The rolling thunder on the plains drowns out my silent reverie. The rain on the tin roof pings and clangs above my sorrow. Static and anointed words howl on the radio.
I can still see her face.
She is beautiful.
It's one thing to have a major Neo-Fascist nation. It is quite another to have a major Neo-Fascist nation on your side of the Atlant. Well, technically two, but everyone knows Pontifec's an Angol mannequin nowadays.
I hate politics. That's what Spartacus is for.
I am sitting in my apartment in the city of Aumaja, bastion of righteousness in a world gone mad.
I am the mourner.
I am praying for strength.
I am the jack-of-all-trades, Liberty's last voice in the Imperium, the ruthless mercenary.
I am all these things because nobody else is. Nobody else can be. The originals are gone, long gone.
But I can still see her face.
And she is beautiful.
Things weren't supposed to work like this. We were the heroes, the champions of Heaven and Emeriqua.
We weren't supposed to lose.
We weren't supposed to bleed.
We weren't supposed to scream in agony over our fallen ones.
But we did, and we made villains smile.
* * *
I am the jack-of-all-trades.
You fly into Aumaja, two years ago. The city has progressed much since the gangs were disbanded. Anarchy rules here, and it is this city from which all the local revolutions have been aided and abetted. It was this city that conquered Jacago last year, this city that forced the breakdown of the League and the consequent anarchy from Melwocki to Najavelle. It was this city that organized the Emeriquan Army, an entity previously nonexistent for two millennia.
You read the papers at 1600 Martha, the decrepit 'presidential palace' of the Revolution. And with you is Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades and not-so-temporary best friend. He's reading the World section, you're reading the Local section.
It looks like we've finally cracked the Latter-Dayers, I relate. The Iutah Anarchists have forced the defeat of the President and Patriarch-
"Then that's the last major holdup on this side of the Misseppa."
Not entirely. That gives us tentative control of Emeriqua from Calipha to Jacago, but there is the Texitians and the Native Emeriquan republics.
"We don't need to worry about the Principality," Brent assured. "They're scared stiff of us and they've got a decent anarchist following within their borders. Just so they keep selling the military oil, we'll be fine. As for the Native republics, those people were repressed by Emeriqua for millennia. I think we can let them have their own nations."
But I thought the goal was international anarchy. Wouldn't leaving a government there be counterproductive?
"Not really. Their governments are practically anarchies in function. Where do you think the Zapatistas got their ideas from?"
The apartment doors fly open on their hinges, and soldiers wearing Angol uniforms storm the room. I fire a few shots as I duck behind a lawnchair, and I watch them shoot Brenton. Blood and spittle intermix as he collapses on a blanket, his mouth wide open.
I use the last three bullets in my gun to shatter the glass of a nearby window and jump to the alley below. Relying on adrenaline to keep me conscious and moving, I pick myself up after a two-story fall onto broken asphalt and run down the alley to Martha Street, where I wave my gun at traffic and scare somebody into providing my getaway vehicle.
I would later learn that the Angol squad that went after Brenton and I had silently killed everyone living in 1600 Martha. After all, the main civil and religious debaters of the Anarchy made their residence there. The more they could kill, the better.
I am the jack-of-all-trades.
* * *
I am praying for strength.
The Imperium has overwhelmed us. From the beginning of the landing of Angol soldiers in Mirilen, they have been on the rise and increasingly indebted to Best Friend.
Best Friend. I hate Best Friend. I hate him with a purple passion, with an undying hatred that will never be quenched. For Best Friend is the mythical leader of the Second Republic of Angleterre, who slew the heroes.
The armies of Anarchy are battling across Emeriqua at the moment. Pontifec Sextilius, the most powerful sidekick in the world, has forced Macsaco to open up its terre to movements by the Angol army. Kannata, once upon a time our willing accomplices in the destruction of the Imperium, has now taken a neutral stance to keep Angleterre from its shores.
Even though I managed to land a job as a general back in the days of the Jacago League, I am no general. And ever since the Angol/Imperial manhunt began, I'm well-hidden and out of the way.
It's okay though. I never really knew what was going on, and even today I still don't.
I am walking down a crowded Aumaja street. I'm wearing the typical Xristarchist (Xristion Anarchist) black and I've got sunglasses on. Not my round shades, but a typical pair of sunglasses. Except they have mirrors on part of them. It helps me watch my back.
I am the hunted.
The term 'undercover cop' has always been an oxymoron. I've gotten good at spotting the Angol special forces as of late. Besides the obvious fact that they're white instead of homegrown Emeriquan beige, I can tell by their stride. They walk like nothing can happen to them. They have their noses in the air yet at the same time look like they are dirty crooks. It's all part of the doublethink philosophy of the Party.
One is trailing me right now. I turn down an alley and take a left turn to a different street. Then I walk back to the original street, and he's lost me.
