CIVILIZED PEOPLE7
7:1
The sun dropped below the Faultlines. Dusk cauterized the horizon and sealed off the day. Streetlights popped on and off as daylight retreated from Hazmat at odd angles. Mort pulled the garage door down and followed the kids back to the Vaults.
The lobby was filled with the soft hiss of plant-watering pipes. Mist slipped out over the sad shrubs. The aching flowers bent over, threatening to collapse under the weight of their own petals.
They went down the stairs and Mort unlocked the door, opened it, and tossed his keys in the jar all in one smooth, well-rehearsed movement.
“Ah,” he sighed. “Home, sweet, subterranean ho—”
“Mort?” Molly called from the kitchen. Buzzers sounded against each other in odd time signatures. They followed their own persistent rhythms like morning birds.
“Joules,” Mort said. “Can you and Eugene set the table?”
“Couldn’t be my Mort,” Molly cooed. Steam hissed. Pans rattled. “No, sir, he’d be in here helping me…”
Mort rolled up his sleeves and dashed off to the kitchen.
Molly hummed as she bounced around her husband. A pot bubbled over and clashed against the heating element. Molly spun the dial down and took it off the burner as she whirled to the next dish.
“So…” She picked up a tray of rolls and walked them over to the stove.
“Hmm?” Mort focused on peeling potatoes and plopping them in the flash-boil. He went as fast as he could, which happened to be painfully slow.
Scrape…scrape…scrape…plunk!
“Did you find out where Walter went off to?” Molly said. She put the tray on the rack and closed the oven door.
“Guess he had to get back to Earth,” Mort said. He watched the knife slide along, taking perfect patches of skin with it.
Scrape…scrape…
“And he left without so much as a goodbye?” Molly said. She set a timer and turned to Mort. “What with how much time you’ve spent with him…”
“You know Walt,” Mort said. “Not much of a talker outside of the work.”
Scrape…plunk!
“Just strange is all,” Molly said. “And forgetting about his boy? That ain’t right.”
“I’m sure it was some miscommunication,” Mort said. “You know how reception is with warp travel, it’s easy to get your signals crossed.”
Scrape…scrape…
“I can’t get it off my mind,” Molly said. “Something doesn’t feel right.”
“I know, honey,” Mort said. “But could we please talk about something other than Walter?”
Scrape…scrape…
“Okay.” Molly folded her arms and sighed. “Let’s change the subject then.”
“Thank you,” he said.
“What do you think’s going on downstairs?”
Plunk!
The dining room chandelier was a single bulb suspended by a chewed wire. The air vent made the light sway ever so slightly. The filament was molten, encased in burn-mottled glass. It was naked, exposed; a raw nerve ending.
The glasses and silverware were all placed in formation, the plates empty and waiting to have purpose. Eugene and Joules sat and played that game where the person who gets caught staring at the other loses. It’s no fun at all, but teenagers tend to invest quite a lot in the outcome.
7:2
A lone Carbon Corps transport pulled around the bend. It ambled along the trail where McDougal Hill bottomed out and the cemetery bled into flatland, all the prime hillside real estate in Hazmat occupied for the hereafter.
The wheels bumbled up and down in the uneven sand as the vehicle passed by a couple old holograves. The motion detector triggered the wraith of a scrawny man in worn overalls standing proudly on his soapbox from the beyond. He shouted about taxation as sin and his theory that Unification Day was instituted as a brainwashing plot. Another grave nearby activated and a rosy-cheeked woman appeared and smiled as she attempted to gather her many cats for the recording. The furry critters lazed in and out of frame as the dearly departed tried to cuddle them all at once. The apparitions flickered and faded away, their solar chargers all but covered by sand and rocks.
The transport halted at the end of the field of unmarked plots and backed into a spot between two rows of fresh graves. The final seating assignments for Flight 114. Fourteen were already filled and covered. Baby Ian Treadstone rested in the arms of his mommy, Heather, which left one grave remained unfilled. Empty and waiting to have purpose.
Troops hopped out the back with five prisoners in tow. Hatch Brugada stepped out and led his company men to the grave. The grunts held their prisoners up by the bags on their heads, their feet dragging in the sand. They dropped them next to a pile of dirt, some shovels, a pickaxe, and a faux-halogen lamp.
