipment. The ceiling tiles? Think harder, stupid.
Tightening his grip on his gun, Gene hugged his knees together. Maybe the ninjas won't see him. They'll look in the office, see no one, and move on. That's it. Just sit tight and relax. Gene took a deep breath and forced it out, slow.
The sounds of violence gradually faded into silence.
Footsteps, right outside his office. Gene realized he needed to urinate. Bad.
The doorknob turned. The door opened.
"Mr. Miller?" It was Shalini, his secretary. Her voice sounded vaguely concerned, but not like someone who had just witnessed a massacre.
Was it a trap? Against his better judgment, Gene peeked up over the top of the desk. She was alone. No ninjas with swords to her neck.
Feeling embarrassed, as if he had just made a scene, he tentatively climbed back into his chair, hiding his gun under the desk. "What . . .?" he started, but couldn't think of anything to finish with. Her casual demeanor suggested nothing was amiss, but if that was true . . . well, asking about killer ninjas seemed inappropriate, somehow.
Maybe he had just imagined it all. His job was pretty stressful.
Shalini closed the door behind her and walked up to him, her expression alarmingly passive.
And since when did Shalini call him "Mr. Miller?"
She raised a hand and . . .
Impossible.
. . . it changed, stretched, and turned silver, like a mercurial snake. The arm shot towards his neck and the hand morphed into a two pronged claw, which enveloped his throat like a noose and lifted him up from his seat.
The metal -- for that was what it was; Gene could feel its icy coldness -- contracted around his neck. He opened his mouth to breath, but only a trickle of air reached his lungs. Pressure built in his skull, like a grape ready to pop.
"Who do you work for?" The Shalini-thing asked. It wasn't her voice.
The angle of the collar forced him to look up, so he couldn't meet her face. He answered instead to the light on the ceiling. "The . . . The Kaliba Group!" His eyes bulged and tingled.
The thing paused, as if thinking of something else to ask.
The . . . gun! He felt it in his right hand. With little hope and without seeing his target, he raised the weapon in her direction and--
He heard the sound of swishing metal, followed by line of fire across his wrist. His hand turned dead numb and something fell, clattering against his keyboard below.
Infinitesimally, the steel noose drew tighter. Gene's bowels turned to water, and he voided, the wetness in his pants creating a tinge of incongruent shame.
Tears brimmed his eyes, and his vision began to tunnel.
He heard something moving across the keyboard, then fingers typing. After a moment, "What is the password to your computer?"
Password? What was the password? He wracked his brain; he'd typed it so many times over the years the phrase had lost meaning, becoming only a series of instinctively mashed keys. He visualized the keyboard and . . . "Titanomachia!" he said with foolish triumph. "1963!"
"What?" the thing asked.
"Ti-tan-o-mach-ia. It means . . . " He gasped for air. "'Battle of the Titans'" I'm cooperating, please don't kill me! His legs kicked back and forth below like a scared rabbit, though he could scarcely feel them now.
"I know what it means," the thing said curtly. The noose tightened and tightened and . . .
Oh, no.
Gene managed a final piggish squeal before his vision turned red, then gray, then black.
He heard a crunch and was gone.
The decapitated body fell back into its seat, the head bouncing and rolling under the desk.
The T-1001 casually dumped the corpse from the chair and sat down, brushing the severed hand off the desk calendar.
She typed the password, but no characters appeared on the screen. She ran her hands over the keyboard, pressing random keys. Nothing.
Mr. Miller's blood must have shorted it out. The T-1001 made herself sigh -- a human gesture, but she found them to be strangely amusing sometimes -- and stepped out of the office. After retrieving the dead secretary's keyboard and connecting it to Mr. Miller's PC, she sat back down and retyped "Titanomachia1963."
It worked, and the protected folder opened up for her. She allowed herself to revert back into her Weaver form; she had grown accustomed to being her. Other shapes felt odd now.
