MANIFEST DESTINY11
11:1
Nick passed out Amargosa Ale in disposable cups as Ron drained the rest of the cask into a mini-keg. Mort left his drink to sweat on the console. Eugene eyed it longingly, his hands locked tight behind him. Staley sipped his beer as the Corps radio station played Battle Hymn of the Constant. The brassy notes bounced off the cavern walls, echoing throughout the darkened cathedral.
Mine eyes have gazed upon the blasted craters of our moon…
We have scaled the purple mountains and then marched the burning dunes…
Our victory is Constant, our virtue clear and true,
The Corps is righting wrongs…
The General sat across the prep table as Zeno pulled on his fatigues. He watched the young man get dressed in the same unremarkable way a gym teacher monitors the locker room. Zeno took his seat and they took turns sipping their drinks in between satisfied sighs.
We answer to the sirens that have summoned forth the fleet…
We’re collecting traitor’s tongues before they’ve had a chance to speak…
Let loose the fateful lightning for our devils won’t retreat,
The Corps is growing strong…
The General leaned back and opened his coat. He unlocked his chest cavity and pulled out a dark, heart-shaped medal. He set it down on the table. Zeno stared at it in awe. The General laughed. Boy was still wet behind the ears.
“Do you like it?”
“It’s beautiful, sir,” Zeno said. “I’ve only seen them in pictures. And the handbook, but…”
Oppression shall be left alone to molder in the grave…
The souls we’ve freed from bondage venture on to save the day…
and earn the grass a-growing green atop their earthly graves,
The Corps is living on…
Zeno reached to pick it up but stopped himself.
“May I?”
“By all means,” the General said. “It’s yours now.”
“Sir?” Zeno said. “This is a Bleeding Heart. I can’t accept this.”
“Don’t get too worked up about it,” the General said. “It’s not an official distinction.”
“Of course,” Zeno said. “It’s amazing, sir. My girl won’t believe this…”
Let us live in harmony with our own beliefs and views…
let heaven ring the anthems of our purpose now renewed…
with a glory in the bosom that transfigures me and you,
The Corps is fighting on…
The General pulled out his Boomslangs and disassembled them on the table, spreading out their pieces methodically. He sighed and looked at them with glossy eyes. He seemed so happy he could cry, but that was impossible; his tear ducts were junked long ago.
“Got it in the Liberties Campaign,” the General said. “The one that took my lungs.”
Humanity united is a terrible swift sword…
dealing righteous sentence writ with our true and holy words…
let the Kingdom welcome soldiers in the army of the Lord,
The Corps is marching on…
“You must be proud, sir,” Zeno said. “Honest, I can’t conjure why you’d want to give it away.”
“I’m not giving it away,” he said. “That was a hell of a risk you took, climbing in that box, not knowing up from down, but you followed orders like a good soldier. You stayed the course and in that you’ve done your country proud. You’ve earned this, Private.”
We’ll kick the evil bastards from the Rim to Old Novak…
Some have built themselves an A-bomb and they’re planning to attack…
But we’d sooner fall to rot before we ever turned our backs,
The Corps is dropping bombs…
“Thank you, sir,” Zeno said. “For giving me a second chance. For letting me prove my worth.”
“That you did, son,” the General said. “That you did…”
Villains learn our fiery gospel through our sermons forged in steel…
All will be forgiven once their skin is torn and peeled…
Let us heroes, born of Carbon, smash the serpents with our shields,
The Corps is standing strong…
“Usually, there’s more of a ceremony,” the General said. “I hope you’ll forgive the limited nature of our celebration.”
“Hell, sir,” Zeno said. “I’ve got a cold drink and the highest honor in the verse. I can’t imagine what you felt like when they gave this to you. I mean, all that fuss, all that fanfare. You must a felt like king of the world.”
“I’ve only been of one mind about that,” the General said, setting down his cup.
“Sir?”
“I’d have rather kept my lungs.”
Civilized society is defined by certain rules…
No longer shall disputes be solved with fists or petty duels…
though should you plot our ruin or sympathize with fools,
Your breath will soon be gone…
Zeno marveled at the medal in his hands. The smooth surface despite the many scratches. The carved details and the unexpected heft of the small thing.
