E.H.U.D.: Chapter 9

Chapter 9

Maria Ruiz wanted a slow news day.  She would come into work, look over the daily rundown, and see that she was doing public interest, or covering a small personal scandal, and had two, three hours on air, tops.  Be home by nine, maybe go see a movie. 

But no, every day since September Eleventh had been a hard-hitting news spectacular.  Maria—and the rest of the AmeriNews crew—had been working nonstop for two months, rushing from the Capitol to the White House to the Pentagon and back again. 

Now Maria was back at the steps of the Capitol for the fifth—sixth?—major speech given by Senator Mitchell Terstein.  The first two or three had been interesting, and the rest had been newsworthy, but they had become repetitive.  Maybe she could talk her producer into letting her cover the impeachment...

 “You almost ready to go?”  Steig, her cameraman, was busy fiddling with cables and flipping switches on his gear.  “We need to do a sound check.”

Maria sighed and began to recite a short poem she used whenever Steig set her mic levels.  While she spoke, she felt her mind drifting away, lighting briefly on the irony that Terstein, once President Latterndale's strongest supporter, was now his most vocal opponent.  Had his support for the president only ever been an act, or did he believe that the represented a need Defenders for a fundamental shift in government?

“Okay, you're good.”

Her mind snapped back to the here and now.  “Great job, Steig.”

“Eh.”

She smoothed her hair and went over a few last minute opening lines before she just decided to wing it and play off the studio anchor. 

A voice in her ear began counting down: “Live in five...  four... three...”

There was a moment of silence, then she heard the voice of the anchor, even as the crowd behind her burst into wild cheering.

“—now go live to Maria Ruiz.”

Maria held back a frown; he wasn't giving her much to work with.  The tally light on Steig's camera flashed on, and she arranged her face into a look of professional interest.  “The crowd is certainly excited today as Senator Terstein makes his way onto the steps of the Capitol to give what will surely be a momentous speech.”  Terrible intro, but it would have to do.

“And what do you think will be the subject of the Senator's speech?”

For the second time in a minute, Maria had to fight back showing emotion.  Why should she bother to speculate when the entire thing was about to be shown live?

“Well, Jim, I'd prefer not to speculate at this time.  Why don't we go ahead and see for ourselves?”

She turned and trained her attention on the bulky form of Terstein.  He was pacing back and forth on the top step of the Capitol, working the crowd and responding to the shouts of encouragement the crowd sent his way.

After a moment he waved his arms and the audience quieted.  “Why are we here?”  Terstein called out, gestured to himself and the small group of guests gathered around him.  “Why are you here?”  He gestured to the crowd.

“I know why.  It's not to see a show, it's not because you had nothing better to do, it's not even so that you can say to your grandkids 'I was there!  I was there during the bad times, there when we were angry!'  No!  You're here because you're America!  You're here because you are the government, you are the decision makers!  And let me tell you, there are decisions to be made!”

The last few words were drowned out by cheering, but Maria could have recited them in spirit, if not word for word.  This was the same sentiment Terstein always started out with, convincing the people that they had any actual power.  

Terstein charged ahead, restating again and again just what Latterndale and his cronies had done, just how terrible it all was.   And now he was touching on the impeachment... Maria sighed.  Coffee waited back in the van. 

“But it's not enough to treat the symptoms of corruption!  You must root out the corruption!  And these people,” he gestured at his guests, “these people are willing to help you!  This is a global world, a world where brother helps brother, sister helps sister.  While you, America, find and uproot corruption in your country, these people are willing to help you!”

Terstein stepped back and gestured to the man standing to his left.  “This is Ahmad Mokri, the Iranian ambassador to you, America.  He is not you, he does not make decisions for you.  But he, and the nation he represents, are willing to help you.  He has been working with the United Nations to find a way to help America return to what it once was: a nation by the people, for the people, of the people!”

He paused, expecting a cheer, but received confused muttering.  They came to hear Terstein, and no one else.  Maria raised a eyebrow; this was different.

Mokri stepped forward and cleared his throat.  “The Defenders.”  His voice echoed over the crowd.  “These people, these victims of paranoid imperialism, represent a great threat to your nation.  Not in terms of the actions they can perform, but in terms of the governmental corruption they represent.  The people you have placed in the highest positions of trust have betrayed you.  They claim they are now willing to police themselves, to clean the corruption from their own halls of government.

“But as anyone knows, letting a criminal punish himself is a useless task.  As my esteemed colleague Senator Terstein has already stated, it is up to you, America, to make sure that this happens.  The United Nations is ready and willing to investigate those in high office, to find those responsible for this miscarriage of justice.”

He paused and took a few breaths.  “But it is up to you.  You must decide if you want the U.N. to step in and help you.  If you do, then you must convince the guilty parties, those who are currently in power, to let us in to help!”

The crowd exploded into cheers once more, but with far less enthusiasm then before.  As the cheers died down, one male voice could be heard, clear and loud:  “Don't tell us what to do, you goddamn sand nigger!”

The crowd was dead silent, and Maria wondered if the comment had been picked up by any microphones.

“Maria!”

She jumped, and dug at her mic's response button.  “What?”

“What the hell is going on?”

“It's better if you—”

“Excuse me!”  Terstein had retaken the front of the steps, and addressed himself to where the offending comment had come from.  “There is no need for that kind of—”

“Fuck off, nigger!”

This outburst prompted an instantaneous response.  People all around the offender began to yell curses, to push together at the central spot where they assumed the man to be.  In moments the sounds of struggle could be heard.

“People, please!  There is no need for—”

“Maria!  Back on you!”

Maria swung back to the camera.

“Maria!  What's going on there?”

“Someone in the audience appears to be picking a fight, Jim.  There have been racial slurs made, as well as strong language—”

She fell silent as a gunshot rang out.  Slow news day—she needed a slow news day.

“Shots have been fired, Jim!  Shots have been fired.  Uh, uh, please stay with us here at AmeriNews as we bring you live coverage of events here—”

She was a political correspondent, not a beat reporter!  She wasn't supposed to deal with... with actual danger!

Terstein was yelling, but no one was listening.  The outer edges of the crowd were dissolving away from the nucleus, but there were so many people that movement was all but impossible.

“Steig!”

“Eh?”

“Handheld, now!”

Steig grabbed the camera, unhooked it from its tripod and hoisted it onto his shoulder.

“We're going in.”  Maria turned and began to jog the short distance to the crowd, then tried, with little progress, to work her way further into the crowd.

“Slow down, I'm losing you!”

She ignored Steig, confident that he would find appropriate video, and spoke into her mic.  “I'm in the crowd, trying to see if I can find the source of the gunshots.”

As she spoke, she tried to ignore her director.  “Maria, damn it, now is not the time for heroics.  Do you hear me?  Pull out—”

She pulled the tiny speaker from her ear; not what the director meant, but close enough.

The crowd pressed in around her, and she thought she caught a flash of blood.  “I'm getting closer to the source of the gunshots.  I don't know at this time how many are injured, but I believe at least one person has been shot.”

Daytime Emmy, daytime Emmy, daytime Emmy—

New screams broke out, this time from the edges.  She tried to turn, but the crowd was too packed together.  For the moment, she was stuck in the crowd, pushed from every direction.

A moment later she felt the pressure behind her lessen enough that she could turn, and came face to face with an EHUD  The soldier was surging forward, his focus intent on the source of the gunshots.  As he passed, his immense shoulder armor pushed into Maria's chest, and she fell back, becoming tangled in the legs around her.

The crowd, panicked above, was even more chaotic below, verging on a stampede.  Maria tried to stand, to avoid being crushed, but kept slipping back down whenever she pushed herself up.  Her arms were trembling, and she found it hard to breath.  This was completely different from the reporting she was used to.

A hand clamped down on her shoulder, and a burst of adrenaline rushed through her.  She was now able to rise and turn partway around, and found the EHUD standing above her, trying to pull her to her feet.

The soldier spoke, his voice difficult to make out through the screams of the crowd.  “C'mon, ma'am, it's not safe.”

The helmet floated above her, blocking out her vision of anything else.  The dead rectangles of eyes stared into her, through her, pulling her in and dropping her out in another place, another time...

The soldier spoke again, his voice different this time.  “C'mon, you fucking bitch.  Again!” 

He straightened, the helmet pulling back to reveal the world around them: Dark, cold.  The lowest circle of hell, poured from concrete and lit only by a thin fluorescent strip recessed in the ceiling.

Maria sat on the floor, gasping for breath, her chest bruised and face bleeding from the soldier's attack.

“Again!”

The soldier took another step back, and Maria slowly rolled over and pushed up into a kneeling position.  She didn't want to give him another chance to hurt her.  It was bad enough that she had no clothes, that he could leer at her from the anonymity of his helmet.  But she would not let him hurt her.