Another one's coming. They must be out for blood today. I duck into a nearby holybar, the Gangsta's Paradise. Subdued lighting gives way to fiery worship in here. At the bar is a man in a dark blue suit. He reeks of spec ops, but he's Emeriquan. He looks trustworthy, so I sit down.
I am my own fate on a die roll.
"What'll you have today, sir?" the bartender asked, smiling.
A cola, thanks.
The dark-suited one turns to me. "I know you from somewhere, don't I?"
I raise my eyebrow. I know who you are.
"Best Friend isn't watching me," the man relates. "Neither is Pontifec Maximus." Pontifec Maximus is a Lhadin play-on-words. Back in the days of the Rhoman Imperium, the high priest (who happened to be the Imperator) was known as the Pontifex Maximus. A rare instance of intelligence amongst intelligence agents.
"You know who I am?" he inquires.
Not specifically, I answer. I don't know your name, but you people are all alike. You all might as well just get bright orange t-shirts with the words 'Undercover Cop' emblazoned on.
"I was with the IIA. Name's Trino, by the way." He lights a cigarette and takes a drag. "Smoke?"
No thanks, I don't smoke. But why did you leave?
"I prevented a nasty, disgusting IIA coup after going AWOL and getting bad PR for the Imperium. You would leave, too, after a track record like that."
So, of all the cities of Emeriqua, why here?
"Because Marcos told me to come here. In fact, he told me to be at this very bar at this very moment. I'm waiting to get in touch with a Xristarchist operative."
Marcos?
"The Subcomandante. Some higher-up in the Emeriquan Army."
There isn't such a rank in the Army."
"Well, I was told to be here. I take it you're a Xristarchist?"
Yes, but I don't think I'm the operative you're looking for.
"I was told to say a password. Does the term 'Lot' mean anything to you?"
What!?
I am Lot. Lot is me. Who knew this!?
"What, is that your name?"
No, just convoluted artistic license and a really long story. Well, I must be the operative.
But who could have set this up?
I told Speri the story of Sattam and Kamora, and I told Brent. Brent was in touch with the whole Revolution, so he might have told people before his death.
"Brent? Sattam? Kamora?"
Yet another long story. So I'm here. What does this Subcomandante person want?
"He wants to send you on a mission."
A mission?
"It could end up saving the Anarchy and turning the tide of war."
What does it entail?
"I don't know. All I know is that you're supposed to tell me if you're willing to do this. If you are, you'll be told what to do."
How will the Subcomandante get in touch with me?
"Via the mails and in installments."
That sounds familiar. Just something about that last statement triggered deja vu.
Okay, fine. I'll do it.
"I'll get in touch with the Subcomandante."
A million questions burn in my mind. Who is Subcomandante Marcos? What does he do? And why hasn't Spartacus ordered this mission?
I am confused.
* * *
I am Liberty's last voice in the Imperium.
You fly into Bellamarha, two-and-a-half years ago. The city has been placed under lock and key by President Sextilius, but Freedom Radio is still broadcasting now and then and the Resistance is active.
I am in Overcity Sector Seven. The damage from the Revolution has been repaired here; after all, we can't have the tourists leave now can we. I am standing at Harborplace eating a hotdog and watching. The BFS Thatcher and Cromwell, two Angol battleships, are sailing in after playing sheepdog for a troop convoy across the Atlant. This is the fabled aid from the Second Republic, ever longed for in the newsreels of the Imperium. I think I'm gonna be sick.
I am here to observe troop strength and report back to 'Lindberg'. Brent'll be interested in all this, too. I am also here to supply Freedom Radio with audio clips of various speeches made on KQKQ Radio Aumaja. I'm on there a few times myself, playing the role of Spartacus.
I'm sitting on the steps going down to the dock. A few other people are, as well. I see people pass near me. A preponderance of cops are here, though, to see to it that our honored Angol 'guests' (fancy word for de facto future overlords) aren't hassled by the street rabble. Ah, the liberties of the Imperium.
A cop walks up to me.
"Will you come with me, sir?" he asks gruffly.
Certainly. What seems to be the problem, Officer?
I see the man Brent described to me out of the corner of my eye. I take out a cigarette and light it. He stops for a second, and then turns away.
"I'm looking for Freedom Radio. Do you happen to know where he is?"
Oh dear. If this is a trick question, I'm dead. Better play it cool.
What are you talking about?
I take a drag of the cigarette and I try not to cough. I don't smoke this junk and I don't know why this had to be the 'come back later' signal.
He stares at me with piercing cold eyes.
Then he bursts out laughing.
"I had you going there for a second, eh? Just playing!" He slaps me on the shoulder. "What I wanted to ask you is where did you get the sunglasses? My son wants to be a hippie for Samhain and I can't find those glasses anywhere!"
Whew. I'm not dealing with a corrupt, evil government. Just a corrupt, evil sense of humor and a side order of bacon. It could be worse.