“We’ve passed the threshold, everyone!” Staley announced.
Nick and Ron whooped. The General grinned.
Glory, glory’s coming to us…
The General cracked his knuckles and reassembled one of his pistols.
Glory, glory’s coming to us…
The turn-bolt hissed and locked into place and the General leaned across the table.
Glory, glory’s coming to us…
He pulled the trigger the instant the barrel graced Zeno’s forehead, snapping the neck back.
The Cutthroat guards the dawn…
Everyone gasped as air rushed from the point of impact. Energy escaped from Zeno’s open skull as he fell limp on the table with a wet smack. Wind blew through the General’s ratty beard, his trench fluttering around him like a shroud on a statue.
Mort’s heart flipped and behind the chair Eugene’s handcuffs unlocked. Nick and Ron forgot their drinks. Staley opened his mouth, but no words came out. The radio started to play a commercial way too loudly.
You’re listening to Carbon-Nation, official radio of the—
Staley shut it off, leaving them in silence, their ears still adjusting to the unexpected thunder of the gunshot. They were all frozen in place, holding position. Joules snored like a teacup pig.
The General sat back down and sipped the rest of his drink. After what felt like an eternity, he finished and dropped the crumpled cup on the floor.
“Sir?” Staley was the first to speak up. “You…you fragged our first successful subject….”
“And?”
“You shot him in the head, sir.”
“Where else would I have done it?” the General said. “Considering the nature of our work, I’d rather not see what dreams may come from those final moments of brain activity.”
“But…”
The General deftly disassembled the pistol and put it back on the table with its brother. He went and plucked his medal from Zeno’s gnarled fingers and left the kid sitting there, blank eyes staring up at the ceiling through blood. The General marched out of the chamber and approached the console where Mort sat staring at the screen. Staley looked up at his master plaintively.
“Sir, Zeno was perfectly stable,” he said. “Sir, I don’t…”
“I didn’t invest all I have into this project to turn around and hand it to an orphaned bullet-sponge,” the General said. He screwed his medal back into his chest and snapped the latches. “You don’t save the condom when you’re through, Staley. You pitch it and get on with business.”
The General looked around the room, catching everyone in his unwavering gaze. He wouldn’t move on until they turned away. Mort kept his attention on the screen. He wasn’t even pretending to work.
The General stood there, staring at his subordinate. He cleared his throat and removed his trench, dipping each of his shoulders down, one then the other. He leaned down over Joules. Only then did Mort turn his attention to the man. The General gently placed his coat on the unconscious girl and tucked her in. He kissed her forehead and stood up, highlighting his own vulnerability. He had no pockets. His undershirt was thin and marked with years of sweat. His holsters were exposed, the cracked leather straps lopsidedly navigating the odd angles of his bone structure.
Mort didn’t say a word, but now he looked The General directly in the artificial eye and told him all he couldn’t say. The General grunted and strolled back into the chamber. There he removed his holsters like suspenders and draped them on the chair. Then off came the undershirt. He kicked off his spats and removed his pants. He flipped his arm over and found a good vein.
Nick and Ron snapped out of it and got back to work. Mort typed feverishly. His keystrokes rising and falling in crescendos as if he were composing or taking dictation. Staley went about scanning through the run-logs and checking off prerequisites one by one, unaware that he was picking at his fingernails.
The General pushed himself to his feet as Nick loaded the latest batch of formula. Ron tried to wipe Zeno from the observation window, but he succeeded only in smearing the blood around. The General climbed into the Progenitor and wiggled into place like a kitten curling up for a nap. Ron banged on the window, making the sound of a dull gong, and helped Nick drag the Private’s body from his chair and out of the chamber. The door sealed and vapor clouds filled the room once more, sanitizing, sanctifying. The General’s wheezing got picked up on the intercom, his lungs rattled through the speakers.
Staley set the subroutines in motion and initiated the main program as Mort worked through his own processes. The machinery hummed to life, dimming the lights relative to the revolutions per minute. The whir accelerated, becoming louder, but there were no screams this time. Only the uneven rhythm of the General’s patient, brittle breaths.