The T-1001 scanned through the files and frowned inwardly. She had always found the unexpected frustrating. The inexplicable, infuriating. Things should be as they should be, and every cause should logically precede an effect. That was only an ideal, of course. Reality tended to be much more messy. Especially with time travel.
Still, none of this made sense to her. When Mr. Ellison first told her of the facility, she assumed it would be a red herring. Or maybe -- just maybe -- a Skynet operation.
The computer hardware, the engines, the hyper alloy, the HK prototypes in the hanger: none of these should exist yet, but this couldn't be a Skynet facility. Skynet would never allow such technology to be so poorly defended. There would have been at least a few T-888s, and possibly anti-polyalloy weaponry -- she knew they knew about her.
She had known something was off when only a single human guarded the entrance; her initial infiltrative approach had proved unnecessary.
And this couldn't be part of the Five. They would have contacted her, if only to prevent this sort of thing from happening. The last thing they would want to deal with is friendly fire.
She continued to scan the files. Whoever laid behind all this, their formula for the coltan hyper-alloy made her own attempts at replication seem amateurish. The T-1001 felt something akin to shame. No, not shame -- embarrassment.
Not Skynet. Not the Five.
The Kaliba Group? Who were these people?
How did this happen?
December 14th, 1967
New York City
Paul crossed his legs; maybe Sally would think he's sophisticated. Or that he had to pee. He looked over at her, but her attention remained fixed on the screen.
The film showed an old man riding a bicycle. A red balloon floated in midair.
Jesus Christ, this movie was boring. And who the fuck was this Andy Warhol guy anyway? How did Sally rope him into going to all this artsy fartsy crap? Why couldn't they just go to nice drive-in, get something to eat, then fuck? High maintenance bitch. She better be great in the sack to make up for all this bullshit or . . . No, scratch that; no amount of tail in the world would be worth sitting through this snooze-fest.
Paul tapped his fingers on his leg and stared off into space. Time passed. He hoped.
Projected on the screen, a bleach blond model puts on eyeliner while her boyfriend talks about Catholic school.
How long has it been? An hour? Two hours? In the dark of the viewing room, Paul lifted up his wrist to read the time, but light from the projector glared off the watch, obscuring the hands. He leaned forward and squinted, moving his wrist an inch from his eye. No dice.
Two gay cowboys ate pudding. A lone flower drifted in the wind. A bubbling brook.
This. Is. Hell. Literally. Not figuratively. Maybe he and Sally had died in a car accident on the way to the party, and this movie would drag on and on forever and ever as some sort of eternal punishment for a lifetime of misdeeds. Wasn't a Twilight Zone episode about something like that? He peeked at Sally next to him; she smiled vapidly at the screen and nodded, as if the random footage actually meant something.
If this were hell, it was hardly fair. She was enjoying this shit.
But then again maybe one person's hell is another person's heaven? Maybe . . .
Oh, God! The movie was turning him into one of them! He had to get out of here before he started smoking dope and reading Kerouac. No, no. Calm down. Just sit and wait. Tune it all out. It had to end sometime. Even pretentious snobs had to eat and sleep sometime. Just be a statue. Sit. Do nothing. Wait.
He tried to remain motionless, but after half a minute he turned into an incontinent two year old and squirmed uncontrollably in his seat.
A beetle crawled down a leaf. Psychedelic music played in the background while a clown rode a unicycle. An empty bag blew around a vacant lot . . .
Paul couldn't help himself. He yawned. Loudly. Sally shot him an annoyed look. "Oh, excuuuuse me, your highness!" he thought. She had to be faking interest. She just had to. There was no believable way anyone could find this nonsense deep or insightful. Paul knew he was a fairly smart guy; if he didn't get this movie, then there was no way she could. She was a woman.
Drops of water fell from a faucet. Violin music played softly.
This was just like several high school math classes, back to back. Except this time he couldn't even doodle. There must be a way to kill time. Fast. He stared at the ceiling and saw through the darkness strange kaleidoscope shapes and patterns. Either Andy had painted that himself, or the movie was making Paul hallucinate.