I, well, I'm not from here. I got these in a specialty shop in Calipha, but-
"Well, good then! With these Angol pals of ours we'll be drinking coffee in Safra Sesko before Labor Day even! I'm sure I can special-order them or something after that whole Spartacus mess is put down, eh?"
Yeah, of course. I give him a weak smile.
"Well, have a good vacation then! Viva Imperium!"
Vite Imperium!
The fool didn't realize that I just said 'flee the Imperium'.
Veni Imperium, viso imperitum virens imparis viti Imperator vocat implorit vires improbis vicere impere vicinia immanis.
Come to the Imperium and see the ignorant green unworthy vice of an Imperator call and implore evil forces to conquer and govern vast neighboring lands.
Language must be a lost art. After the cop walks away, I pinch out the cigarette and stuff it back into the box. I then resume waiting and five minutes later the man is back. He is dressed in all black, with a huge trenchcoat on his shoulders.
"Are you okay?" he asks.
Just fine. The cop was curious about my glasses.
"Well, just so they're not on to us. Wanna come back to my apartment after we watch the Second Republic join the Imperium in spitting on the graves of the Founding Fathers?"
They're just spitting?
"Well, after you dig them up and bury them facedown and backwards and set them rolling in their graves, you can't really do much else than spit."
I see. Sure, after the military parade we'll head back to your place and make the exchange there.
"Wonderful. I assume you're here to count heads?"
To count targets, precisely. But yes.
And after I get a gander at the forces they're gonna send out west, we head to the Undercity. That place is a literal garbage heap. And the stench... yuck. It makes South Side Santeyako look like paradise.
It turns out that Freedom has a name, and it is Chrysanth Mordieu.
So you think you can overthrow the Imperium with pirate broadcasts?
"I kill with my golden tongue. It's all in the name. You got the audio files?"
Right here. This DVD has the past six months' Spartacus and Lindberg broadcasts on there.
"You have no clue how much this is gonna help out Freedom Radio. Hold on, let me see if I can hack into the Imperial feed. You'll get to see a live performance in action."
He spends the next three minutes trying to get past firewalls and going through backdoors and so forth. He dodges security systems, but it doesn't look like he's ever been this hard-pressed.
"Sonufa-they must have beefed up Net security since last time!" he howls. But he presses on. He takes his computer microphone and hits the ENTER key.
"Do not attempt to adjust your radio set. This is Freedom Radio, Liberty's last voice in the Imperium. As you all know, Sextilius and Haymis before him have labored to keep us uninformed and ignorant. It was for this reason that Freedom Radio was started in the first place. I've tried to pass along the unadulterated truth to you who hear only lies. Well, now I don't have to pass it along; you can hear it straight from the horse's mouth, so to speak. Tonight I'm going to play the latest speech from Spartacus, delivered from 1600 Martha in Aumaja, Nibresc-"
The door busts open.
"Freeze! IIA!" He grabs the desk as he stands up. I watch him quietly take out a pistol from beneath the keyboard.
"Hands up and turn around! Both of you!" The agent is adamant and he has his rifle pointed at Chrysanth.
Chrysanth turns and fires on the agent. The agent reciprocates and Chrysanth gets a bullet to the chest. They both stagger.
"Take... the mike..." he mumbles as he falls over, dead. The agent follows a moment afterwards.
I slide into the chair.
Freedom Radio just died at this very moment, I relate. But Freedom Radio will never die, the same way Spartacus and Lindberg will never die. You can kill a man's body, but you cannot kill his ideas and you cannot kill his spirit. You can only kill your ideas and you can only kill your own spirit.
I am the last free voice of the Imperium.
* * *
I am Moshe leading the children of righteousness through a desert, and I have no clue where I'm going.
Or maybe Dafyd hiding in a cave from Saul.
How does one manipulate events so that I wind up in a holybar at a given time to meet a particular agent?
Let's see. I went out for bread at 1:00. I went then because there was no bread and there was no need to go until lunch. I rarely eat breakfast nowadays, ever since I left Calipha. Therefore, I wouldn't notice that the bread was gone until then.
Funny, though, I bought a loaf just yesterday... Someone might have taken it to ascertain that I would be out today at 1:00. Then, once I'm sighted on my way to the grocer, give an anonymous tip to MI6 or the IIA and spooks will herd me into hiding. Time the call just right and you know just where I'll have to hide. Know me and you'll know I'll hide in a holybar. Then put the man there with the message.
Whoever did this has spectacular knowledge of me and my routine, not to mention master manipulation skills.
I step outside and I get the mail. As I do so, the scene replays in my mind.
I can still see her face.
She is beautiful.
But she is dimming.
I see her, but she is a reflection, a ripple across time and space.
There's only one letter. It's postmarked Best Friend, and addressed to Spartacus. I step inside, close the door, and open it up.