“You really think you can get out of this?”  Other words went unsaid.  You're even stupider than I thought...

The soldier rushed forward, swinging his knee upward and into her chin.  She jerked backwards, her own knees stretching painfully and her head crashing down on concrete.

Basic training filtered past the pain...  Jaw, broken.  Several teeth shattered, the back of her head split.  She wasn't sure what was wrong with her knees, but she was certain that the joints were torn.

“Get up...”

No.  No...

“GET UP!”

No!

Get up!

Without meaning to, her leg shot up, the knee jamming back into place as she kicked the soldier in the chest, sending him flying backwards and into the wall. 

As he slumped to the ground, Maria screamed, letting out her pain, her shame at giving into what he wanted...

She let the scream peter out, gasped for breath, searched out her body for the pain, tried to fix it—

“Good.”

The soldier stood over her again.  This time, at least, there was a gash ripped in his armor.

“Good.”

He leaned in, grabbed her shoulder, pulled her roughly to her feet.  She felt her left leg dangling useless, felt cold air against the fresh wound on the back of her head—

And felt someone behind her supporting her weight.  “Are you alright?”

The room was gone; Maria was back in the crowd.  Around her was panic, in front of her was the soldier who had knocked her down.  He glanced her over, saw that she was able to stand, and pushed deeper to where the shots had been fired.

Maria stood shaking, unable—unwilling—to move.  She thought she didn't know what happened, prayed she didn't, but deep down knew what had just happened to her.

Someone pushed at her, and she began to stumble forward.

She knew what had happened...

She felt a vibration on her arm, and looked down to see her in-ear speaker jumping at the end of its cord.  As soon as it was re-inserted, she heard the chaos back in the studio. 

“What the fuck is she doing?  Steig, see if you can find her—”

“I'm trying to get this shot!”

“Fuck!  Okay, get the shot, we'll try to get someone out there—”

The speaker was back out of her ear.

Around her, the crowd finished its collapse into absolute chaos, but Maria was insulated from it by the chaos in her own mind.  She tried to deny what had just happened, but with every step more memories—memories like the combat with the EHUD—came to the surface.

By the time she had wandered out of the Mall, she was confident in what she had been—still was.

A Defender.

Hours later, and Maria was standing in front of the full-length mirror in her bedroom.  Her appearance—ear-length hair, healthy skin, rumpled suit—once so familiar, now seemed hopelessly alien. 

She saw another woman looking out at her from the mirror: bald, naked, all traces of fat gone, flesh pulled tight to the skeleton beneath.  A rotted corpse, wrapped in leather.

The Maria in the room untucked her shirt and pulled it up, exposing a knot of scars that twisted across her abdomen.  She ran her fingers along the scars, reading them like Braille, feeling the story written in her skin.  The touch recalled a set of memories, dim and growing dimmer...

At grandmother's house, four years old.  Gramaime's dog, a pit bull, rushing at her, digging into her, pulling her apart--

No other memories of the dog, though, just the one incident...

Another set of memories were embedded in the scar; fresher memories, clearer.  Not a child but a young woman, the woman staring out of the mirror.  Standing then—now—in a dark room, red lights pulsing from the far wall.  She crouched on the rough floor, feeling the cold air surrounding her, chilling every inch of skin.  Behind her was waiting, apprehension, hope the test would go well.  Ahead was pain, confusion... hunger.  In her was nothing.  She had been empty for such a long time.

Green light flashed from the far wall.  Light mixed with sound as dogs came tearing through a gate, yelping and yipping, desperate for the meat crouched in front of them.

Maria knew what she should do, her reaction bolstered by a year of near-constant training.  But she chose to remain still, inactive.  The only way out of this room was death: the dogs', or her own.  She had no desire to kill again.... and her death might be an improvement.

The fear and disappointment behind her arrived at the same instant as the dogs.  The largest in the pack—a golden retriever—rammed its muzzle into her unscarred belly, teeth digging into virgin flesh, rubbing against the liver.  She fell, the rough concrete biting into her back even as the dogs bit into her front.

A fog descended over her mind, shutting out the dogs and the people behind her, until only two minds were left outside hers.

The first mind was nominally human, but its thoughts were identical to those of the dogs.  It wanted—needed—her death, longing for it and finding excitement at her pain.  This was the mind behind the armor, the one who had knocked her down again, and again, and again and—

The other mind was the polar opposite.  It was calloused, yes, unyielding, yet compassionate.  It brooked no rebellion to its will, but it was ready to help those who needed it.  This mind was Allen.

Don't focus on the dogs...  Focus on yourself...

Don't want to...  Just want to die...

NO!  If you die, you've been a waste!  There's so much in you...  If you live, it will come out... If you live, you will be so much more...

She couldn't say no.  He believed in her, as she believed in him.

Everyone believed in him.

What do I do?

Find your strengths...  Your arms are clear...  Attack the biggest threat first...

Claws and teeth were locked into her legs—painful, but not immediately deadly.  Old Yeller, though, eye-deep in her intestines—

All the pain,  all the fear, wicked out to her fingertips, stayed and built as an electric charge.  She swung her arms up and in, energy jumping from her fingers to the dog's head.  It pulled back, pieces of Maria dripping from its jaws.  She struck again, felt the dog's mind give a brilliant flash before falling dark.

The two dogs on her legs sensed the death of their leader and looked up, unsure if their prey was still worth the risk. 

Taking hold of this uncertainty, Maria followed it back to the simple minds that generated it.  It only took a single push and—she was free.

Not free yet...

Allen...  Let me sleep...

You sleep now, you die...  Take stock...  What do you have?

Allen...

What do you have?

She wanted to ignore him.  Would ignore him, would fall back into the void...  But there was the other mind, and she felt its disappointment in the pain not experienced, the grudging contentment that at least Maria would not survive her victory.

If she died, this mind won.  She couldn't allow it to win.

Okay, focus.  What did she have?  No strength, no energy, no intestines—focus. 

Dog meat.  She had at least forty pounds of dog meat.

She felt the weight of the still warm carcass laying between her legs, propped up on her belly.  She pushed her mind in deeper, feeling the fur, muscle, individual protein chains.  Acids broke off, microscopic bits came free and floated down to connect to her, building bridges across the wound, bringing the sides closer, sealing her stomach with a knot of scars.

There was a burst of rage from one mind, a vortex of hate and disappointment.  And from Allen...

From Allen was pride.

And from Maria's own mind, fear.  She was scared.

Scarred.

How could she ever have forgotten this?

“She didn't even have a dog, did she?”

Back in her bedroom, Maria didn't turn.  She had been aware of the man behind her for some time, but had chosen not to knowledge him yet.  To do so would be to give in to the madness begun by the run-in with the EHUD

She couldn't put it off any longer.

“She raised rabbits.”

The man nodded. 

“How long have you been following me?”

Rather than answering in words the man—Vince—opened his mind to her, flooding her with a string of images, emotions—

“Stop.”

There was nothing.

“I'm not ready for that yet.  Just use words.”

“Suit yourself.”

In the mirror, she could see Vince shifting, sitting straighter, bringing himself back to what had once been the real world.

In that other world, the one belonging to the Maria in the mirror, Vince had been a friend, an ally.  Perhaps... lover?  No, lover wasn't the right word.  There was no romantic connection there.  They had copulated—that precise, mechanical word described the simple need fulfillment of their relationship.  He hadn't been the only one to fulfill that need.  There hadn't been much else to do in the early days of the program; it was that or give into the fear, the survival-mode desperation.

As these memories fought their way to the surface, they dragged another memory with them, a conversation with Allen—

“Two months.  I recognized you on TV almost a year ago.  That's what brought on the memories.”

Maria continued to stare into the mirror.  She knew all about “the memories.”  The one now shining in her mind was almost too terrible to think of.

“Some of the others found me.  We've been going around, each of us finding and following another, trying to bring back the memories as quietly as possible.”

“What do you mean, 'quietly'?”

“Ashleigh.”  His voice lost all trace of emotion.  She took that to mean he was reeling from a deep loss.

“She was in the Metro when she got it back suddenly.”

“The Metro explosion.”

In the mirror, she saw him nod.

In the mirror, the other Maria nodded, caught up in the memory that was ripping the real Maria apart.  She turned away, truly looked at Vince for the first time, saw more of him than a shape in the mirror.

His body was as she remembered it: dark skin pulled tight over jutting bone.  His eyes had changed, though.  All emotion, all humanity had been bleached from them.  Living the memories was one thing; experiencing them again was a trial that none truly survived.

“How many of you are there?”

“Nine, now, but we've found at least ten more.”

“What are you going to do with this private army?”