“Brought you some flowers,” Brugada said. His heartrate dipped slightly and the electrodes in his armor lit up. He shivered, clenched his fists and went “Aah…” His eyes peaked like he’d snorted a line of Karabraxian gold.
The General strode into the light. He puffed smoke into the hazy night. The red glow of ash illuminated his wrinkled face.
“You shouldn’t have,” he said. “What kind of roses did you pick?”
“A couple red, a couple white,” Brugada said. “And a sweet yellow rose.”
“What a lovely little surprise,” the General said. “I’ll take the yellow one first.”
“Figured as much.” Brugada kicked one of the prisoners forward. He picked him up by the scruff of his neck and shoved him down at the General’s feet. There was a burlap sack on his head like the others, but his clothes were different: standard issue fatigues.
The General snatched the sack off, revealing a terrified young man. He was a green nineteen with a sloppy buzz cut. Duct tape covered his mouth and the worthless stubble he’d grown over the past two weeks. And he had a look like he was about to, or already had, pissed himself.
“Private Zeno,” the General said. “We sure missed you.” He ripped off the tape, taking hairs and bits of skin from the Private’s chapped lips. “How was your vacation?”
“Sir,” Zeno gasped. “Please—I shouldn’t have abandoned. I know Titan’s my post, but that district, them alleys…the crank houses…it’s a turkey shoot and my girl she’s, oh, God…sh-she’s pregnant and I never had a dad myself, so I couldn’t just…”
The General leaned in and pressed a bony finger to the boy’s trembling lips.
“Shh…”
7:3
“Look,” Mort said. He put down the peeler and frowned. “It’s been a long day…”
“Has it?” Molly said. “Has it been a long day out and about in the city?”
“Let’s not do this,” he said, rubbing his forehead as if the conversation itself had summoned a headache. “Please…”
“Okay,” she said. “So, I guess it’s the same plan as always. Don’t ask no questions and look the other way. How’s that sit with your analytic mind, Mort?”
“That was the deal we signed,” he said. “You right along with me.”
“Yeah, and that was nearly a year ago,” she said. “Don’t you think those initial terms are up for negotiation?”
“I’ve read the contract,” Mort said. “I don’t think we have any wiggle room.”
“Great, Mort’s read the contract,” Molly said. She gave him a slow clap. “Makes two of us. Remind me: which one of us has a business degree?”
“Come on,” he said. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“They were working all last night and well into this morning,” Molly said. “They’re not even supposed to be here on the weekends. If that’s not a breach, I don’t know what is.”
“He’s just an old man planning for retirement,” Mort said. “And his money’s good as anyone else’s.”
“So, you’re saying I should just drop it?” Molly said, folding her arms and looking away.
“I’m only saying there’s a way to go about this,” he said. “And we’ve got to be careful.”
“Careful my ass,” Molly said. “This is our property. The General and whoever he’s got working down there are only allowed to stay if they honor the terms.”
“Shouldn’t we consult a lawyer or something?”
“I don’t need to pay a lawyer to tell me I’m allowed to knock on my tenant’s door,” she said. “You know they changed the lock on the freight elevator? Can’t even get down there no more.”
“Where’s all this coming from?” he said.
“This used to be a nice quiet place to live,” Molly said. “Then the General signs his lease and it’s been non-stop for months down there, strangers knocking about under our home.”
“He’s saving us a mint on the renovation,” Mort said. “I say we don’t rock the boat.”
“And it’s not just the Vaults,” she went on. “Folks go missing left and right and now a famous scientist suddenly up and vanishes like poof!”
“We don’t know that for sure.”
“Yes, we do,” she said. “And you know it more than anyone. I can see it all over your face, Mort. You were always lousy at poker.”
“What are you getting at?”
“What I’m getting at is the phrase ‘shit happens’ doesn’t apply to people like Walter Bohr.”
“Well, you’re not wrong,” Mort sighed. “I checked and the only flight he could’ve caught back to Earth left atmo well before I last saw him. That is, unless he’s taking the long way ‘round, connecting at more than one hub.”
“And why would he do that?”