It reads:
WE ARE ALL SPARTACUS
SOMOS TODOS SUBCOMANDANTE MARCOS
I AM A BEST FRIEND OF YOURS
WHERE SOME WOULD BIND I WOULD WORSHIP
TO SAVE MY ISLE YOU MUST TAKE FLIGHT
There's also a xeroxed ancient map. It looks like it predates Idealism. Heck, it looks like it predates Columilis. I look at it. There's Iorepha, all right; and the northern shore of Afraga, and even the western part of Hindya. But no North or South Emeriqua. Instead, there's a dragon and the words 'MARE OCEANUS' in ancient capitals.
I mull it over. It's postmarked Best Friend, but that can't be right. Best Friend is the leader of Angleterre. In fact, some people doubt he even exists. But that's ridiculous. He's just as real as Spartacus, after all. But the fact remains that real or not, he wouldn't be sending me mail.
But it talked about his isle. But why would I want to save the Brytash Isles? I mean, sure, after we've defeated the Imperium, why not attack the government that helped them? But right now I just want to free Emeriqua.
I head out and take a cab to the Gangsta's Paradise. Trino might be there. He might know more.
They're playing an acid jazz version of 'Live Out Loud' when I walk in. I scan the holybar, looking for Trino. I don't see him so I take a seat at the bar.
"Can I help you?" the barkeep asks.
Yeah. I'd like a cola, and have you seen a man named Trino come by lately?
"Trino? He usually comes by every night at six."
Six? It's four now. I guess I can wait here for a bit. Thanks.
"Yeah, no problem."
I sit and I watch the band play. The lead singer is female, with ravishing black hair and big eyes. The face is too similar. I look away, eyes closed, trying to remember and trying to forget.
The pain, the beauty, the bittersweet.
I can see her face, radiant through the mists of time.
She is beautiful.
"Your cola, pal," the barkeep gestures. "Oh, there's someone who wants to talk to you."
What? Who?
"The guy in the black cloak? See him?"
I peer across the room, and in a secluded corner booth, away from prying eyes, is a man in a black cloak with a hood drawn over his head.
What did he say he wanted to talk about?
"He didn't say."
Thanks.
"No prob. Iasu bless."
I stride over there, curious as to the identity of this man. Is he the Subcomandante? Or even Best Friend? Only one way to find out.
You wanted to talk to me?
"Take a seat. Lemme buy you a meal." Seeing no point in arguing, I take a seat and set down my cola.
Okay... You mind telling me your name?
"I can't do that. If you knew why you'd understand."
Well that's brilliant. Are you Subcomandante Marcos?
"We're all Subcomandante Marcos."
Right, and we're all Spartacus, too, I deride. But I'm not Best Friend.
"Yes you are. You're someone's Best Friend."
Okay, yeah, but not in the sense that I'm the mythical neo-Fascist dictator of Angleterre. Now why can't you tell me your name?
"Best Friend is watching you."
So's Big Brother. That's where they got the idea.
"I know. But Best Friend isn't watching me. They were, but they stopped. If I told you my name, they would start again."
I wouldn't tell a soul.
"You would. I did. You have no choice. Conviction can overcome torture but never truth serum. I tried to kill myself when I was in Truth Acquisition. It wasn't because of the pain, even though the pain was deadly. It was because they were going to use the serum to get names and places. I broke a glass of water and almost severed my jugular vein with a shard. They found me almost dead that morning, but almost doesn't count. They patched me up and injected the serum. Then with what I told, they went on a manhunt. You're the only one they haven't gotten."
You could be a lot of people. But I'm more resourceful than you think, I won't get caught. So what's your name?
"I told you in my letter. Read between the lines and you will find my identity and my mission for you."
Just tell me.
"I'm not Ozymandias. I shared a cell with him. I killed him because he wanted me to, because he was afraid of the serum and afraid for his friends. I severed his veins and saw him die. I whispered Iohn 15:13 into his ear as he died. Then I slit myself to try to save my friends."
Kythe? Are you Kythe?
"Did Kythe know about Lot?"
I don't know.
"And I won't tell you any more save the mission. TO SAVE MY ISLE YOU MUST TAKE FLIGHT."
I really don't care about Angleterre at the moment. Emeriqua takes higher priority.
"Wrong isle. But that's besides the point. Listen, I have heard things. Do you know why they're here?"
Who, MI6 and the IIA?
"Yes."
To get me and any other major leaders, I assume.
"That's part of it, yes. But you're merely icing on the cake. My dear Lot, they want the angel, not you."
The angel?
"After the Idealist War, much technology fell out of use."
I know that. After any major breakdown of law and order, science takes a few steps backwards. The theoretical fall of Atlantis, the end of the Rhoman Imperium, the Sophiate Occupation, and especially the Idealist War. Yes, I know this. Why are you telling me?
"Okay, you know so much, you tell me what this has to do with the price of tea in Zhongua."
Well, some of it may still be around, but after two thousand years, it's not likely-
"That would be where you're wrong. Tell me, what's the name of the district next to Belfew?"
Belfew? That's, um, Papiyon?
"Other direction."
Aufitairvoir. The rich section of the South Side.