They dropped Zeno next to the recently emptied cask. Ron pulled out the step ladder. Nick ran the hose from the tankard in back and draped it over the rim. Together they heaved the body up the steps and plopped him over the edge. His warm skin squeaked at the bottom against the smooth sides of the container. Ron went and turned on the faucet and Nick held the hose tight as if they’d rehearsed. The hose hiccupped, twitched, and the thick, syrupy suspension oozed out, choking on the occasional air bubble.
Mort looked around the room. Staley remained preoccupied with his screen. Nick and Ron were busy filling the cask. Nero hadn’t returned yet. Mort was good at calculations. He ran a quick survivability simulation against the climbing parabolic curve of impending disaster.
“Hey, Mort,” Eugene said.
“Not now, Eugene.”
“You’re an idiot.”
Mort spun around, puzzled.
“Come again?”
“You heard me,” Eugene said, cocking his head to the side, looking downward. “You’re an idiot…”
“What are you…”
Eugene winked and dangled the handcuffs from behind his back.
“Why…you little twerp,” Mort said, switching to his stern father voice. “You better show some respect right this instant or I swear I’ll…”
“Stupidest sunuvabitch ever lived,” Eugene said. “That’s what you are. Everyone says it. Your wife. Your daughter. Mort Nova, the dumbass.”
“If you don’t shut your mouth,” Mort said. He stood up and got louder. “I’m going to have to teach you a lesson.”
“Pay attention,” Staley grumbled, not bothering to look away from his screen. “If these inversions double back…”
“Give me a minute, Staley,” Mort said. “I can’t just sit here and let the kid insult me like this.”
“Forget him, Mort,” Staley said. “Why are you taking it so seriously?”
“He’s insulting my intelligence, that’s why. I didn’t slave my way through years of post-grads just to—”
“Alright, alright, Mort,” Staley said. “We both know the kid doesn’t know anything. And, though it pains me to say…” Staley sighed and shook his head. “You’re not dumb, Mort. In fact, you should be incredibly proud of the work you’ve done tonight. Can you just please tune the kid out? You’re a parent, so just…let it go.”
“You think you’re so smart,” Eugene said. “With your little science fair project.”
“I’m warning you,” Mort said. “Shut your mouth.”
“Make me.”
“Come here,” Mort said, grabbing Eugene by the collar.
“Let me go!”
“Jesus, I thought you were a professional, Mort,” Staley said. “Let the kid go.”
“Please, please,” Eugene said. “Don’t let him hurt me. I have a bone condition, ah!”
“I said ‘quiet!’” Mort roared.
“I know I was mean to you before,” Eugene yelped to Staley. “But please, plea—”
“Break it up, break it up,” Staley said. He got in between the two and separated them. Eugene cowered behind as Staley got in Mort’s face. “What’s gotten into you, Mort? Can’t you tell the kid’s trying to get a rise out of you?”
Clink.
Staley turned and Eugene shrugged. His hand now cuffed to the table leg of the console, which was in turn bolted to the ground.
“Why you little—”
“Calm down, Staley,” Mort said, returning to his seat. “Just ignore the kid…” Mort began typing faster than before. He turned to the chamber, mumbled a quick prayer, and executed the new input string.
“Unlock me now!” Staley cried. “Kid, you listening to me? Wait, don’t. Nick! Ron!”
Eugene picked up the hose and yanked it as hard as he could. Nick and Ron wobbled on the ladder and fell one after the other. The hose went wild and pulsed on the ground, vomited and flipping over and over itself. The interns lay on the ground, rubbing their heads and groaning.
“Mort, Mort, listen to me,” Staley said. “When the General—”
“Grow up, Leonard,” Mort said, picking up his daughter from the ground, still covered like a newborn in the trench coat. She grunted and shook her head.
“Five more minutes…”
“Once he’s got what he wants,” Mort said, straining to his feet, balancing Joules on his thigh like a reverse Pietà. “Well, you’ve seen how he deals with nonessential items…”
“You can’t leave!” Staley said. “What the hell did you do?”
“You’re the professional,” Mort said. “I’m sure you’ll figure it out.”
