CHAPTER FOUR
The jagged peaks of the Himalayas sliced through the thick layer of clouds like shears through a sheep’s fluffed wool, piercing the placid sky above. Snow coated their summits in a deep layer of white, reflecting the moonlight brazenly back at its creator. Their lower slopes were coated with piles and towers icy rocks, dislodged from the summits as massive boulders and slowly being chipped away as they rolled won the slopes. And amid those unforgiving mountains, nestled in between two rising peaks which formed a kind of circular pit, was the ethereal silhouette of the Capital, Ál-Jalîya.
The city itself had been built uniquely, whereas instead of streets in a flat grid it had instead been constructed as a system of circular terr-aces, each one growing larger until they stopped at around two-hundred feet, creating the shape of a huge funnel. Right now the moon had risen over southern Asia, but during the day the eerie city saw shielded by a domelike shield that deployed and resiled at each eight o’clock hour, or at the sight of any avalanche. It would slide out above the top layer in no more than half a minute, two halves closing in like a clam shell. With the dome up the city would be nearly impenetrable. It would become a fortress, a moatless castle surrounded by guardhouses equipped with turrets capable of taking down the spacecraft from Independence Day. Because among those in the Capital, paranoia was not an option.
As the moon began to set in western sky a group of dots appeared on the horizon, all morphing quickly into shapes which then formed into the seventeen Exterminators sent out hours before to annihilate the ghost city of Annandale, North Dakota. One by one they filed into the Capital’s central chute, slowly lowering themselves past terrace by terrace until they reached the aircraft hangar on the second lowest. Below them was the final ledge containing only the President’s mansion and its grounds before another hundred foot drop into a darkened underground cave, known only as The Pit, which had been long used as the city’s prison.
General Michael Haley descended from the cockpit of the first Exterminator, and strided across the walkway toward where the solitary figure of the President was standing, though Michael knew that hundreds of guards had their sniper scopes trained on him at that very instant, waiting for an order that could end his life. Truly, it didn’t freak him out anymore, he’d become accustomed to it.
“General.” President Israel Shimar said graciously, holding out a smooth, serpentine hand which was immediately engulfed in Michael’s large callused palm. President Shimar was not a tall man, rounding out a thin, sinewy frame at a height that could only be considered average. His truly imposing quality was his face, never showing the slightest hint of an expression. Framed by a mane of smooth black hair and inset with a pair of murky brown eyes, his visage was sharp and angular to the point of striking fear into anyone not accustomed with the image.
“Mr. President.” Michael Haley responded, releasing the man’s hand as they began to walk down the tarmac toward the elevator that would take them down to the bottom level of Ál-Jalîya. “Our mission was successful.”
“As always General.” President Shimar replied, his face staring placidly into the distance. He was the ultimate businessman, with a poker face that would have challenged a robot. His skin was deeply tanned, hiding a usually tawny Middle Eastern complexion. “I expected nothing less.”
“Annandale was eliminated completely.” Michael continued with the mission report. “The exact time was recorded on the onboard computer for your records.”
“Very good.” The President replied. “You are dismissed.”
“Thank you sir.” Michael said, and began to walk back toward his plane.
“Actually…” President Shimar said softly, and Michael turned back. “I hate to give you another mission so soon…”
“It’s no problem sir.”
“There is another city that needs to be exterminated. However this mission is complex. It must be done ethically, as this city is still densely populated.”
“They why sir do we need to exterminate it?” Michael asked, feigning confusion. Over the years he’d become quite good at it.
“I’ve heard stirrings of rebellion.” The President said simply. “From extremely well-versed and accomplished contacts. Of course you’ve heard about the incident in Houston with the man named Abraham?”
The shock that coursed through Michael’s system at that name was only hidden by years of practice, and yet he still wasn’t sure his face remained completely expressionless. For his sake he hoped it had. “No sir.”