"Do you know why it's rich and what it's original name is?"
No, I don't. But it's full name is Aufitairvoirbei. It used to be an Air Force base, the headquarters of Strakom.
"Aerforz Tu and Lechinglaz were stationed here, as well as a host of other aircraft."
And this means what?
"Well, it means a whole lot... no pun intended."
Sure.
"Ever hear of Arififtiun?"
Sure, but it's a myth. A legend. There are no UFOs. I've been to the place as a guest of the Kawaiisu governor of the Native Republic and I saw nothing.
"Arififtiun existed, but it was an aircraft testing ground. They built strange aircraft that had never been seen, hence the reports of alien visitors and whatever. But that place was raided by techhunters long ago."
And this has what to do with the price of tea in Zhongua?
"You're bright. Tell me what military branch operated Arififtiun and where they were headquartered."
The Air Force, hqed in Strakom, I am guessing.
"Precisely. And it has come to my attention that they had a secret facility here."
What? The whole point of Arififtiun being in Nevadh was that nobody lived there. This place has too many eyes!
"I discovered a document a few days ago, from the ancient Union. It says there that the shipment of the new fleet had been completed and they were reassembled and ready for action."
I think I see where you're going with this.
"In the event of a nuclear war, the entire Emeriquan bomber and fighter fleet would take off and circle around the North Atlant. For some reason, the Union records don't have these new aircraft reported as taking off."
Maybe that's because they were top secret.
"I suppose it's possible, but it's also possible that they were being repaired or such. It could be nothing, but it could change the tide of war."
Do you seriously think that aircraft that have been sitting around for two millennia are still going to work? They'll be rusted and weathered and may just be piles of junk!
"Hey, you never know. Your mission is to check it out. Oh, and try not to get killed."
How am I gonna do this alone?
"You won't. Trino's tagging along, and he has a few buddies with him. I may even join in."
Wonderful. I am Spartacus, and I chase after pipedreams for a living.
* * *
I am the ruthless mercenary.
You fly into the city of Muskeeg, Mishakan about a year and a half ago. You're overseeing the eventual withdrawal of the Army from this city and across the border to the Anarchy-liberated city of Melwocki, which lies right across Lake Mishakan. With you, to make sure all goes well on the military side of things, is Kythe Merlowe.
I'm standing in an amphibious half-track watching the artillery flashes to the east light up the smoky night's sky. We're about to choke on the fog of war.
The situation is tense. The Datroyte Line has collapsed and the Imperium is making headway. We've set up an emergency defense line from Saginau to Granrapitz and are desperately trying to evacuate the southern portion of the state of Mishakan before Best Friend's pals overrun us.
"We're gonna have to drop the Makanak!" Kythe shouts into a cellphone. "Look, I don't know what to tell you, but they're pounding Bay City into the dust and it's a matter of hours before-What!? Well, alright, send the Forty-Fifth down here to Muskeeg. But I'm telling you, we're absolutely pressed! They-they did what!? Well, tell them they're gonna have to find their own way across or go guerrilla!" He presses the off button.
What's happening?
"They've pushed us out of Bay City and now they're marching to the Makanak Bridge. The Forty-Fifth Infantry is still trying to get access to the north and time's running out before they have to blow it up. They're also trying to swing around behind the front lines and outflank them."
We're essentially screwed, then?
"I hate to say it, but this isn't gonna be the next Dunkerque." He takes out a pair of binoculars and looks off to the east.
"They're coming over the ridge. We need to get out of here now." He offers the binoculars to me. I take a look and I see jackbooted armbanded soldiers march over the ridge on the edge of town. Motorized tank brigades are on either side of them.
What about the evacuation? We're not done yet.
"We don't really have a choice. The entire Seventy-Seventh has volunteered to stay behind and cover the evacuation and then go guerrilla. I've impressed every crop duster and twin-prop and fitted them with gun mounts and I'm gonna see if they can simultaneously evacuate the rest and serve as protection for the merchant marine."
We drove towards the water. We rolled off the beach and started for the free port of Melwocki. We slid into the murky, glassy water, steam rolling off the sides of the vehicle. A sergeant opens the hatch and pokes his head out.
"Sirs, I would recommend that you both come below. They may strafe us if they get control of the sky."
"Sure thing. Turast, you coming?"
You go ahead. I'm gonna get this for the war documentary. I take out a small handcamera and click it on and aim it at the sky.
"War documentary?"
After it's all over I'm gonna put together a video documentary. This is essential Emeriquan history. People are gonna look back at these days and wonder, and I think that our descendants should have a documentary to remember us by.
"Yeah, that's fine and great, but don't you think they'd rather watch us triumphing in Manjestar than getting our posteriors handed to us in the middle of an evacuation?"
They will need to see that we're not perfect. They will need to see that we're just real people, and we had our reverses.
"Yeah, well I wouldn't mind going down in history as the most glorious soldier ever to live," Kythe declares. "Well, whatever. I'm headed inside."