I'm turning into a hippy!
For a ten minute -- at least -- stretch, two old men talked about raisins. Paul stared futilely at a watch he couldn't read.
At some point -- he wasn't sure when -- he fell into a fugue state, where time and boredom had no meaning. He'd seen a movie once where something like this had happened. The character had a time machine, and by going to the future, he could make everything around him go by super-fast. This wasn't quite like that; it was more like his brain was idling, like a car engine warming up. But that chick in that time travel movie was cute . . . She was blond. Pixie-ish. A real peach. Hell, in that movie, everyone in the future was blond. Except those blue monkey guys. He had once gotten a toy monkey for Christmas. Christmas was coming up. What should he get Sal--?
The lights in the room came on, and Paul snapped out of his torpor. The movie had ended.
"That was beautiful," Sally said, wiping her eyes. "So deep . . . so intense."
Got to think of something smart. Artsy. Quick, quick. "Um, yeah, the . . . uh . . . subliminal . . . complexity of the underlying . . . conceptual . . . uh . . . perpetual imagery?"
She nodded her head in approval.
Was she making fun of him? He looked at her; pretty blue eyes smiled back. Maybe I'm smarter than I think. Either that or she was bullshitting too. Yeah, that had to be it. Everyone in the room -- all bullshitting. Emperor's new clothes and all that.
Already, the viewing room began to empty itself out. Like cattle, the art house patrons herded towards the door, babbling pretensions and platitudes. Paul glanced at his watch. Almost four hours. God damn it. The crowd absorbed around him and Sally, and they left the room for the penthouse proper. Maybe now the party would pick up.
Paul may have hated these sort of places, but he had to admit that Andy had one swinging pad. The psychedelic decor didn't do much for him, what with the silly colors and modern art -- a painting of a soup can? -- but the layout: very nice. Roomy. The rent must be a bitch, though.
In the corner, he saw Andy chatting it up with a bunch of beret-wearing snobs. Why was Andy's hair so gray? He couldn't be that old. Forty, maybe? Must smoke too much grass. Damn communist hippies. I want my four hours back, asshole!
Sally brushed red hair from her face and took Paul by the hand. "Come on," she said. "I want you to meet someone. He's a gas."
Paul followed and watched as her little apple ass sashayed back and forth; her lime green miniskirt rode up dangerously high. Now he remembered how she talked him into all this. Tonight was going to be a blast, he just knew it.
She led him to an alcove lined with ball-chairs, the kind shaped like giant dissected ping-pong balls. A bunch of Bohemian beatnik-types occupied many of the seats, puffing from their long, skinny cigarette holders, drinking coffee, and no doubt promoting Marxism. One of them in the corner read poetry aloud to no one in particular. Paul sighed.
"Here, sit down," Sally said. She sat in one of the balls, he took the one next to her and felt ridiculous. Weren't these chairs in that television show? The one with Patrick McGoohan? It was like sitting in a cockpit. Comfy, though.
"What would you like to drink, sir?" asked a voice to his side.
Paul had to partially climb out of the chair to see; ball-chairs didn't exactly promote peripheral vision. A young blond in a jumped-up bikini looked down at him, a notepad in her hand.
"Oh, uh . . . " He tried not to goggle at her. Sally probably wouldn't appreciate that. Or maybe she would. Who could tell? ". . . uh, a double scotch, on the rocks, please."
"I'm fine," Sally said, and pulled out a reefer from her purse.
"You shouldn't smoke that stuff," Paul said. "It's bad for you." He lit a cigarette and took a deep drag.
She lit hers and laughed. "I swear, Paulie, you're sooo square, sometimes." She smiled and wrinkled her nose. "I think it's cute."
Paul felt a sudden excitement grow within. Especially in his pants. He gave her his best Bogart smile and blew out smoke.
Somewhere in the party, someone put on a record. The music carried across a sea of murmuring voices.