“Ah, of course. How silly of me, you were in the air.” The President said, and for the first time an expression formed on his face: a small amused smile. “About the time you were exterminating Annandale a man named Abraham launched a charge on City Hall. He was almost immediately shot by a hidden policeman, but his followers dispersed too quickly for us to track them all down. The few we have caught… well… you know how they speak.” He let out a low, stereotypically maniacal chuckle. “And they said there were many groups like them, each one planning a rebellion in a key city. Apparently this man Abraham became a little trigger-happy and decided to mount his charge early.”
“And they told you the next one was the happen in London?”
“Sharp as always.” President Shimar paused, thought for a moment, and then spoke again. “There is another thing. They did not know who their true leader was, the handler that Abraham and his counterparts around the globe answer to. However they did know that it was a man, a man in a very high place in our government. Any thoughts Michael?”
Michael knew what this was, it was an entrapment. Shimar was baiting him, testing him. The only problem was that he was far better at this game than Shimar ever had a hope of knowing, and he barely popped a sweat as he replied. “No idea whatsoever sir.”
Shimar’s face remained expressionless for a few moments, and Michael prepared for the painless sting of a sniper’s poisoned bullet. However after another moment a new look formed, and for the first time that Michael could remember, the President looked ever so slightly crestfallen. He had thought he’d had his man, and he had been proven wrong. “Very good General.” He said finally, the gears in his mind once again twisting with speculation and conspiracy. His number one suspect had passed the test. It was time to construct a new list. “You may go now. I will see you in fifteen hours, once you have formulated a plan of attack… as I am sure you will.” The President abruptly turned and strode away.
Michael waited a few seconds, as was customary, and then began to walk in the other direction toward the elevator to Level Three, where his own government-provided mansion was situated. Throughout his body adrenaline was kicking into overdrive and he was so on edge that even the tiniest buzzing of a fly on the corner of his vision was transformed into the whirring of an assassin’s knife. He had outmaneuvered the President. He had beaten Israel Shimar at his own game. He had masterminded the mastermind.
And as he stepped into the glass capsule and rocketed up the seventy feet to the lawn outside his house, the General had a new spring in his step. He was safe, because the faceless, nameless, high-ranking government man leading the rebellion did, in fact, have a name: General Michael Haley.
CHAPTER FIVE
The archaic cargo ship plowed through the roiling waves with the ferocity of a sperm whale through a giant squid, scarred and wounded by its opponent but never accepting defeat. Across its decks its crew, tiny figures of darkness lit only when lightning crackled overhead, dashed haphazardly about tightening everything that could be tightened and doing their level best to keep from being thrown into the whirling Atlantic. It’s captain stood barricaded in the bridge, grimacing as he tried every maneuver to escape the infinite barrage of incoming waves, each one taking more of the crew away than it left. Crates slid across the slickened deck, crushing even more men underneath them before they toppled over the edge and down into the sea. One seemed to hang suspended in midair for a moment as a massive tusk of lightning blasted into the water mere yards away from the ship, highlighted against the dull silver hull painted all the way across with a thick, solid red stripe, before it too dropped into the depths. The ship had been named many times throughout its illustrious campaign, and the current one had been worn away nearly to the point of nonexistence by the elements. Still it was visible, painted in black along the uppermost band of silver on the side of the bridge. It had been named the Flying Dutchman, in a time when that name meant nothing to those with eyesight keen enough to read it. Like so many others, the myth of the Flying Dutchman had been lost in translation when the Earth had been torn apart and the Capital built; yet it still found ways to live on in mundane incantations and in the recesses of the human mind.
Deep below, in the bottommost hold of the Dutchman, a pair of emerald green eyes opened slowly; flinching shut every time a wave crashed into the side of the ship. They slowly surveyed the word around them, blinking every few seconds as they adjusted to the darkness. Then they closed again, squeezed shut, and opened back up, hoping to see something, anything else. Suddenly a sickening pain pulsed through them like a sharp spike of molten metal. At this they squelched shut for the third time, and their owner drifted back into a world of even more complete darkness.