The hatch closes. Actually, this documentary idea is relatively new, but I think it's a good one. I came up with it a few months ago. Since then, I've gotten videotape of Sakram Anto burning the night I flew in. Someone else was in the air and got it all on tape. I've also gotten footage of a Resistance meeting, the Bellamarhan Riots, and university students in Iutah burning Pontifec in effigy.
I see an Emeriquan plane fly overhead. I follow it as it gets into a dogfight with an Angol fighter, and I watch the two planes fight as they go off into the distance.
I see an Imperial plane in the skies, looks like one of their jet planes. It starts shooting.
Wait a minute, it's headed for us!
I hear the clank of lead on steel and I duck. A stream of bullets passes right over my head.
It goes away. I look up, trying to see if it's safe yet.
A MISSILE!
I dive into the water as it hits the hatch and blows up. Looks like the hatch is melted shut and its going down.
WHAT?!
I dive under the water, following the half-track and tugging on the hatch. There's a hole in it, about as big as my head. Through the dim water I can see Kythe's face poking out of the hole, and then he goes away and I feel force pushing on the hatch.
It's no use. The thing is welded shut and there's no other way out.
Kythe reaches through the hole and pulls at my shirt. I drift down, and he motions me to look through the hole. I do.
He looks at me and pulls something off his neck. It's a steel chain with a military dog tag and a cross. He grabs the cross and motions to himself and points upwards. He smiles.
How do you smile as you drown!?
Only by the Xristos. Only He can make this possible.
He thrusts the chain at me and points at me and points up. I nod. Yes, I am going to Ierusalim Novae as well.
He shakes his head and points upward again, and then thrusts his fist.
Of course. I will carry on the fight. I nod and salute him.
He salutes back.
I let go of the half-track.
We drift apart. I go high and he goes low; yet he goes high and I stay low.
Vivere Xristos est et mortare quaestus est.
To live is Xristos and to die is gain.
I think that to myself as I ascend to the surface. Later, I would wash up on the Wiskonse shore, suffering from hypothermia. I recovered quickly and carried on.
I am the ruthless mercenary.
* * *
The getting in isn't the problem. We know exactly where the unlaunched aircraft are held. The problem lies in getting there without being followed. After all, MI6 and the IIA would consider our activities rather suspicious if they saw us walking around Aufitairvoirbei at night. They would guess that we had found it. They would guess right and there was no way I was getting into a firefight with however many enemy agents would follow us.
Der Luft Club, midnight. It's a second-rate dive in a third-rate section of Belfew. I'm standing in a corner, drinking coffee and making small talk with the lady barkeep.
"So whatcha waitin' for, tough guy?" She's blonde, single, and probably hoping that I'm her ticket outta this muckhole.
Friends. We're headed down to Aufitairvoir. I take out my Kreisler semi-automatic and polish it with a napkin.
"Really? What're ya gonna do there? Wait-don't tell me. There's a girl there waiting for you."
No, dollface. You're all I got.
She comes up from behind the bar, and sets down a glass she was rinsing.
"Oh really, then? Tell me, tough guy, what's your name?"
I can't say. Loose lips sink ships and I plead the fifth.
"You don't know my lips. Lemme introduce you to them..."
You really want a name?
"I gotta have something to go with that rugged face of yours."
Does Spartacus work for you?
"You like it high and mighty, baby? Yeah, I'll be your queen anyday..." she whispers into my ears. She's really trying.
No, I mean it. I am Spartacus. What's your name?
"Call me... your partner. I have something you're gonna really be interested in, Spartacus. Just follow me." She struts away and I decide to follow. This might be a contact for the raid.
We go into a back room. She turns on the lights, revealing Trino and Marcos and another guy. They are all wielding automatics and behind them is a bookshelf.
"We're just waiting for the third guy to show up," the cloaked Marcos explains.
"Hey genius," the barkeep growls, "next time use the backdoor. I hate having to be 'creative'. I had to be creative with this moron-" she points at Marcos.
"-And this moron came in the front way because he likes watching you put on the act." The other two guys chuckle.
So where's the third guy? And who is he?
"Leryt should be here any moment with the truck."
Leryt? Leryt D'urend? I think I remember hearing that name before.
"He's an old acquaintance of mine," Marcos relates. "So Turi, you ready to defend the Isle?"
Let's not get started on that kick again, please? I still don't know who you are.
"All right, fine. We'll save it for later."
We hear the rumbling of an old pickup outside. The woman opens the backdoor and we go out. Leryt is driving the truck, and nods at us.
"Sorry I'm late. I had to dodge some IIA spooks."
"We understand," Marcos nods. "Okay people, let's move out!"
We all climb in the back and the truck starts moving. I'm silent, contemplating the mission. What we're doing tonight could save Emeriqua, get us killed or possibly end up being a red herring. At any rate, I pray to the Xristos for strength and I meditate on Him the whole ride there.