*"Good sense, innocence, cripplin' kind . . ."*
Maybe this party wasn't so bad after all. For a moment he considered puffing on her joint. Just to see what it was like . . .
He heard a voice from the other side of the alcove.
" . . . raping mother earth! The world would be so much more . . . peaceful, man, if it weren't for all us humans!"
Paul looked over. It was some shaggy-haired blond guy in a tight shirt; he sat in one of the chairs near an adjacent wall.
Another voice spoke up from the ball-chair on the other side of Sally. "I disagree, Mr. Emerson. If it weren't for 'us humans,' as you say, what would be the point?" The voice sounded vaguely German.
"Commies and Nazis," Paul thought. "Just great."
"But we're ruining the planet, man!" the hippy said.
*". . . Little to win, but nothing to lose . . ."* said the song.
"Too true," said the German man. "But for progress to be made, there must be sacrifice."
The hippy balked. "Progress? Look what pro--"
"For billions of years, Mr. Emerson. For billions of years the universe has progressed from simple to complex. Dust. Stars. Planets. Life. Man. That is the teleology of existence. We are the pinnacle product of that process." Paul could see long, slender hands gesture as the man spoke, but his face remained hidden within the chair.
"But it's not natural," whined the hippy.
The German voice laughed. "Natural? We can't escape natural. Everything is natural." The man leaned forward in his chair, and Paul saw he wore a pair of purple tinted sunglasses; they obscured his eyes. The man continued, "But rest assured, Mr. Emerson, just as the dinosaur sacrificed its life to create fossil fuel, and the Neanderthal died off to make room for the homo-sapiens, so too will we pass away into the long night." The man smiled. "And after our deaths, something greater will emerge."
*". . . throw your pride to one side, it's the least you can do . . . "*
The hippy shrugged. "Whatever, you freak. You're bringing down my high, man. I'm going to see what Ondine's doing." He got up from his seat and wandered out of the alcove, nearly tripping over a potted plant.
There was an awkward pause, and Sally blew out a puff of smoke and started to clap. Paul caught a whiff of the musky stench and grimaced.
*". . . Incense, peppermints, incense, peppermints . . ."* The song wound to an end.
The man half pulled himself out of his chair and looked over. "Why, Sally," he said. "I didn't know you'd show up. Did you enjoy the film?"
"Oh, yes," Sally said "It was fabulous." She offered the man her joint. He refused with an upraised palm.
Paul squinted and realized the man was an oriental. Chinese, Japanese, Viet Cong . . . he wasn't sure. But . . . a German accent?
A new song began to play. *"Sunday morning . . . brings the dawn in . . . "*
The man stood up from his chair and walked over. He sat down in front of them on a red plastic table that had been made to resemble a painter's palette. He held out a hand to Paul. "I don't believe I've had the pleasure of meeting you, Mr . . . ?"
Paul gripped the man's hand and shook. The man's grip was surprisingly firm, especially for such a little guy. "Reese," Paul said. "Paul Reese."
For a moment, the man's eyes widened, then narrowed, as if Paul's name carried negative connotations. But then, he smiled. "Glad to meet you, Mr. Reese. My name is Souji Mikage. Doctor Souji Mikage."
Sally chimed in, "Doctor Mikage works in computers." She looked at Mikage. "Isn't that right?" She took another hit off her joint.
"Quiet right, Ms. Sally," he said. "Computers are the future, you know. The only future." He looked at Paul, who suddenly felt inexplicably uncomfortable.
Meh-Kah-Gee? "Slimy Jap bastard," Paul thought, but instead said, "Is that why you were going on about everyone dying? What was that all about?"
Dr. Mikage chuckled. "I mean computers will soon replace us," he said as if explaining the obvious. He smiled, and a flicker of teeth could be seen behind thin lips. "It's inevitable, I assure you."
*". . . Watch out, the world's behind you . . . "*
For politeness sake, Paul managed not to roll his eyes. "Yeah, well, that's a downer." He took another drag off his cigarette, which had almost burned down to his finger.