“Stop fucking around,” Staley said. “These numbers are all—”
“My advice?” Mort said. “Whatever you’re going to do, better do it quick. You know what happens when they can’t level out on their own. And it looks like you’re all out of suspension…”
Staley fumed at Mort, but then he went pale, his eyes turning up to the tons of rock hanging overhead.
A hollow bang cut through the chamber and the observation deck shut off. The room went dark and quiet. Mort and Eugene’s footsteps clattered through the air and grew fainter and fainter with each panicked breath Staley took.
The emergency system droned to life and bathed the dungeon in a dull, red film. The monitors, stripped of their power source, glitched to black and glowed blank. Staley turned to the console and tried frantically to figure out what Mort had changed.
“Shit,” he said. “Shit, shit, shit…”
Ron and Nick ran to the chamber door and tried to pry it open with a crowbar. The Progenitor clanged. Despite the bulk of it, the container rocked side-to-side, even with the power gone, hammering down into the concrete.
The door hissed open and the General fell out, coughing up his lungs. Steam rolled off his bare, scarred back. His limbs failed as he tumbled to the floor. He writhed in place, blood streaming from his mouth. He wobbled to his feet, stood a moment, and fell again like a fresh doe. The medals and service ribbons embedded in his skin glowed red and flaked off one by one. He hacked up his insides, splattering himself across the floor. The Bleeding Heart fell with a clang. The chamber door finally creaked open wide enough to get inside. Nick rushed to the General’s side and propped him up.
The General slapped Nick away. Ron rifled through the refrigeration unit, searching for a stabilizer agent. The General stood and fell once more. Ron pulled the stopper off the syringe and plunged it through the sternum. The General let out a groan and went still. His body slumped over, losing all sense of movement. The slight heave in his chest disappeared.
Nick tried CPR, but the General’s lung tanks got in the way. He even opened the side hatch to reboot them. Ron connected the defibrillator to stray bits of flesh on the stiff body, but the charge only succeeded in lighting up the artificial eye. Nick watched the time and kept two fingers on the neck.
Ron gave him another shock. The limbs bounced this time and instantly dropped. The lung tanks accordioned through a half cycle.
Staley watched the scene play out through the smeared glass. The red light. The silhouettes going through the familiar motions. It felt staged out of a tv movie or a freshmen student one-act. When you’re used to seeing death in countless variations across multiple mediums, the normal context seems shockingly unreal, unconvincing. The mind reels, trying to identify the artifice, but fails because there is no pause, no rewind. It just is.
“Calling it,” Nick said.
Ron shocked him again.
“Dude,” Nick said. “He’s gone.”
Ron slammed his fist on the General’s chest. Nothing moved.
“Told you,” Nick said. “He’s gone.”
“Shit,” Ron said. “So…”
“So, what?”
“We still getting paid or…”
“Dude…”
Nick and Ron went to the supply closet and eased the General into a shiny new body bag. Unlike the other failed subjects, they owed it to their employer to give him a decent burial. They said a few words to thank him for making their student loans disappear. They zipped it up, but it got caught on the contorted, rigor-mortified fingers, still clawing outward. Ron cursed and unzipped to try again.
The chamber door slammed shut and sealed itself. Some of the lights around the chamber flickered back on. The General’s arm thrust out of the bag as he gasped for life. Nick and Ron fell back on their asses and scooted away.
“He’s alive!” Staley said. “Thank God, sir. We thought we lost you…”
Ron and Nick said something to Staley, but the chamber was sealed and the intercom link severed.
The General ambled up and straightened himself out. Every column in his spine popped as he did. His skin began molting and he started heaving, but he wasn’t struggling for air. He was panting. He grinned and shook himself like a wet dog. The bionics and false parts flew off. His lung canisters dislodged and shattered on the concrete. Flesh and bone and sinew grew back in their place. Stands of muscle intertwined, filling in the empty spaces left by the bodyware. The General reached up and peeled the metal plate from his head. It came off like an old bumper sticker.
Nick and Ron were at the door, but they couldn’t rescind the lockdown from inside. Staley watched in silence, trying to get his console back online.