A man known simply as Caius sat in his luxurious cabin, ambivalent as to the crashing waves and raging storm outside his ship. He had sailed the Dutchman in even worse storms than this, and every time the sturdy old ship had broken through. London would appear on the tempestuous horizon in a matter of hours, and there they would dock until the weather broke and they could sail their final route down through the canal to Bangkok where they would unload their cargo of weapons, drugs, and young women to the interspersed drug rings and cartels run by Caius himself. He was the overlord of a massive crime empire, with the world trembling at his fingertips. His network was massive, his connections widespread from the streets of every city to the sacred halls of the Capital itself. For a moment he leaned back in his chair, smiling placidly and allowing a rare moment of arrogance. Then it passed, and abruptly he had become a poker player with an expression so enigmatic that a team of James Bonds couldn’t have figured it out. He stood and walked toward the door, then stepped out into the hallway beyond. Caius paused for a moment, regaining his balance on the ever-moving floor of his ship, and then began toward the bridge where he would oversee the final leg of their route to London.
Back in the hold, amid a sea clanks and whimpers, the pair of emerald green eyes opened again. This time they remained open, as if testing for any more flashes of pain. Feeling none, Esti sat up as slowly and as carefully as she could. The world around her was in darkness and for the moment she could hardly the hand in front of her face. Slowly however her eyes adjusted to the nearly nonexistent light, and she began to take stock of the situation.
She was sitting in a large metal cage suspended about three feet above the cast-iron floor, made out of inch-thick steel bars that, though rusted, didn’t look ready to break any time soon. The hold around her was also made out of steel, reflecting and magnifying the miniscule point of light over by the equally thick door. After another few moments of looking at it Esti could see that it was a lantern of some sort, glowing with an otherworldly iridescent green light. Around her were more crates, made of every possible material from wood to metal to what looked almost like animal hide. And then she saw the other cages.
There were three or four of them that she could immediately see, and there were probably more hiding behind the mismatched crates. In each one she could see a dim figure silhouetted against the greenish light. A word popped into her head, one of the only old colloquialisms still remembered by mankind simply because it had never lost its ring nor its meaning.
She’s been shanghaied.
Caius slammed the door to the bridge shut behind him, walking up behind the beleaguered captain as he tried to right the course of the ship.
“Good evening Captain.” Caius said softly. At this point he wasn’t being intentionally menacing, but the specter of the dark, muscled overlord of crime behind his shoulder couldn’t have done much for the captain’s morale.
“Good to see you taking part in things sir.” Nevertheless, the captain replied smartly. He knew if he had any chance of surviving this last several miles he would need all the concentration he could get.
“Let me have a shot.” Caius replied.
“Sir?”
“Let me steer my goddamn ship captain.” Caius said. And now he was menacing.
“It’s all yours.” The captain said gratefully, stepping back and giving Caius the controls. And the man who had flown jets over the Atlantic, piloted submarines in the Pacific, and driven a tank over the Sahara went to work.
Esti leaned back against the back of the cage, allowing her mind to clear. The first step was to escape the cage; once she did she could figure it out from there. And after a few moments she had her scheme, and was extremely thankful that no one had emptied her cargo pants.
A few moments later she had taken out everything she needed from her myriad of pockets and spread them out over the tightly-knit cage floor. There were three items in all. The first was a strange little machine she’d picked up a long time ago at a rest stop in the Mojave. It was a cooling device, almost the polar opposite of a lighter. When she turned it on it would create an area of severe cold, cold enough to freeze the moisture in the air into ice on the spot. The second item was a portable lighter, which ironically had come along with what Esti had long been calling the Froster. However it was far from a normal lighter; instead of fluid or propane there was a special chamber inside that collected the natural methane in the air which would light with a tiny electrical spark. The third item was a pocket-sized hammer, worn and beaten over years of use but still more than serviceable. Esti ran through the list in her mind, making sure she hadn’t forgotten anything, and then went to work.
She looked for the weakest bar; finally finding one at one of the corners that looked nearly rusted through. Looking around again, ensuring that there were no guards, she flicked on the Froster which immediately emitted a quiet but incessant whirring sound. After a few moments though she could tell it was working because the handle had begun to grow cold and little crystals of ice, almost too small to see, began to form between the two curved prongs that signaled the cold zone. After triple-checking the area, it never hurts to be too careful; Esti began to run the machine up and down the lower half of the bar.