Teeth gleamed out of the darkness.  “What Allen wanted us to do.”

In the mirror, the other Maria was laughing.

“I don't think you really know what Allen wanted.”

Vince shrugged.  “Who ever truly understands a prophet?”

“Merv didn't.”

Vince jerked forward, his speed and intensity startling Maria.  “There was something wrong with Merv.  Someone else got to him first.  Used him.”

“Who would—”

“Who do you think?”

Maria nodded.  “So you're building us back up, to fight back on our own terms before someone else uses us.”

“'Fight' is a rather strong word, but... yes, essentially.”  The tension past, Vince leaned back and sighed.  “So, you going to join us?  We won't make you, but chances are you're being monitored somehow.  They'll figure out you're not Lois Lane anymore.”  What'll it be?  Pretend to be human a little while longer, or embrace your inner self?

Maria cringed at his voice—his essence—in her mind, but she understood why he communicated this way.  It was the way the EHUDs—the Defenders—spoke amongst themselves.  Vince knew what he was.

Maria....

Maria knew she couldn't go with him.  Knew she might not survive the night, if she listened to the memory that for now remained trapped in the mirror.

“I need time to think about it.”

Vince frowned.  What aren't you telling me?

Tomorrow... she thought.  Tomorrow I'll go with you....  Tonight... tonight just let me pretend to be human a little while longer...

Vince nodded, and then was gone.

Maria dropped into the chair Vince had vacated.  She warily eyed the mirror, but it was empty.  The other Maria had already escaped.

The memory played again in her mind, the other Maria reviewing it and laughing.

She lay curled up on the floor, the naked bodies around her curled and sleeping as she was, metabolizing the protein they had been rewarded with that night.

Stepping cautiously through the field of bodies were the two minders.  One cold, malicious, eager for the Defenders to suffer.  The other... Allen.

As he passed by her he stumbled slightly, his boot gently grazing her back.  She was instantly awake, alert, although she dared not show it.

She couldn't hide anything from Allen, though.

I want to talk with you... relax... don't give anything away...

Maria let herself relax, and Allen began to communicate, even as he continued to move through the room.

Mistlethwakey has a job for you...

Fear and loathing flooded from Maria into Allen; the General had been a dark god, the motivating force in her life for the better part of a decade. 

Allen was able to resist Maria's emotions; he was one of only two who weren't beholden to Mistlethwakey's rule.

Focus....  He has a job for you...  I have orders to program you for it...

That was even more frightening than the thought of doing a job for the General.  She had done jobs for him before, had loathed them, but they had all been more or less of her own free will.  Other Defenders hadn't been so lucky.  In the early days of the program some—the more vocal, violent, vigorous—had found themselves brought low by the minders taking them over and programming them to obey Mistlethwakey's will. 

Allen had made no friends for his part in the programming, but he had more than made up for it by what he had done since then.

I won't program you to do it...  But I will ask you to do it...

Fear fought with curiosity, and curiosity finally won.  What action could be so horrible that General dared not ask his thralls to perform them, but which Allen felt was important enough to ask of his supporters?

What do you want me to do?

There was a brief flare of disgust from Allen.  I don't want you to do it....  Mistlethwakey is preparing for something...  He's using us for his own game, possibly against the government...  I don't know why, but he wants you to kill the president...

The news was somehow anti-climactic.  The General didn't need to program her for this.  She had killed before, was prepared to kill again.  One order, and the president would be dead by her hands.

And you want me to do this?

It... it may be necessary...  if we fail, if the Q-bomb fails, we must strike back...  killing the president would be the best target...

Why me?

Mistlethwakey thinks—

No...  You... You could have asked anyone to do this...  why me?

You're the only one I trust enough for this...

What about—

The only one I trust will do this...

Maria thought about that.  If, in some theoretical future they were free from this, were functioning as the Q-bomb, there would be no reason for her to kill, ever again.  But if that mission somehow failed, if everything somehow went wrong, would she be able to sink this low, to murder the president?

I'll do it...

I hope you never have to....

And then she was alone.

No, not alone...  The other Maria was there, fully dressed, healthy, staring mournfully out from the mirror.

She seemed to be pleading with her: Things aren't that bad.  We haven't failed.

Yes, we have, Maria answered.  We have not made ourselves known as the solution, the end to war, to strife.  We are war, are strife.  We have been used, betrayed.  There is no recourse but to strike against them.

The Maria in the mirror continued to stare as the real Maria prepared to go to war.

Security around the White House had been extended for several blocks around the mansion.  Maria approached the cordoned-off area with a pair of soldiers patrolling the area, unaware of their impromptu third.

Their patrol pattern led them a cross-street where they met another patrol that was making a long loop back to the White House.  When the second patrol began their return, Maria was with them.

They crossed Pennsylvania Avenue, reached the White House lawn, and then made the trek back to where Maria had joined them.  Maria continued over the lawn, stopping only when she reached the main building.  She found a small alcove, invisible from any observer beyond the range of her control, and slipped inside.

Her mind stretched out and passed through the confines of the presidential mansion, locating the President and all his staff.  The big man himself was in the kitchens, nursing a tumbler of vodka, agonizing over the shambles of his once glorious career.

It would be so easy to finish it all right now—just a quick push on the right part of his mind and.... oblivion.  She let the thought trickle out and touch the president's mind.  To her surprise, he didn't reject it; he wanted to die.

Maria spent a few moments contemplating what to do.  While Latterndale had been responsible for the legislation behind the program, he was nothing more than a puppet for Mistlethwakey.  In fact, he had always been uncomfortable with the program, had tried several times to stop it.  He deserved death, certainly, but a quiet, humane one.

But if Maria did that, killed him in a way that could be mistaken for natural causes, he would be gone, the next cabinet member in line would slide into place and there would be no change in the status quo.  It wasn't enough to kill him; Maria had to make an example of him.

For that to happen, she would have to make herself known....

There were no scramblers on to protect the President from Defender assassins;  the same vibrational frequencies that wreaked such havoc on the Defender's abilities also caused splitting headaches and nausea in unprotected baseline humans.  If Maria made herself known now, it would take at least a minute for the scramblers to be activated.  More than enough time for a death, less than enough for an escape.

A Secret Service agent walked past her hiding spot, and Maria stepped up behind him, staying close as he conversed with the armored Marine guarding one of the building's entrances, then slipped in after him as he entered the White House.

As she stood by the door, she did another mental sweep of the building.  No one had noticed her; in fact, they were all feeling exceptionally confident.  Since Lemlin's attack, they had been on constant alert.  But when nothing had happened in the last two months, they irrationally believed that nothing ever would. 

She left the door—her best escape route—behind and went in search of her target.  With each step she became more certain that she wouldn't be leaving  on her own terms.  One way or another, she would be martyred with this action.

In a few moments she was in the kitchen, staring across a marble island at the pitiful grey figure of the president.  She moved in on his mind, opening him up and making him more talkative.  It wasn't hard; he had had quite a bit to drink.

“Hey,” she said.

He looked up, squinting at a familiar member of the White House staff.  “Oh, didn't see you come in.”

“How are you feeling?”

Latterndale shrugged.  “Going to hell in a hand basket; so as good as can be expected.”

“And the impeachment?”

Latterndale sighed and looked into his empty tumbler.  “They're ripping me apart in there.  Didn't do anything illegal, dammit, but they're just so sure that I was behind this whole clusterfuck.”

She almost laughed aloud at his self-delusion.  It didn't matter to him if what he had done was right or wrong; it was legal.

She took a step closer and leaned on the island. “Who do you think I am?”

Latterndale blinked and looked up at her, his head tilted to one side.  “What d' you—”  He stopped and opened his mouth, then shoved himself up from the island and stumbled away from her.  “Security!”

She felt it as his mind slipped through the hole she had left for him, had recognized her first as the AmeriNews correspondent, then as the monster that he had created.  He felt so very guilty, afraid for his life, wishing desperately that he had had the Defenders killed off— 

No remorse.  No wish he had never done the deed.  Only a wish that he had covered himself better.

She no longer had second thoughts about what to do.

Minds around her reacted to the president's summons; she didn't bother to stop them.  Instead she reached out and felt the president's intestines, laying like nested snakes in the bottom of his belly, and pulled at them, shoving them past his other organs, through his diaphragm, and up around his windpipe.  She pulled the coil tight, and the president's eyes bulged as air and blood-flow to his brain were cut off.  He fell to his knees, clawing uselessly at the protrusion in his throat.

A moment later Maria's grip relaxed as the high-pitched scream of a scrambler began to echo off the walls.  She stood, hands in the pockets of her sweater, as Secret Service agents swarmed into the kitchen.  All wore protective earmuffs. 