The General cleared his throat and turned to Ron, outstretching his hand to the young man as if asking for a dance. Ron tried to speak, but his vocal cords disagreed. His feet left the ground and he floated toward the General, helpless. He leaned in and whispered in Ron’s ear.
“Shh. It’s okay. I’ll be gentle.”
The General slowly opened his closed fist, unfolding one finger at a time. Ron had no chance to scream from the pain. All he could muster was a muffled grunt, silenced as his body strained and burst open. His blood was confetti; the entrails streamers.
It was a celebration, after all.
Nick slipped in his friend’s blood and dropped a pack of tranquilizers. They scattered over the place and he scrambled to gather them up. The General stood calmly examining his new body. His fake eye popped out and landed in his hand. He flicked it away and smiled.
Nick came up behind him and stabbed as many sedatives as he could into the old man’s back. The General stumbled forward and twitched in place. Then his shoulders relaxed.
“Thank you, Nicholas,” he said, taking in a deep breath. He exhaled and the syringes slid themselves out and clinked to the ground. “Something to take the edge off…”
Nick covered his face and backed away.
“Don’t run from this,” the General said. “For the quality of mercy is not strained…”
Nick collapsed into the fetal position as Ron’s blood dripped from the ceiling.
“It droppeth as the gentle rain from heaven…upon this place beneath…”
He lifted Nick up and bounced him in the air, testing the weight.
“It is twice blest,” the General said. “It blesseth him that gives and him that takes…”
He cast the kid aside like a ragdoll, shattering Nick’s spine against the massive hinges of the steel chamber door. The General turned to his pistols and, ignoring his clothes and his own nudity, watched as the gun parts rose and swirled around him. His medals did the same, hovering in front of their previous positions.
The General then threw open his arms like opening night and the chamber door flew open, shattering the concrete frames containing it. Nick sputtered and his leg shook with palsy. The General scoffed and stepped over him, not even bothering to finish him off. His pistol parts and medals floated, following him like an entourage, a royal guard.
Staley was drenched in sweat. He sat on the ground, his arm bound to the console. His other hand covered his face. The General approached him and frowned.
“Tsk, tsk,” he said, looking at the spilled suspension. “What a mess.”
“I…I’m sorry,” Staley said. “I…I take full responsibility…I…”
“Oh, why the long face, Staley?” the General said. A chair rolled up behind him and he took his seat. He eyed the console and cleared it. The monitors fell, pulling each other down with their wires. The pieces of his Boomslangs gathered on the empty table. “You’re not upset at what happened to your boys, are you?”
“They were spoiled brats,” Staley said, staring down at the ground.
“Yes, but they were blood.”
“I’m a professional, sir,” Staley said. “I…I don’t get attached.”
“That’s a good one,” the General said. “Considering your current situation.” The gun parts bobbed up and down and swirled together and broke apart. His face twitched with each failed assembly. “Don’t worry,” he said. He gestured toward the warp gate and it responded in kind, roaring to life. “We’ll leave this place soon.”
“Mort and the kid,” Staley said. “They went out the back.”
“All in good time,” the General said. “But you needn’t concern yourself with them. You’ve done fine works, Staley. I’d say you’ve earned a sabbatical.”
“Thank you, sir,” Staley said. He held up the handcuffed hand. “Would you mind?”
“A moment,” the General said. “I haven’t passed the threshold.”
The monitors on the ground slowly drifted toward the warp as it cycled up and gained momentum. The gate whined and electricity thrashed from the sides.
“I hate to interrupt, sir,” Staley said. “But something’s wrong. That warp, it’s…it looks like it’s—”
“It appears as though it’s about to go critical,” the General said, still focusing on putting the pieces back together. They broke apart and he tried again, a vein growing and throbbing across his forehead. “Yes, I suppose that’s what will happen…”
The monitors sucked into the vortex. They hovered in the middle of it, spinning and breaking and coalescing. The hard drives were sucked in as well. Dust and pebbles misted from the ceiling.
“It’s hitting crisis,” Staley said to himself. “Trying to pull from both sides, but why would it…”
The walls began shaking. One of the casks came unbolted, titled toward the warp, and toppled over. The air was filled with the nostril burn of distilled spirits.