The moon is new tonight. That's good, it means that we'll have more cover if we're being trailed. Of course, I'm sure Marcos planned it as such.
We passed the old gatehouse. Or what was, rather, the ruins of the old gatehouse.
It's rather deserted. There's not even a house in sight. I thought this was where all the rich people of the South Side lived.
"Yeah, in the officer's housing part of the base. Everything else is haunted, according to legend. That's why nobody lives here."
Ah.
We pull up to a hangar in the middle of a field of broken asphalt. Faded paint on the ground is marked like it is at any airfield.
"Well, looks like we're here," the woman commented.
"Everyone out," commanded Marcos. He walked up to the hangar door and shot the rusted, millennia-old lock off. "Someone gimme a hand with this?"
Trino came up to him and helped him lift it. The door went up, revealing...
Nothing.
"There's gotta be something here!" shouted Leryt. "Look for a switch, a button, anything!"
We searched. The hangar was bare, except for some rusted airplane parts and some oil stains.
We search for an hour. Nothing.
You sure your information was correct there, Marcos? I ask bitterly, leaning against a wall.
"I thought it was."
Well, the fact that you thought doesn't change a thing. I drum my fingers on the wall. So does Trino.
"Hey! I think I found something!" Trino shouts. "Turast, bang on the wall by you!"
I do. A few resounding thuds later, I stop.
"Now listen." He hits the wall next to him. A hollow noise issues forth.
"Good thing we brought the explosives," the woman noted as she pulled out bags of blasting gel. "Now step back as I blow through this wall."
An explosion later, we see a corridor going parallel to the wall and then headed downwards.
Why don't we go down, I suggest.
"Why don't you stay put, Xristion."
I turn around slowly.
Leryt is standing there, gun in hand, pointing it at me. Stepping from the shadows are half a dozen IIA agents.
"You're not going anywhere, none of you. You led us to the prize, just as I figured you would. Now put down your guns."
I have no choice. Looking around, I see that the woman and man (the only ones that I can see) have done so.
"You're one against several, Turast. I would recommend you put down the gun."
Just tell me one thing. Why are you betraying us?
"Because you betrayed me."
I never met you before tonight!
"But Marcos has. He switched around the bombs and lied to me four years ago. He almost got me killed. We were comrades-in-arms, and he betrayed me." He uttered the word with so much contempt and vile loathing that it was almost as if he spat it.
I'm not about to set my gun down. If I do, you will shoot me.
"Wait, speaking of Marcos, where is he!?"
How would I know?
"Enough of this. Shoot them."
The agents take aim, and...
Are sent flying as the entire floor tilts up. Machinery clanks and pistons thrust and the three of us start running away. We can't take these guys as it stands.
"Get them!" howls Leryt as he shoots blindly at us. The agents recollect themselves and take off after us.
The sound of an engine can be heard behind us. Sneaking a glance back, I see a strange contraption that looks somewhat like an airplane heading for the three of us.
A figure leans out of a window in the aircraft.
"Grab onto the side!" he cries. It's Marcos, but his hood has blown off. In the darkness and running for my life, though, I can't make out any features of his face.
The aircraft pulls up to us and then slows down to keep pace with us, and Trino opens the door. A bullet strikes down the woman, and she falls to the ground. The man leaps for the door but is shot as well. I run up and grab on and Trino lifts me aboard.
"Hey Marcos!" Trino screams at the cockpit. "They're all dead or aboard! Take off!"
And that we do. We ascend and leave behind the IIA and Leryt.
Thank Iasu for large favors.
* * *
So what is this thing? I ask as we're cruising at 50,000 feet.
"This is a stealth blimp." Marcos is sitting in the cockpit, flipping switches and throwing levers.
"What?" Trino says, stunned.
"A stealth blimp," reiterates Marcos. "I had heard of these things, but I didn't think they were actually real. Apparently they are. Although they're much better handled and much faster than any blimp I've heard of."
A few things I don't get. How is it in operation after two millennia, and how come the Union didn't use it in the Idealist War?
"Well, they probably didn't use it because they were saving it for a possible invasion of Eurasia. Why else keep it secret? As far as why does it still work, there's very little metal on this thing. As far as I can tell, most of it is ancient plastic polymers. We must have forgotten how to make them, but I can put our scientists to work on figuring out how to make more. And the largest part of the blimp is the balloon. But, it was built out of rather tough rubber and designed to deploy in mid-flight. As you saw, it takes off like a plane. At first, I thought it was a plane."
Why didn't they use it?
"I dunno, the Idealists musta taken control of Aumaja faster than they could deploy it. That war was pretty much fought and won in what? Twelve hours?"
Nobody really won that war. The Union defeated Idealism once and for all, just to collapse ten days later.
"Well anyway, what are we gonna call this? The Union never christened this vessel."
I think for a minute.
I take out the xeroxed ancient map of the world.
I stare at the Brytash Isles.
You said you're not from Angleterre? I ask.
"That's right. I'm currently flying above my Isle."