The first agent reached the president and stopped short when he saw the unnatural bulges in the president's neck and torso.  Several other agents began to stack up behind him, unsure of what to do.

Behind them all Maria stood, hunched over, felt her head throbbing in rhythm to the beat of the scrambler, slumped to her knees, screamed.

One of the agents entering the kitchen noticed her, her reaction to the scrambler.  He pulled out his pistol and aimed it at her.  “Get down!”

On the other side of the room the president, now on his back, continued to scrabble at the ground, to kick and twitch.

“We have a Defender!”

The agents closest to the president knelt and tried to hold him still as he writhed.  Those further back turned and leveled weapons at the woman collapsed on the floor.

“We have a Defender!”

Despite the pain, despite the constant assault of the scramblers on her every nerve, Maria pulled up one last thought, which she forced on everyone in the building. 

You fumbled the Football... The Q-bomb has detonated...

Archived For Posterity...

     So, a bit of a "State of the Human" update...  2013 has been a weird year so far.  I quit my job of nearly seven years, packed up about half of my crap, and moved to Hollywood.  So far, I've hung out in a jacuzzi with a famous director, met actor Doug Jones, and been insulted by Dane Cook during a show. Currently, I'm interning with Rhett & Link .  Things are going well.
     Now, for everyone's part of these periodic updates: E.H.U.D. draft notes.  I've posted the entirety of Part I, and chapters 9 and 10 are ready to be posted...  But I haven't gotten a chance to get much past that, as I've been, well, busy.  I've got through almost chapter 20 in unpublished old draft form, so rewriting that should go quickly, but don't look for too many E.H.U.D. updates in the next few weeks...  If you WERE looking...
     Anyhoo, that's all for now.  Have fun, and happy new year to y'all...

E.H.U.D.: Part I: Resurrection

A compendium of the chapters comprising the first part of E.H.U.D.: Prelude to Apocalypse.
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8

E.H.U.D.: Chapter 8

Chapter 8

“People want to give their opinions?  Fine; it's their right.  But as soon as they start throwing bricks, we'll throw back.  We're not here to be passive; we're here to take down the bad guys before they get a chance to f*** with the innocent.  That means I don't worry about who's who.  I go in; I get the job done.”  Shaun Wendleferce finished speaking and dissolved into a young Latina standing in front of a computer-generated background. 

“I don't think I'd want him keeping my neighborhood safe.”  She turned her mouth into a sad half-smile.  “For AmeriNews, this is Maria Ruiz—”

The saving grace was that he hadn't smiled.  He had the presence of mind to keep his face somber and not look like he enjoyed beating all those people.

Any benefit this might have given to public opinion was completely obliterated by what AmeriNews had shown with the interview: a small tag labeling the man as  PPD Officer Shaun Wendelferce,  Major, US Army, Retired.  Those words changed him from a trigger-happy cop beating on rowdy demonstrators to the hammer of government oppression, slamming down on any who questioned the official story on the Defenders.  The situation was made all the worse because, eighteen hours after the attack, there was no official story on the Defenders.

Edgar Latterndale sat on a bench outside of the Oval Office, watching the situation deteriorate on a screen in the opposite wall.

Beside him, Julia Telk sighed.  “This isn’t good…”  Her eyes flicked to the closed doors of the cabinet room.  “How much longer you think they can keep this up?”

Edgar shrugged.  “Who knows?  If they screw up on this, we’re all dead.  But if they don’t hurry up with something, we’re dead anyway.”

“I still just say we admit everything.”

Edgar sighed; that was the option he and Julia had been pushing all morning.  De-classify everything about the real EHUD program, admit their involvement in creating the Defenders, leave themselves at the mercy of the people.  It would likely be better than the treatment they would receive if the Defenders got to them first.

“Can't do it,” Isaac kept insisting.  “You think they'll let us off without serious jail time?”

“They can't put us in jail!” Edgar insisted, again and again.  “We haven't done anything illegal!  Unethical, unconstitutional, yes, but not illegal!”

“Perjury,” someone had reminded them.

The President didn’t listen.  He insisted on labeling the Defenders a foreign threat, on rooting them out, killing them, and coming out looking like the hero.  Only Edgar knew how impossible that would be, and he decided he wouldn't be the one to say it.  Let the stubborn old fool find out for himself what Mistlethwakey was planning.

Not for the first time, Edgar wondered if the stubborn young fool had any idea what the General was planning...

“Alternative...” he found himself saying.

Julia looked at him. 

“We drop the notion of having any claim to the Defenders; that ship sailed the minute Ashleigh lost it.  We treat them instead as an independent entity and deal with them directly, in a First Nations kind of way.”

“No way Isaac goes for that...”

“Forget Isaac.  Charlton will go for it, once Isaac gets impeached or resigns.”

Julia sighed and kneaded her temples.  “Won't work.” 

They sat in silence for a few minutes, then heard an incomprehensible flurry of sound as the door to the office opened and the stout form of Rosencrantz pushed through.

“There's got to be a better way to block eavesdroppers.  I'm getting a headache.”

Julia grunted.

Rosencrantz leaned against the wall under the television and stared at the floor.  “All right, you guys have a convert.  I was looking at some stuff, pre-AmeriNews, And it looks like Philly isn't the only one.  L.A., San Francisco, Chicago, all the big cities are protesting in some way.  Smaller towns, we got local government denouncing us.  Telethepee, Ohio just signed a declaration of secession.”

“So the public is definitely with the Defenders on this?” Julia asked.

“Definitely.  No words from overseas, but it's obvious where the U.N. will be.”

“And Isaac still wants to blame terrorists and ride this out?”

Rosencrantz nodded.

“Fuck this.”  Edgar stood and began walking away.

“Where are you going?” Julia asked, standing as well.

“Home.  Just like last night.  He won't listen; he won't hear me.”

Rosencrantz shuddered at the phrase “last night” but kept himself enough together to say, “C'mon; he's almost got a statement worked out.  Just a little longer...”

Edgar stopped and stared absently at a portrait at the end of the corridor.  “Amanda needs me...”

When he got home the night before, he had found Amanda, still in her blood-smeared dress, asleep in the bed next to Ethan.  He had tried to waken her, to get her out and into her own room.  She resisted at first, and eventually Edgar lay down at the foot of Ethan’s bed, determined to stay with his family even as he suspected that he had lost the right to do so.

Amanda’s stumbling exit from the room woke Edgar an hour later and he followed her into their room, helped her out of her dress, into the shower.  When she was done she sat on the bed, undressed, staring at the wall.  Edgar's instincts told him he should do something to help.  This wasn’t the way Amanda acted; she was an actor, not a reactor.  She was always busy, always ready for something new.  Seeing her completely destroyed by what had happened just felt… unnatural.

At some point he woke up, dressed in clean pajamas, in his own bed.  He found Amanda downstairs, reorganizing the house, giving new orders to the maid, sending faxes and looking over client account files for work.  The slow-motion Amanda from the night before was gone; she looked to be making up for lost time.

“Edgar,” she called as he came down the stairs.  “I’m not going into the office today; I can write grants from home.  I want you to go get Ethan; breakfast is in ten minutes; Dora has everything ready.  We’re going to have a nice family meal, then we’re going out to my parent’s place.  They’re on vacation, and they won’t mind if we use the house.”

“What?”

 Amanda didn’t stop moving.  She walked to a wall screen, brought up a spread sheet full of figures, tapped at something, nodded, and moved over to a small mound of papers on the dining room table.  “It’s been forever since we’ve gotten out of the city—“

“We’re not in the city—“

“And Ethan won’t be missing anything at school.  It’ll be good for the family to be together.”

She wasn’t making up for lost time.  She was trying to put as much time as possible between last night and the rest of her life.

“Mandy, you know I can’t—“

Amanda stopped moving and stood stock-still, her bathrobe quavering from the force of her deep breathing.  “Edgar.”  The name was ice cold.  “You’re a member of this family.  You’re not a sperm donor, not a pay check, not the goddamn SecDef.  You’re a father, a husband, and you will start acting like one.”

The accusation in her words triggered something; everything he had been holding back flooded in, and everything was swept away until he stood alone, holding that pathetic little pistol against the unknown, a spear against a tank.  His knees gave way, and he slumped against the kitchen island.

Amanda rushed to his side.  “Shh, shh, it's okay, you know I love you, it's okay—”

It wasn’t.  It could never be, not after last night.  The Defenders were Mistlethwakey's tools; how long was it before the General decided to bring them to bear against Edgar?  How long before Isaac found out Edgar's role in last night's events?  Amanda wasn’t safe; Ethan wasn’t safe; the whole world was under the gun now.  And it was Edgar’s fault.  He had failed as a husband and a father; it was too late to try again.