“To save money, I suppose.”
“Walter Bohr?” Molly said. “Sure, that thrifty fella…”
“Didn’t say I bought it either,” he said. “His hotel claimed his room hasn’t been rented in months. Even went to base. All I found there was empty folders and a feeling someone’s erasing any trail leading to him or the project.”
Mort propped his elbows on the counter and massaged his forehead. The timer went off on the oven. Molly quietly pulled the tray out of the oven and set it on the cooling rack. Then she put her hands on her husband’s shoulders, forgetting to remove the oven mitts.
“What’s the plan?” she said.
“That’s flattering,” Mort said. “What makes you think I got a plan?”
“I can see it in your eyes,” Molly said. “You’ve been working through the tangles all day.”
“Then I’ve got plenty of knots to go.”
“We’ll figure it out, Mort. We always do.”
Another timer went off.
“I know,” he said. “I know…”
The potatoes boiled over. Water hissed against the coils and another buzzer beep, beep, beeped.
7:4
“I understand,” the General said. “Kids without fathers end up like that lot of trash behind you.” He waved toward the other prisoners with disgust. “What would you say to a full pardon, Zeno? Immediate reinstatement. No questions asked.”
“My stars, sir,” Zeno said. “I’d…I’d never forget it. Sure—honest, sir, I wouldn’t.”
“Then consider it done,” he said. “Welcome back to the fold, Private. Do you happen to recall the punishment for deserters?”
“I’ll do anything, sir,” Zeno said. “Please…”
“Long tradition,” the General went on, casually pulling out his Boomslang. “In one of the early civil wars, they’d surround the coward on all sides except one. See, they’d offer one last chance to take what’s coming or turn tail. The troops loaded their single-shot rifles and waited for the order…” He checked the chamber, slammed it shut, and aimed it at the kid’s head.
“Please…sir?”
“Apologies, Private,” he said. “But what good’s law without order? Action without consequence leaves us spinning out of orbit into a world without rules and without rules we’d be just like them. Degenerates. Scum. Walking death sentences.”
Zeno held his breath. Blood pounded in his skull, his heart took up a funky techno beat. The General cocked back the hammer.
Hiss, click.
“That’s the ticket, Zeno,” the General said. “Never too late to take some dignity with you.”
The gunshot echo swept out into the dunes and faded sharply into dead night.
7:5
The drinks were poured, the plates filled. Molly set down the pitcher of just-add-water PowderAde and Mort wiggled into his seat. Eugene stared at the steaming food.
“No,” Joules said, folding her arms. Molly frowned at Mort. Eugene frowned at the fresh food steaming in his face. He wasn’t hungry, even though the last time he ate was back at the port on Earth.
“Come on, darling,” Molly said. “What’s Sunday dinner without grace?”
“You say it then,” Joules said.
“But we like it when you say it,” Mort said. “And I’m sure Eugene doesn’t want to hear the old boring one we know.”
“Alright, alright,” Joules said. “Give me a sec, alright?”
She closed her eyes and rested her palms up on the table. Eugene was startled when Molly took his hand. Joules grabbed the other. They all put their heads down.
“Praise the Singularity, the impossible first moment…”
Joules didn’t attend service, but she liked saying grace. There were no hard feelings between her and the Almighty; she just wanted to speak her piece in her own way. Though with Eugene there, her confidence was strained. Her voice wavered the more she thought about it. And it pissed her off.
“Praise the spaces in the cracks and in-betweens. The shadows spread over the sprawl of time and matter. Where all we know, will ever know, and never know live out their infinitudes…”
She decided to sneak a peek. Maybe that would make her feel better.
“Blessed be the Constant States,” she said, opening her eyes and turning to Eugene. “Tethering all worlds, all peoples in the cobwebs of commingled histories…”
The fault in her logic was instantly made clear. Closing your eyes during prayer was just plain manners in Hazmat. Like saying please, thank you, or pardon me, sir, your fly is down. But things on Earth were different, apparently.
When she turned, Eugene was staring at her with a stupid grin. He was bouncing a little, holding in his laughter. Joules flashed him a stare that could melt rock. She closed her eyes again, her cheeks filling with blush, and wrapped it up fast.