I stare at the map again.
Now I see it.
Somewhat smudged by the xerox, but still visible to the far left of Angleterre, is a small dot and the words INSULA SAINT BRENDAN.
St. Brendan's Island.
You're alive.
"I knew it would hit you sooner or later," Marcos said, throwing back the hood and revealing the scarred face of Brenton Veneratis, jack-of-all-trades.
Okay, I understand it all now. Zapatistas, Subcomandante Marcos, the hood, Leryt, all of it. You know, you're pretty darn insufferable sometimes, you much-missed piece of pedantic crap.
"Nice to see you too, Lot."
So many of our friends have died. So many of them have gone to Ierusalim Novae.
"Not yet," Brent says. "Their bodies haven't, at least."
Yes, yes, I know. You know, I think I have a name for this zeppelin.
"Shoot."
The Kyriakos Anastasia.
"Catchy. Didn't know you spoke Greek."
This day is just packed full of surprises.
Let the heaven-rescued land praise the Power that has made and preserved us a nation.
I am Spartacus leading a charge against the Rhoman legions.
I am Lot marching from burning Sattam and Kamora, head held high as I behold the might and mercy of the Lord.
The Kyriakos Anastasia flies off, away from the sunrise, floating above the clouds and Emeriqua.
* * *
I can still see her face.
She is beautiful.
You fly into Sakram Anto one year ago.
You are wandering among the ruins of the Caliphan Royal Court, long-ago scene of so much beauty and so much horror. You walk about the burnt brush that was the royal gardens.
There's the statue I blew up. Heh, the King was angry about that. That's where Spartacus started Operation Defy and Demolish.
No, I'm forgetting about Spartacus for now. I am not Spartacus, just a fifty-year-old man named Turast who's lost more than his share of loved ones and has some remembering to do.
I, Turast, search for my room. I see a few bricks still stacked upon each other. The mosaic patterns are still there on the sidewalk, but now grass grows where it was previously kept in check.
I find it. There is my room.
And on the burnt, half-destroyed mattress that was once my bed, playing a harmonica like some blues maniac, is Speri Eiksnom, the girl you like.
Hello, Speri.
"Turast! I haven't seen you since-wow, was it Jacago?" she cries out, running to me. I embrace her tightly and she kisses my cheek.
"Still stubbly, like I remember," she chuckles. "You haven't changed much. Hair's a little grayer, but it kinda gives you an aura of wisdom or something."
You look absolutely stunning, Speri. Why did I ever leave your side? I ask as we sit down on my fire-ravaged bed.
"The Revolution, Turi. It's taken a toll on all of us. But I had a harmonica to play when you were gone. It was a gift from Brent. He was-my goodness, they're gone, aren't they? All gone?"
She starts crying. A little bit at first, but gradually more and more. She rests her head against my chest, and sobs. I stroke her hair and try to calm her. A few tears fall down my cheek as well.
"Brent once said that revolution was at once virtue and terror. This is the terror of it, huh?"
Yeah. That it is.
"Turi, will we ever be free?"
We have always been free, my dear. It's called Xristioneiea. It means you're free from death and hell.
"We'll see them all on the other side, then?"
Yes. In Ierusalim Novae, there will be all the saints gathered together. We will see them all again. And we will be with them forever.
"Turi, I love you. I really do. I will be at your side forever."
I love you too, Speri. Intensely. Maybe after the war we can get married.
"Yeah, maybe."
We sit and stare at the wreckage, at the sky, into each others' eyes.
Her eyes are beautiful. The most gorgeous thing I've ever seen.
She puts her hand on my chin, and kisses me. We look into one another's eyes as we kiss.
Her eyes go wide and my ecstasy falls apart.
I remember hearing the gunshot a split second ago.
I look up, and standing behind her is a MI6 agent. He smiles in malice.
He killed her body.
I whip out my gun and kill him.
"How bad is it?" she asks, biting back the pain. I look and the blood has matted her black shirt to her back. I pull it up and I see a gaping wound. She has minutes, if that.
You're gonna be fine.
"I'm gonna die, Turi."
Like I said, you'll be fine. You'll be in the arms of the Xristos.
"I wanna be in your arms, Turi."
I lay her down on the bed so she can be at peace for the moment.
"I wish I could have been at your side. I wish we could have gotten married-"
Hush now. Iasu knows what He's doing. I wanted all those things too. I love you, Speri.
With her last reserve of energy, she reaches up and kisses me passionately. I kiss back and I cry.
She gives up the ghost.
I weep tears of sadness and joy. She is with the Xristos, but not me any longer.
I came here to remember the dead, not to see their number added to.
I take her lifeless, black-clad body and I carry it to the pond near the front gate.
I wish we had more time.
I lay her into the water and watch her fall towards the murky bottom, her figure vanishing slowly. First her legs, then her stomach, then her arms.
I can still see her face.
And she is beautiful.
PREVIOUS EMERIQUA HOME