He fought back to his feet, pulled away from Amanda.  “No.  You take Ethan, go where you need to, to be safe, but I can’t go.”

“Edgar, please, your family needs you—“

“No, you need the person you think I am.  Who knows?  Maybe I’ll become that person.  But right now, right now I have to be practical.  I can’t be the person who makes you feel safe, I have to be the one who makes sure you are safe.”

“Edgar, please—”  There was a note of last night’s desperation in her voice.

He was still in the East Room, still hearing the shouts, the wet sound of pain.  But now he was doing it, was stepping up to face the creature.  He was more terrified now than ever before, but if he got through this, everything he had ever hoped for would come to him—

“What I do today, I do for us.”  He grabbed Amanda’s arms and forced her to look into his eyes.  “You want me to be a husband?  Let me protect my family; then I’ll be back with you, and I will never leave again.”

Amanda said nothing, and Edgar wished he could be inside her mind, could know what she thought. 

After several moments, Amanda nodded.  “Go.  Fight the fight, face Lemlin again.”  At least she seemed to know what he was thinking.  “But come back to us.”

He leaned down and kissed her.  “I’ll be home for dinner.”

Now, standing outside of the president's office, he checked his mobile.  He'd be back not long after lunch...

“Amanda needs me more than Isaac does.”

Both Julia and Rosencrantz nodded, then turned away from him and reentered the office, accompanied by another bark of incoherent noise.

Edgar made his way across the mansion to where an armored car was waiting to take him back to his own vehicle, but stopped when he heard raised voices in the entrance hall.  He paused and listened for a moment, recognizing the accented voice that dominated the argument.

“We will see him!  He is the one at the center of the claims, and we will hear directly from the man himself!”

It was the Iranian ambassador, Ahmad Mokri, a man Edgar had met in a professional capacity on several occasions.  He might be exactly who Edgar was looking for.

Abandoning his exit strategy, Edgar made his way to the entrance hall.  Moments later he found a small group of well-dressed men and women of varying ethnicities and ages; all were known on sight, although he could only recall a few names.

Ahmad stood at the head of the group, arguing with Elliot Nieman. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Mokri, but I must stress again that the president is in a very important meeting—”

“This isn’t about his meeting, or even his country!  This is a global issue, and will be addressed as such!”

“I cannot simply—”

Edgar smiled.  If Isaac wouldn’t listen to his own advisers, then a half-dozen irate emissaries should do the trick.... and he would still be home in time for dinner.

“Ahmad!” he called, summoning up as much charisma as he could.

The chief of staff was forgotten as Ahmad rounded on him, a smile beginning to bisect his face.  “Ah, Mr. Secretary!  I'm so glad to see you alive today!  That was quite a display of heroism you put on last night!”

Edgar suppressed a shudder and bowed his head.  “Just doing what anyone would do for their country.”

Ahmad inclined is head.  “I would certainly hope so, yes, but perhaps this country was not in need of your heroics?” 

“Well, until we can find out the truth behind Lemlin’s words, we should give the country the benefit of the doubt.”

Ahmad shrugged.  “Which is why we...” he gestured to the small crowd clustered around him, “are here.”

The chief of staff stepped forward.  “I’m sorry, Ed, I tried to stop them—“

Edgar smiled in what he hoped was a pleasant manner.  Based on Ellie's involuntary shudder, it wasn’t.  “It’s all right.  They have legitimate concerns.  Hell, we all do.  Maybe speaking with the president can help to settle those fears.”

“The president left clear instructions that he wasn’t to be—”

Edgar leaned in close, trying to stretch himself up even half an inch higher.  “Look,” he hissed, “I’m a cabinet member, an adviser to the president.  Specifically, I help him in the defense of this nation.  If that requires helping him through some… negotiations… I will certainly do my best.  So don’t push this, okay?”

Ellie swallowed and nodded.  “I guess if you were to escort the—”

“Can do.”

He turned back to Ahmad’s delegation.  “Ladies, gentlemen, if you’ll follow me; I’ll see what I can do about getting you in to see the president.”

Edgar led them back the way he had come, realizing that no matter how Isaac reacted, he now had important international allies in place for his upcoming promotion. 

Edgar stopped his followers next to the bench he had so recently left.  “If you'll wait here, I’ll see if the President is ready to meet with you.”

Through the door, through ten feet of incoherent, high-pitched babbling, into the small knot of people clustered in front of the desk.

“—would make running this place fucking impossible!  We would have a war on our hands, one we can’t afford to—“

“And if we just stick our heads up our asses, what then?  Huh?  You think they’ll treat us any better?”

“Look, maybe we should just go online, see which idea is the most popular right now—“

“Shut up, Eli!”

Rosencrantz had been wrong; they were nowhere near close to a resolution.

The President noticed Edgar's presence.  “Ready to help us out here, or are you still saying we should sell out?”

The discussion lulled as all eyes turned to Edgar.  “I've reconsidered my stance, yes.  I now say we acknowledge Lemlin and the rest of the Defenders, grant them asylum, and allow them to initiate the Q-bomb.”

“Q-bomb?” Rosencrantz asked.

“Something Fendleton talked about,” the president said, dismissing the questio with a wave of his hand.  “Got the name from an old movie, The Mouse That Roared.  Set up the Defenders as an unassailable super-weapon, and world peace ensues.  This only works, of course—” he glared up at Edgar, “—if they're under our control.”

Edgar shrugged.  “Doesn't matter to me; you won't listen to reason.  Maybe you'll listen to international scrutiny, though.”

“The fuck does that mean?”

“Shut off the voice boxes; we have visitors.”

Before Isaac could protest, Edgar hurried to the door, pulled it open, and gestured flamboyantly to the emissaries waiting outside.  The unintelligible babble was choked off just before the emissaries stepped forward.   

“Mr. President,” he called over his shoulder, “may I present Ambassadors Mokri, Ammanue—”

“Excuse me!” Issac said, lurching to his feet.  “This is a private meeting, and uninvited guests are not...”  He trailed off, glancing from ambassador to ambassador.  “Mr. Mokri,” he said at last, “to what do I owe this pleasure?”

Ahmad inclined his head in greeting, then frowned.  “First, I would like to offer my condolences for the members of your administration who lost their lives in last night’s unpleasantness.”

“I’ll be sure to pass that along to their families.”

Ahmad nodded.  “Secondly,” he paused and grimaced.  “Secondly, I would like to ask you about the validity of Mr. Lemlin’s statements.”

Isaac glared at the man.  “I’m afraid we’re still trying to ascertain that for ourselves.”

Ahmad looked back at the others in his group.  “So you deny his accusations?”

Edgar swallowed and held his breath; outside scrutiny had arrived in the White House and the time for strategy had passed.

The president chewed on his lip for a moment, then straightened.  “While we of course take no responsibility for Mr. Lemlin’s actions, we are putting all our effort into discovering the veracity of his statement.”

Edgar released his breath.

Ahmad nodded, disappointment clear in his expression.  “I thought that’s what you'd say.  I suppose you’ll be clarifying your position in due course?”

“Certainly.”

Ahmad nodded again.  “Well, before you do, I’d like you to consider some things.  These are not official positions.  Just… food for thought.”  He gestured back at his entourage.  “India, Pakistan, Kenya, Korea, Indonesia, and of course Iran, have all been in discussion, and we’ve come up with some provisional resolutions.  If the United States was responsible for the creation of the Defenders, as Lemlin alleges, we will consider it an unconscionable crime against humanity.  However, we will judge it no more harshly than what many of our own countries have done in times past.  We are willing to work with the United States, to help in any way we can to put this unpleasantness behind us and move on as a species.

“But…” here he paused and glared at Isaac until the president averted his eyes.  “But if we find that the United States has intentions, any intentions of using the Defenders as weapons, in any way, we will respond in kind.  If what Mr. Lemlin says is true, then the Defenders are on the same order of magnitude as nuclear devices.  We have no Defenders, so we will have to respond in kind any way we can.”

The room was dead silent.

“Did you just threaten nuclear retaliation?” the president whispered.

Ahmad laughed, the sound seeming inappropriate under the circumstances.  “Threaten nuclear retaliation?  I did no such thing!  Unless of course this conversation is being recorded, in which case I would love to hear what else is in the recording.”

“I'll take what you've said under advisement.  Good day.”

Ahmad inclined his head once more.  Without another word, he and his entourage turned and left the room.

Edgar closed his eyes.  That had gone about as bad as could be expected.

“Did Bob put you up to this?”  Isaac asked.  “Did Bob think the Defenders would be so much better off on their own?  It would have worked, Ed.  We would have had our own goddamn invincible army, volunteering itself on its own terms, the rest of the world none the wiser.  But Bob just had to put them out in the open, didn't he?”