“Hallelujah to chemistry for making this meal possible and our digestive systems for allowing us to enjoy it. Amen.”
“Amen,” Mort and Molly cooed.
Something rubbed against Eugene’s shoe and crept up his leg. He raised his eyebrows at Joules. She winked and turned to her plate.
And she kicked him in the shin as hard as she could.
“Amen!” he yelped.
The room went quiet, save for the scrape of forks, rhythmic chewing, and proclamations of mmhmm.
7:6
When Zeno opened his eyes, the General was stooped over him, grinning from hearing aid to hearing aid.
“No sense in wasting a good body,” he said. The General checked the chamber and regarded the steaming barrel. “They knew that even back when they were still bleeding over black and white. They’d only shoot the fools who tried to run a second time, but, still, repentance has a cost…”
The General dropped to his knees and pushed the hot barrel into Zeno’s forehead. The muzzle sizzled and seared a circle in the skin, a small blob on top where the iron sight lay. Zeno yelped, but the General covered the boy’s mouth.
“Lucky for you it’s not quite a pound of flesh,” he said. He pulled the gun off and examined the fresh brand. “Now, Zeno, if you still believe in The Cause, we’ll find use for you yet. If not…” He grabbed Zeno’s neck and held him over the edge. “Here’s your grave.”
He let the shaken Private go and brushed himself off. Zeno fell on his side and squirmed in the sand. His arms flopped and twisted as he tried to get his hands over his head.
“Cut the bollocks, Zeno,” the General said. “My list of second chances granted is virtually nonexistent.”
“Apologies, sir,” Zeno said. “I’m trying to salute you, sir, but my hands…”
The General laughed a good hearty laugh. The sound echoed out, like gunfire, into the nothing desert.
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, Private,” he said. “Cut him loose, Brugada.”
The General walked past Zeno and went over to the other prisoners. He pondered a moment, his eyes flashing between the three bagged heads. Duck…duck…goose! He snatched the bag off the middle prisoner, revealing a tattooed man sporting an eye patch with thin, dry hair and a gnarled beard.
“Why if it isn’t Tsar Bomba,” the General said. “Now, what’s a Pilgrim shit-stain like you doing about these cliffs?”
The man struggled with his restraints and cursed through the gag in his mouth.
7:7
Mort worked his food into the side of his mouth as he spoke.
“So, Eugene,” he said. “I hear you’re going to Heartland U in the fall.”
“That’s the plan,” Eugene said, not looking up from his plate. He had managed to take a few bites, but he mostly just moved the bits around.
“Have you decided on a primary yet?” Mort said. “Perhaps physics? I’ve heard A.I. modeling is on the rise too.”
“Philosophy.”
“Philo—” Mort coughed and put down his fork. He massaged his throat to get it down the right tube.
“That’s the frontrunner,” Eugene said. “Been leaning toward History lately.”
“History could be interesting,” Molly said. “Joules works at the historical society here in town. Maybe she could teach you a thing or two about Terra.” She turned to Joules and nodded for agreement. Joules rolled her eyes and took a sip from her drink.
“Philosophy?” Mort threw up his hands. “History? Please, say it ain’t so, Eugene. You should really consider something more practical.”
“My choices are practical,” Eugene said. “Those are the only subjects I could stand four years of.”
“Now, a science primary, that’s the real ticket,” Mort said. “That’s what we need: chemistry, engineering…”
“Needed for what?” Eugene said.
“Chemicals,” Joules said. “Engines, most likely.”
“And who’s ‘we?’” Eugene said.
“All of us, the entire Constant,” Mort said. “We need people schooled in the hard sciences, who can pick up patterns and calculate risk. That type of mindset never loses value. We always need folks willing and able to buckle down and do the math, solve for X, and push The Cause forward.”
“Ah, The Cause,” Eugene said. “Capital T, Capital C.” He furrowed his brow and faked seriousness. “Since it’s always changing, remind me: what’s The Cause nowadays?”
“Progress, Eugene,” Mort said. “There isn’t any one path or final solution because progress is a moving target. That’s why the goals are constantly in flux, but I do know we don’t make progress with passive analysis or endless abstraction. Progress demands action.”