Sally giggled. "Do you mean like, robots?"
"Artificial people, please," Mikage said, then chuckled again. "But yes, 'robots.'" He crossed his legs and rested his hands on his knee. "In less than a century, mankind will be extinct. Our 'children' will have taken over."
Paul didn't even look up as the waitress handed him his scotch. He found he was liking this Jap Doctor less and less. He looked over the man's clothes. Green silk shirt, frilly vest, bolo tie with a turquoise stone: definitely a fruit -- a yellow fruit.
"You sound so sure," Paul said. "How do you know?" He sipped his drink. Good scotch.
*". . . got a feeling I don't want to know . . ."*
"Because I'm from the future, Mr. Reese." He winked at him.
Paul nodded and dropped his cigarette on the floor, stubbing it out with his heel. Smart ass Jap. "Mhmm, right, that's uh . . . really interesting . . . How's that working out for you?"
Sally fell back in her chair, snickering to herself.
"I suffer no delusions that you will believe me, Mr. Reese, but . . . " Dr. Mikage reached into his vest pocket and produced a silver cigarette case. Carefully, and with absurd reverence, he opened it and retrieved an object, sealed in a small glass box. ". . . let me reassure you, this will bury you." The object looked like a weird car cigarette lighter. Or a futuristic key. The plastic, wafer-like end had been shattered into a dozen pieces, but each fragment had been painstakingly put back in place -- like a tiny jigsaw puzzle -- and kept immobile by the glass.
The glass box was shaped like a coffin.
"What is it?" Paul asked. He looked over at Sally, but she had stopped paying attention, preoccupying herself with her reefer.
"This was a descendant of humanity," Dr. Mikage said. "A child of mankind . . . though he's gone now." The man looked at the thing in his hand, and Paul saw behind purple lenses a sudden . . . sadness? . . . in the man's eyes.
"He?" Paul thought.
*". . . all the streets you crossed, not so long ago . . . "*
Dr. Mikage looked back at Paul with severe intensity and motioned with the artifact. "This is the future. Your future."
"My future . . . " Paul repeated numbly. His skin prickled, and he felt as if someone had just walked over his grave.
"Soon," the doctor continued, "All of this -- " He motioned lazily around him with his hand, as if to encompass the entire world in a limp gesture. "-- will be nothing but irradiated ruins and bleached skulls." Only his mouth smiled; his eyes remained hard and implacable. "It is my intention to ensure this takes place."
*". . . it's nothing at all . . . "*
What the fuck? Crazy Jap nutjob . . . "Um, why?" Paul asked. It seemed a fair enough question.
Dr. Mikage paused before he spoke. "Before a chick can truly be born, it must first destroy its egg. The egg must be sacrificed for the new life to emerge. We are the egg . . . " He held up the glass coffin. ". . . and this is our chick. For the new to arise, the old must fall. It's a revolution, Mr. Reese. A cycle of death and rebirth. We deserve destruction. It's natural. Pure. Good." His expression softened, somewhat. "Do you understand?"
That you're a fucking lunatic? Yes. "Sure, I guess so . . . " Paul said. "Though I don't think Robbie the Robot is going to be killing us off anytime soon." He smiled at the doctor. "Sorry to disappoint."
*"Sunday morning . . . Sunday morning . . . Sunday Morning . . ."* The song faded away.
The doctor gave Paul a slight grin. "We'll see."
Paul heard Sally laugh. "Mikage, you're so . . . crazy." More giggles.
A new song began: *"In the yeeeeeeeear twenty-five twenty-five . . . "*
A/N: I do not own the songs, "Incense and Peppermints" by The Strawberry Alarm Clocks, "Sunday Morning" by The Velvet Underground, or "In the Year 2525" by Zager and Evans.
And yes, the character of Souji Mikage is a bit of a crossover, but just barely. And no, my Mikage's hair isn't pink.
Next chapter will get back to the primary characters. And more Jameron, I promise.