“Not sure I follow...” 

Isaac sneered and leaned back on his desk, the rest of his cabinet forgotten.  “Doesn't tell you everything, does he?  Back when all this started, he wanted to use the Defenders as rogues to start World War III, let us take out anyone we didn't like, come out as a superpower again.  I was the one who talked the president into wiping them and getting them to volunteer for the military.  Who would argue with us if we just found super-soldiers?”

“I'm fairly certain Bob isn't picking a war.”

Either Isaac didn't hear, or he didn't listen.  “You tell him he's won, all right?  He gets his goddamn war.  We have rogue nations making super-soldiers.  We'll retaliate.”

Julia and Rosencrantz both groaned aloud.  Several others looked uncomfortable.

“Eli!  Get ready, we're going live in twenty.”

Edgar shook his head and left.  He saw now why the General wouldn't work with Isaac any longer.  It would have to be Edgar who fulfilled the plan...

But he had no intention of letting Mistlethwakey pull his strings.

Maria Ruiz sat in the ready room at the AmeriNews D.C. studio, rubbing her head and sipping from a cup of coffee that didn't contain alcohol, if her producer happened to ask.  The entire news office had been going at a frantic pace since last night, with Maria pulled in to cover the various riots, in addition to her role as a political reporter.  She hadn't slept since two nights ago.

She was contemplating a quick nap when commotion at the door caught her attention.  An intern stood there, tablet in hand.  “Excuse me, everyone,” she said, and the haggard reporters swung their eyes her way.  “Just told the Eagle will speak in less than five minutes.  Watch, pick a position, and be ready for on-air.”

Maria groaned, then turned to the small makeup table she had been assigned.  She began unscrewing jars, ignoring the flurry of activity starting behind her.  Forty-five minutes ago: she had been on forty-five minutes ago, for a two-hour block, and was now going back up.  She needed a nap...

Too soon, the sound of the AmeriNews “Breaking Report” music interrupted her thoughts.  She could see the reflection of a tired-looking anchor on the television.  “We have just received word that the White House will be issuing a statement addressing the attack upon President Latterndale and the accusations leveled against him by one Mervin Lemlin.”  He paused for a moment.  “We now go live to the White House.”

The scene changed to a blue curtain, bright behind a dull-grey podium.  Something looked off about it....  There were no flashes of cameras, no general hubbub of a crowded room being picked up by the podium’s microphones.

It took Maria a few moments to realize that the room was deserted, save for the camera operator.

A moment later the heavy-set form of Eli Rosencrantz came into the shot and slid in behind the podium.

“Members of the American public… hello.”  His voice sounded hollow, as if he were speaking from memory without understanding what he said.  “It is with great sadness that I come to you today to speak of the events that transpired last night.  As you are all no doubt aware, at eight seventeen on the evening of September eleventh an unknown assailant, claiming to be deceased Private First Class Mervin Lemlin, infiltrated the White House and proceeded to assault the president, as well as guests and security staff through inexplicable means.  Immediately prior to the assault, allegations were made against the United States military, and the nation in general, that we were responsible for the creation of so-called Defender super-soldiers, such as the assailant himself.”

Rosencrantz paused, clearly shaken.  Maria turned in her seat, seeing that the others in the room had also turned to the television. 

“While we are taking these allegations very seriously, and cannot at this time completely rule out the possibility of some faction within the government being responsible for the illegal and unethical creation of the Defenders, the President, his administration, and the United States as a sovereign whole deny any involvement in these heinous acts.”

The room erupted in yells of disagreement and anger.  Maria tried to ignore the shouts and listen to Rosencrantz.

“It is our firm belief the assailant, as well as other Defenders, if indeed they truly exist, to be the work of foreign agents, intent on destabilizing this government. 

“It is with this belief that we will attempt to come to the truth about this incident and bring to justice those behind it.”  He paused again, giving the camera a thousand-yard stare.  He looked as if he had just realized he was giving a speech on live TV.  “Um… Th-thank you, and good night.”

As Rosencrantz abandoned the podium, the scene shifted back to the AmeriNews anchor, who mirrored the Press Secretary's stare for several seconds before thinking of something to say.

The situation was different in the ready room.

“No, that is total bullshit—“

“Do they really think we’re that stupid—“

“What the hell were they thinking—“

Maria slumped forward, her head resting on the mirror.  She let out a soft laugh, which just for a moment turned into a sob; no chance of a nap now...

E.H.U.D.: Chapter 7

Chapter 7

Edgar Latterndale rose from the floor, his clothes soaked in blood, and stepped up to the platform. He held up a large pistol and spoke, his voice lost in the dull roar of the ballroom.  Merv Lemlin turned to stare down at Latterndale, looked as if he were about to speak, and then was obscured by a pulsing white circle.

“Shit.”  Alice leaned forward and paused the video.  “Needs to buffer.”

“Nah,” John said, “won't do any good.  Their servers are probably overloaded.”

They sat in John's cubicle, surrounded by five of their coworkers, staring at the video on John's second screen. 

“Ten bucks says their servers crash,” someone called from the back.

“It's not going to crash,” someone else answered, “it's the state channel.  They have enough resources to handle this kinda thing.”

“Not something this big.”  Alice shook her head and leaned back into her chair.  “I still can’t believe this happened.”

Walter, a structural engineer whom John had worked with over a decade ago, scooted forward between Alice and John.  “I heard that it was successful, and the reason it’s taking so long to get an official statement is that they’re trying to find a convincing body double.”

“No, this guy kept his camera on the whole time, and you can see Latterndale getting pulled out.”

Walter shrugged.  “I don’t know.  Just what I heard.”  He sighed. “Damn, it’s just so surreal, you know?  I mean, Kennedy was just a bullet or three, all the theories aside.  But this?  What the hell was this?”

“Just special effects,” John said, refreshing the page in an attempt to play the video.  “They know that whatever happened all the conspiracy nuts’ll over-inflate it, so they’re doing the job for them.  Whatever happened is really embarrassing, and they don’t want anyone to know.”

“Like what?”

John shrugged while he absently juggled a pen.  “I don’t know.  Maybe someone in upper management went nuts and blew up the ballroom.”

“Why—no, how would they get everyone together in less than a day’s time to film a cover up that is going to be leaked by AmeriNews?” Alice asked.

“Body doubles.”  John lost control of his pen and watched it roll across the floor.

“Alright,” Walter said, “for the sake of argument, let’s assume that everything was real.  This guy really could levitate things and read people’s minds and stuff.  You think he’s telling the truth?”

“You mean about being made by us?”

“Yeah.  I know we’ve done some pretty bad stuff in the past but this...” he shrugged.  “I don’t know; it just seems so... North Korean.”

Alice rolled her chair back and forth, her lips pursed in concentration.  “I don’t support what Lemlin did.  I’m pretty well anti-violence.  But I do think he was telling the truth; why would he lie?”  She smiled, looking embarrassed.  “I’ve already joined a pro-Defender rally for this Saturday.”

John snorted.  “Sounds like something my niece would do.”

“Well, she sounds pretty smart—civically minded, at least.  What do you think, John?  Did we do this or not?”

John thought for a moment.  He had seen some of the video and heard Lemlin’s testimony; it all seemed too fantastical to be true.  And when the White House made an official statement, it would of course denounce Lemlin as some sort of foreign agent.  What was it that Rachel said?  If the government made an immediate statement, it was a cover-up?  So if they’d waited this long… “He’s lying.  It’s all part of his attack on the president, to discredit him if he couldn’t kill him.”

“So I guess you’re a big government kind of guy, then.”

“No, I just can’t imagine us giving someone psychic abilities and then not exploiting it for everything its worth.”

“So you admit he really had psychic powers?”  Walter said, catching onto John's phrasing.

“I’m still having trouble believing that.”

Someone at the back of the cube retrieved the pen and began to juggle it.  “Okay, screw the rest of the video; we all watched it earlier.  White House have a statement yet?”

John turned back to his computer and ran a search.  “Nothing.  Statement from the Pope about Lemlin’s powers, though.”

Alice leaned forward.  “Do tell.”

“Let’s see.  Careful examination of scripture, consulted with many religious leaders, da-da-da-da…  Okay, basically it’s either a corrupted revelation of God’s power or a show of the adaptive powers of nature; he hasn’t decided.”  He glanced at the clock in the corner of the screen.  “Ooh, and it’s late and I forgot my lunch.  I hate to leave this conversation unfinished, but I’ve got to head out.”

Walter dropped a hand onto John's shoulder.  “First, update on that tower.”

“Yeah, sure.”  John closed the web browser and opened is SkyCrest file.  “Alright, let's walk you through this….”