“Damn shame,” the General muttered. “Waste of good whiskey.”
“Please,” Staley said. “We don’t have much time…”
“Hallelujah!” the General sprang to his feet as the pistols snapped together and the turn-bolts hissed.
“Was…that the threshold?”
“Yes, Staley,” the General said. “Fine work. I knew I made the right decision bringing you on.”
“Th—thank you, sir,” Staley said. “But…”
“I do hope you enjoy your rest,” the General said. He dropped the Bleeding Heart into Staley’s lap. “I mean that sincerely.”
“So…you’re not going to help me…” Staley’s head dropped, he gave up tugging the handcuffs. “I did it all…anything you ever asked…”
“But I never asked,” the General said.
“I’m going to die here, aren’t I?”
“Entirely up to you,” the General said. The crowbar skated across the floor and stopped at Staley’s feet. “But you better hurry. Structures of this kind were never meant to last.”
“You can’t leave me like this,” Staley cried. “You just can’t…do this…”
“Oh, but I can,” the General said. “The new world shall be founded upon exactly that principle, the great truth that I can and I will. Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the law. We were never equals, Staley. Before it was merely an ocean between us, but now we’re worlds apart. That’s not my fault. The foundation’s already been laid. Calm yourself and take comfort in this physical, philosophical, and moral truth: this, right here, you pissing your pants and fearing for your life…this, my dear man, this is your natural condition.”
With that, he turned and walked toward the tunnel. The other casks started to lean and fall. What spilled out wasn’t whiskey or ale, however, and the liquid was much less well-aged. The previously failed test subjects of Proteus. Their suspensions broke, the stasis was interrupted, and they released terrible sounds. Many of the poor souls had been frozen before total system failure to be studied later, but now they played a sampler track of death rattles, their voices the sound of many waters. Gasps. Screams. Gargles for “harlp” and whispers of “Oh, God, oh, God, please, please, plea—”
Staley pulled the crowbar toward him with his foot. He picked it up and tried to pry himself free as the fluid rushed over the floor. It broke against the overheating warp in a shallow wave, crackling with the sound of cooking bacon fat. Hands and feet and arms and other unrecognizable human bits. Pieces and parts of once-living souls sloshed and gathered in dips in the concrete. The missing persons of Hazmat, forced sacrifices at the altar of progress, slipped across the floor. Broken jars, the spilled preserves pooled around Zeno’s corpse and filled in his empty head.
The warp groaned as the canopic jelly sizzled and joined the pending crisis. Staley broke free and slipped and fell into the mess. He tried to regain his footing, but instead he flopped and fell and clawed in vain. The gate lurched in on itself and sent out a pulse through the fluid. Staley began convulsing as the vortex coursed through everything wet, the liquid writhing around anything solid. The whiskey caught fire, it laughed and burned as Staley cried out.
A boulder dislodged and dropped several tons of mercy on his soft head. Staley’s scream outlived him, bouncing off the walls of the crumbling cathedral. The polarity matrix expired and the gate blew outward and sucked in on itself. The liquid reached Nick in the containment chamber, his leg spasmed harder, his eyes rolled back into his brain and foam puffed out from his lips and nostrils.
Zeno’s body submerged further into the bubbling soup of failed experiments. His lifeless mouth opened, as if to speak, before it melted into a smile and the roof caved in completely.
The twisted physics pulsated in the crushing dark. It all blended, churned, grinding and grinding together. Gallons of stale blood comingled with the dirt. Flesh soaked rock. Slowly, the earth took all of them home. Slowly, they screamed without sound.
The General waltzed through the crumbling tunnel. His pistols broke apart around him, swirled, and reassembled, each time more quickly than the last. He skipped out to the Faultlines, eager for the first time in years to greet the new day.
11:2
Then there was whistling.
And singing.
11:3
Where does the time come from?
And where does it all go?
Sand falling out the hourglass and blowing round the globe…
We all want our freedom,
to each of us our own,
but the only guarantee in life is a lonely, old soul…
From the dust we come,
to the dust we go,
we’re all just dancing atoms in the big, damn show…
The God Complexes 