After a few moments she began to hear the crackling sound that was the cue to a finished job; it was the sound of ice crystals forming in every free space inside the bar. Now if this works, she thought, picking up the lighter and smiling, this should break.
In the end she was lucky it was using methane instead of fluid. A regular lighter with its slow-burning flame would have taken several tries to break the bar. But when the white-hot flame exploded out of the tube and over the frozen pipe Esti heard the snap! almost instantly as the bar, chilled and contracted by the cold, tried to expand too quickly for its limited strength to allow and cracked straight through the middle.
Esti breathed deeply, relieved that her makeshift plan had worked, and began to hammer the bar as lightly as she could while still doing more than chipping the rust. Before long the tiny crack had grown into a rusted gouge. Once it had been widened to her satisfaction Esti repeated the process with the top of the bar until it too splintered from the temperature-shock. After it was done she surveyed her handiwork for a moment, allowing for a moment of looking at her self-earned achievement. Then her inner survivalist kicked in once again and she grabbed the bar on both ends of the cracks, jiggling it until the cracks had widened a little more just to avoid the grating it would make on the rough metal. Then the bar was lying on the cage floor and she was landing catlike on the floor below, returning the tools to her pockets and heading toward the door. For a moment she looked back at the other cages, five in all, and at the still figures of the sleeping girls imprisoned inside them. For a moment she considered breaking them all out, but she knew that one would have a much better chance of surviving on a ship than six.
If I make it back I’ll make sure to personally break those cages myself. Esti resolved. But at the same time she knew that she would never see this hold again. She turned away toward the door, pushed it open, and was gone into the bowels of the ship.
CHAPTER SIX
Exactly fifteen hours after the bombing of Annandale, North Dakota, at the exact time General Michael Haley conned the President and Esti broke through the bars of her cage, Xavier emerged out of his home and onto the streets of his city. London was beautiful in the early morning as the sun rose over the ancient architecture and even the undeniably turbid Thames, before the masses began to congregate in the streets and turned the once great city into a mosh pit. Now the streets were home to only stray cats and dogs, lounging around in the coolness of the dawn before running off to their daily hideaways. The streets of his city always brought about a different kind of wonder in Xavier, the opposite of the kind that appeared to him in the tunnels fifty feet below his shoes. It was a special kind of broken beauty, the stark wonder of the olden American Midwest, the glory of the blazing Sahara Desert, the icy aloofness of the Antarctic plains. It was the sun rising over a wonderful dying city, where the once paved streets had crumbled into the dirt and dust of the sixteenth century and the once astounding buildings of the future and past had fallen into dilapidated pictures of human decay. It was the barren beauty of death where there had once been life, whereas below the streets lived the sparkling beauty of life where there had once been death. London had become two cities, and Xavier loved both of them.
Sometimes for hours he would wander the streets of London, looking in wonder at sights that, centuries before, tourists much like him had gawked at. Tower Bridge still stood, and the Tower itself had reprised its role as London’s prison and center of government. The Parliament building had burned down in a massive fire, but Big Ben still remained even though the gears inside had long ceased to grind. A thin pall of smog hung over the city, changing color throughout the day with the movement of the sun. It gave s strange spectral quality to the streets at the hour of dawn, adding to the beautiful image of decay that covered the city.
For a while Xavier simply strolled the morning streets, enjoying a few moments of freedom in a world where it was hard to find. The grind of life had given him the wonder of a small child, but at the same time had established a driven and intelligent mind. By nature, the two sides of him rarely met, except when he was walking through his city. When he was looking at art. That was all this walk was, a browse through a gallery of forgotten art. It was watching a city of ruins in a hope that it would someday be resurrected. Of course he didn’t think of it as anything more. He definitely had no idea that he would never see the door of his home; one of London’s many mass orphanages, ever again.
For in three hours the streets of London would be consumed in chaos as the second of twelve rebellions began.
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