The only remnant of the original Sky Crest was the Central Maintenance Core, though it now stretched upward for over a mile.  Around it, was a triple-helix spiral of colossal dodecahedrons, each containing multiple floors.  In the gaps between the outer layer of glass and the triple-helix were atriums stretching across several stories.

The shopping center that extended from one side had become moat-like, encircling the tower’s half-mile wide base.  Twelve smaller towers projected up from the pit to join the central tower as buttresses.

Walter nodded appreciatively.  “Pretty nice....”

“Is it workable?” Alice asked.

John shrugged.  “I ran stress tests.  As far as the computer’s concerned, all it needs is an underwriter.”

“Yeah...”  Walter sighed.  “Not likely to happen.”

“What's that mean?” the man behind him asked.

“It means that with a major terrorist attack on the president, the economy's going to take a nose dive, and luxury towers are out of the question.”

The other man responded, and John took the opportunity to slip out of the office.

He had walked for two blocks before he realized he wasn't particularly hungry.  He just wanted to get out of the office, to digest the events of the previous evening.

It was tempting to dismiss them as fabrications.  Psychic super-soldiers were too fantastic to be real.  To accept them at face value would be a tremendous leap of faith, one John wasn’t sure he was willing to make.  For him, the paranormal was a mixture of con men and credulous victims, the Bible was exaggerated folk-lore, and extraterrestrial life was single-celled organisms living in ponds on the moons of Jupiter.  That was life, that was normal.  If he accepted at face value what had happened, if the walls of that normalcy could be breached that much, what else could find its way through the cracks?

Possibly nothing, he realized.  Psychic super-soldiers didn’t entail… unicorns, say.  And, in all honesty, the Defenders weren't entirely unanticipated; he had seen the rumors online, the supposed legal foundation....

The government would be aware of that, too.  Maybe they were covering something, or trying to pick a fight, and just used a convenient story everyone already believed.

The sounds of a crowd on the sidewalk ahead pulled John out of his thoughts, and he looked up to see a swarm of people gathered outside an Army recruiting office, most carrying signs, and several wearing crudely printed “Defend the Defenders” t-shirts. 

One of the t-shirt wearers, a frizzy-haired  man wielding a megaphone, was in the middle of a tirade.  “—have been victims of the military-industrial complex for too long!  Who suppressed American workers in the 19^th century?  Them!  Who usurped South American sovereignty in the 20^th century?  Them!  Who cut the legs out from under public health care in the 21^st century?  Them!”

Each shout of “Them!” brought an answering chorus from the audience.

“And now,” the man continued, “they’re hitting us where we live, screwing around with us on the genetic level!  Well, I say, ‘No more!’  No more of our children into the meat-grinder, no more soldiers sacrificed to Them!”

If the man said more, it was drowned out by fevered cheering from the crowd.  The uproar was loud enough to attract the attention of those within the office, and the cheers turned to angry boos and curses as an officer came out and began speaking to the man with the megaphone.

John had seen enough.  He was just about to continue on his way when a woman detached herself from the crowd and came to stand beside him. 

“Hell of a show, huh?” she asked.

“Yeah….”

The woman was a little shorter than John, pale and thin, with high cheekbones and short red hair.  Despite the relative warmth of the day, she was wearing a thick, dirty jacket.  Her smell caused John to take a step away.  The woman stepped closer to him again.

“So,” she said conversationally, “you can spare a dollar, maybe?”

John decided to give her the benefit of the doubt.  “Sorry, I’m not interested in donating.”

The woman laughed, a high-pitched, grating sound.  “Donate!  Hah!  No.  I’m not with them.  No, no, no, hell no.  Hah!  No man, lunch money.  I’m hungry; can you spare a dollar?  Maybe three?”

“No, sorry, I don’t carry cash.”  He turned and took a few steps.  Behind him he could hear raised voices.

“C’mon,” the woman insisted, “is that any way to treat an old friend?”

John didn’t look back.  

His indifference didn’t seem to faze her.  “C’mon, man, you seriously don’t recognize me?  It’s me, Cyd, c’mon, you gotta recognize me!”  She reached out and caught his hand.  “You gotta be shittin’ me John; you gotta be shittin’ me!”

This time John did turn around.  He stared at the woman—Cyd—trying to figure out how she had known his name.  Stolen wallet?  No, she had guessed and gotten lucky.  Had to have done.  Behind her, the crowd was closing in on the officer.

“Look, lady,” John began, trying to retrieve his hand, “I don’t know where you think you know me from—“

“From the Program, John!”  There was a crazed sheen to her eyes.  “From the Program, back when we were Defenders!”  She wasn't loud, but she was able to draw the attention of the crowd's fringe. 

“You’re crazy!” John managed to free his hand and stumbled back a few steps.

“Are you really a Defender?” someone in the crowd asked as he made his way closer to John and Cyd.

“Hell, no!” 

“Hell, yes!”  Cyd declared.  “Me and John, we were EHUDs!  I wasn’t nothing special, but John here, Allen picked him to lead the resistance!”

More people began to drift from the crowd, pulled by the siren song of Cyd’s ramblings.  John tried to walk away, but there were too many people now.  For her part, Cyd was preening under the attention and continued on with her story that John was called by God—or at least by His prophet, Allen—to destroy the hated military-industrial complex.

Seeing that the crowd was now turning itself onto a visibly uncomfortable civilian, the officer tried to refocus their attention.  When he grabbed onto the ring-leader’s shoulder, the man with the megaphone swung around and punched him in the face.  The officer clutched at his bleeding nose and stumbled away while the man with the megaphone stared in shock at his bloody knuckles.  Moments later he was tackled by several soldiers who came rushing from the office.

As quickly as the crowd had turned its attention to John, it now turned back to the chaos that had erupted in front of the office.  Some in the crowd, sensing the inevitable outcome of the fight, hurried away.  Others, among them Cyd, gleefully entered in.  Most, John included, stood in mute fascination bordering on horror.

Some part of John knew he should leave.  Unfortunately, this part of John had o motor control.  The fight was growing, and he had to dodge someone stumbling back towards him.  Through the tangle of arms and legs, John could see that one of the soldiers had been pinned and was being bludgeoned by shoes.

A hand grabbed John, and he twisted around, expecting to see Cyd again.  Instead he came face-to-face with a different woman.  She was his height, with a flat nose and straight black hair.  “This way,” she insisted, jerking her head away from the riot.

John didn’t argue; he followed when she started pulling him away.

Pedestrians all along the street were stopping to look at the commotion in front of the recruiting office, and many pressed closer to get a better look. 

John and his rescuer turned at the first cross-street they came to, and the sounds of the riot quieted behind them.  They slowed and continued on for half a block until they were more or less alone.

“Thanks,” John said, reclaiming his arm.

“Don’t mention it.”  The woman leaned against a building and took a deep breath, her face flushed from their recent sprint.  John didn't look much better.  “I saw you just standing there and figured you could use a little prompting.”  She pushed herself upright and offered John her hand.  “I’m Naomi.”

He shook her hand.  “John.”

“Yeah, I know.”

John nodded.  “She was a little loud, huh?”

Naomi imitated John's nod, and they both laughed.

“Jesus.”  John pushed his glasses up on his head and rubbed at his eyes.  “An actual riot.  I—I never thought I'd see that in this day and age, right in the middle of the city.”

Naomi shrugged.  “People are people, I guess.”

“Yeah, but all this over something that might not be true?”

Naomi chuckled and shook her head.  “Not a believer, huh?”

“I just—I mean, it's a lot to take in, conspiracy theories aside, and all we have is video, which can be—” He was cut off by a sudden sharp gesture from Naomi.

“You hear that?”

As soon as she finished talking, he heard.  The sounds of the riot, of yelling, of glass shattering and large objects being thrown about, was rising in intensity.

He nodded.  “We should get out of here.  Hey, I'll walk you home, okay, or at least the nearest train station?”

“No, I'm up from D.C. for business, and my hotel's clear on the other side of town.”

“What were you doing over here, then?”

She shrugged.  “Sightseeing.”

“Listen, we at least need to get inside somewhere and wait this out.”  He gestured back to the street corner, where a steady stream of people was running in and out of the fray.  “There's a pretty nice bar and grill about a mile from here, should be safe enough.”

Naomi nodded, and John led her at a brisk pace away from the chaos.

They passed under the outdated neon sign of The Gilbert Wallace some twenty minutes later, and were surprised to see that it was almost deserted.

“Lunch crowd's out,” the hostess explained, “and most people don't want to get caught up in the riot.”

“But you're still open?” John asked.

The hostess nodded and ushered them inside the brick-lined main dining hall.  The televisions over the bar all showed a live feed from the riot.  The hostess led them to a large table near the corner, and John had just sat down when he heard a woman call his name.  His stomach lurched as he flashed back on Cyd, and lurched again when he saw the speaker rise from her table and walk over to him.

“Oh, my God, it's really you.”  It was Lucy.

John swallowed, feeling the cracks in his wall of normalcy open just a bit wider.

She looked the same as he had seen her the night he called—the only way he remembered her looking—but there were signs of stress, a few extra wrinkles around her eyes.

He looked past her to the table she had just left.  A man sat there, wearing an overlarge police uniform, glaring murder at John.

A sharp pressure bit into John's arm.  “Ow.”

Naomi released her sudden grip, but deep fingernail marks remained. 

Lucy had reached the table and was now staring at him, chewing her upper lip.  “I...  I didn't think it was real.  The phone call, I mean.  It was just so....”  Her eyes lost focus for a moment, then snapped around, looking at Naomi, then back to John, and finally off to the side, seeking her companion.  She grimaced.  “I'm sorry about that.  I just, wow, it's just been so crazy, and I really wasn't expecting to see you again—”  She stopped again, took a deep breath, and thrust out her hand to Naomi.  “Hi!  I'm Lucy, I, uh, used to know John here.”

Naomi accepted the hand.  “I just met him.”

“Really?”  Lucy was now conspicuously not looking at John.  She chuckled nervously and gestured back at the table she had left.  “Where are my manners?  Please, join us!”

John didn't want to.  It was weird enough knowing about Lucy, and he had come to terms with his missing past.  He didn't want her to be a part of his present.  And then there was her boyfriend....  John looked back at the man, and found him smiling good-naturedly.

The man's sudden shift in temperament seemed to be having an effect on Naomi.  “Can't say no to hospitality,” she said, smiling.  She stood and walked with Lucy back to the inhabited table.

When John joined them a moment later, introductions were under way.  “Shaun this is...  Sorry, what was your name again?”

“Naomi.”

“Right.  This is Naomi.  Naomi, this is my fiancé, Shaun.”

Shaun nodded, his mouth full and chewing furiously.

“And this is John, my, uh... ex, I guess.”

Shaun swallowed and nodded.  “The dead guy.”

John's stomach clenched.  He was offended that this man, this stranger, had  trivialized the defining event of his life. 

Why? he thought.  I don't remember it, I don't even think about it all that often.  Why is this rubbing me wrong?

“So you're a cop?” Naomi asked, pulling out a chair and sitting.  “You planning on doing anything in the riot?”

Lucy sighed.  “Awful, isn't it?  As soon as word came on the news, everyone pretty much cleared out of here.”

“We saw it first hand,” John said.  “That's how I met Naomi.”

“I'm not getting involved until I'm asked to,” Shaun answered, ignoring John and sending another jab into his bruised ego.  “Extra cops on scene is just more fuel on the fire.”

Naomi nodded and winked, leaving John with the sensation that he had missed something.

They tried small talk for a few minutes, then fell silent and turned their attention to the televisions.  The riot had grown, blocking traffic and turning into a looting spree around the edges.  Police were still trying for containment, but several officers had been attacked and brought down by rioters.

The absolute focus of everyone in the room was broken when Shaun's mobile began to buzz.  He answered, had a hushed conversation, disconnected, and stood.  “I'm off.  They need reinforcement, and they're refusing to call in National Guard.”

Lucy jumped to her feet and hugged him.

Shaun stood board-stiff.  “Don't stay here.  It's safe for now, but if this spreads, the bar's a perfect target for looters.  Get home, lock everything you can; gun’s on the second shelf up in the closet.  Stay away from the windows.”  He pulled away from Lucy and strode to the door, ignoring the nervous looks from the wait staff.

John noticed that in the moments after Shaun's instructions, Lucy looked dazed.  After he was gone, though, she shook her head and seemed to notice her two remaining companions.  “I'm sorry, I, uh, I have to go.”  She grabbed her purse and hurried out the door. 

Now alone, John looked at Naomi and noticed for the first time how uncomfortable she appeared.  “I'm really sorry about that.  I didn't mean to drag you into my personal life—”

She held up a hand and shook her head.  “It's okay.  I knew a Shaun once.  He was a real asshole.  Just... deja vu, I guess.”

John laughed.  “Sounds like this one, judging by my previous run-in with him.”

“I'm guessing Lucy didn't know about any earlier meetings.”

“No....”

The hostess approached them.  “Excuse me?  We're going to close.  You want anything before you go?  No charge.”

John shook his head.  “I'm good.”  No matter what he believed about the Defenders, there was no denying the impact they were already having.  Honest-to-God riots, in the middle of the city.  That somehow seemed less real to him than the possibility of super-soldiers.

“I guess I'd better head out, too,” Naomi said.

“Can you get back to your hotel?”

She shrugged.  “This'll kill traffic for at least a couple of days.  I'll get a new room in the opposite direction; I doubt corporate will begrudge me a second room, all things considered.”

“Yeah....”

“And who knows?  Maybe I'll be wrong and this whole thing will clear up on its own.”

The riot had grown to cover more than two square miles by the time Shaun arrived.  He stood with a knot of onlookers who gathered at the edges of the riot, alternately held back by police and by simple fear of death.  Sometimes an onlooker would get brave and try to jump into the melee, only to be brought down by one of the officers trying to contain the violence.  Soon they were beyond the edges of the riot, bruised and handcuffed.

The city's jails would be full tonight.

Shaun worked his way to a nearby police officers and showed his badge.  “Let me through.”

The officer let out a manic chuckle.  “Good, we’ve needed back-up.  Just catch anyone who tries to get in there!  Anyone who wants out can go!”

“I’m here to fight, not to fuck around.”

“What?”

Shaun opened his mouth to respond, then caught movement from the corner of his eye; someone was using the distraction to get involved.  Shaun shot out an arm and grabbed the newcomer, swung the man’s head into his outstretched fist, then let him fall. 

“I’m here to end this.”  He stared into the officer’s eyes.

After a moment, she frowned and moved aside.  “At least grab some armor.”

“Don’t need it.  Won’t say no to your nightstick, though.”

The officer sighed and surrendered her weapon.  “Stay safe.”

Shaun was already gone.  He waded out into the chaos, subconsciously feeling the bodies moving around him, police and civilian caught up in a perverse dance, each participant moving to destroy their partner.  He pulled out his own nightstick, swung both of them, getting his mind ready for what lay ahead.

A curse rang out behind him and he went low, thrusting one arm back, feeling someone crumple over the end of the borrowed nightstick.  He came up, around, swinging at his assailant’s head.  One down, a thousand to go.

Someone must have seen Shaun’s attacker go down, for another was on him already.  Shaun smiled wolfishly, feeling his heart race and his mind go black.  This was what he lived for.  Before he could ever hope to know what happened—if he even wanted to—his body was moving, whirling its weapons through the air, striking once, twice, again, again, again.  Six down.

Shaun continued swirling, continued striking.  Each strike landed true: point of the chin, base of the skull, side of the head, kidney, solar plexus, groin.  As the injured and unconscious began to gather around him, the police who could see him rallied and struck back at the wild civilians who tormented them.  Inhibitions vanished, fear and professionalism replaced by ferocity and bloodlust.

After some time—seconds?  minutes?  hours?—Shaun realized he was stretching farther and farther for new enemies, new victims.  His mind snapped back to the present, and he saw civilians running, screaming, surging—away.  The dance had ended, those who had once led now fleeing from the floor.

Police stood still, not chasing their vanquished enemies.  They panted, eyes wide behind armored visors.  Shaun knew that, whatever they might say afterwards, they had enjoyed what had been done here today.

He certainly had.

This little victory, the disengagement of these few combatants, was enough to end the riot.  As these civilians fled, they spread panic, weakened resolve, brought the rest down with them.  Within a matter of minutes, the area had all but cleared out and the few who remained were rounded up and arrested.

Finally, a collective sigh went up from those who still stood, who had defended the peace.

Shaun stood apart, glaring down at his feet, willing them to dance once more, to  return to the blackness that enveloped him.

A hand touched his shoulder and he swung around, feeling the adrenaline surging again—

“Hey, calm down!  It’s over!”  It was her, the officer he had taken the nightstick from.  “You did a good job here.”

Shaun grunted and returned the nightstick.

He began to walk away, no destination in mind.  He just needed to do something to calm down.

Behind him were footsteps.

A reporter caught up to him, trailing a camera man.  “Excuse me!  Sir!  Hi, saw what you did back there; it was great.  Mind if I get an interview?”

Shaun stopped, every nerve alert.  This wasn’t like fighting, wasn’t something pure and simple.  But it could be…interesting.

“Sure.”  He smiled.  “What do you want me to say?”