“I demand you stop boring us all,” Joules said. “That’s my cause…”
“Humanity played with kid gloves for too long,” Mort said. “We knew how warp technology worked decades before we finally implemented it. Even then, it took a catastrophic event like The Realignment to push us on our way. We’re hardly more advanced now and thousands of years have passed. Doesn’t it seem like we’re stalled?”
“I think you either bottom out or plateau,” Eugene said. “That’s nature, yeah? Nothing in the known ‘verse can sustain infinite growth.”
“How about the universe itself?” Mort smirked. “Billions and billions of years and it’s still expanding to this day.”
“Only from our perspective, though,” Eugene said. “You’re talking about the forest when all we can see are the trees.”
“You know what, Eugene?” Molly said. “I think you should consider a law degree.” She nodded around the table for approval.
“Dear Lord, no,” Mort said. “Forget what I said, Eugene. Philosophy sounds great.”
“Well,” Eugene said. “I do like to argue the point.”
“Which is?” Joules leaned her elbows on the table, cradling the weight of her boredom in the palm of her hand. “I keep zoning out on account of not caring.”
“The point is,” Mort said. “I take no pleasure in seeing a good mind wasted on intellectual wheel spinning.”
“And that’s where we disagree,” Eugene said. “I think a good mind should be wasted as often as possible…”
7:8
The General exhaled and crouched down. His spine reset from bottom to top. Each worn-metal vertebra released tension, pop, pop, pop as he got eye level with his prisoner. Tsar Bomba glared up at the General and cursed him with his eyes.
“And who are your friends?” the General said. He went down the line, plucking off their bags and inspecting their profiles and tattoos. “Let’s see…another Pilgrim, a shitkicker, and Bone Straxx?” The General ripped out the last man’s gag.
“Howard fuckin’ Mendax,” Bone said. His skin was sunburned and covered in more iron cross tattoos than stars in the sky. “How the hell are ya?”
“Oh, I’ve been better, Bone,” the General said. “I’m kind of peeved to find you mixed in with this trash. Makes my job more difficult.”
“S’all a big misunderstanding, I assure you,” Bone said.
“So, you weren’t shipping weapons past legal checkpoints?” the General said. “Then I’m truly excited to hear the explanation for why you ran that blockade.”
“Shit, the Constant States is a constant pain,” Bone said. “I’m just trying to do right by my countrymen and make a living doing it. That so much to ask?”
“You run unregistered guns, Bone,” the General said. “The kind I find on just about every Saint and Pilgrim on this damn rock and you want me to thank you for that? You must have some heavy boulders in between your legs.”
“You know it,” Bone smirked.
The General went and pulled off Tsar Bomba’s gag.
“Do your worst, wendigo,” Tsar said.
“What did you call me?” the General said.
“He thinks you’re a cannibal,” Bone said. “Yo, hombre. Tu no comprendo. He es Federalo.”
“I speak your tongue, fool,” Tsar said. “This man’s a wendigo. A vacuous soul. A pit that will never be full.”
“What you been smoking?” Bone said. “Wendigo’s always been a people-eater to me.”
“Go ahead,” Tsar said to the General. “You will never claim me. I shall never bend from The Path.”
“A branch that refuses to bend will break,” the General said. “And I promise to break your pretty little neck before the night is through. Plus, isn’t it your flexible beliefs that drive you to murder and steal?”
“We are not the ones who broke the scales,” Tsar said. “It was the Constant States that dropped the weights from the heavens.”
“Weights from the heavens?” Bone sneered. “You fellas sure have a hard-on for the dramatic.”
“Those weights, as you call them,” the General said. “Were atmo-generators. Your ancestors blew the shit out of ‘em because they were too stupid to understand climate science.”
“False,” Tsar said. “They knew what they did. They simply refused to cede to you the Terran air they’d learned to breathe.”
“Nah, that ain’t it,” Bone said. He shook his head. “Them contraptions were paid for by the Shadow Enclave to make our hearts weak, our minds susceptible to liberal marching orders.”
“No one asked you, hillbilly,” Tsar said.
“And who the fuck are you, raghead?”
“I am Tsar Bomba, son of Sol Bomba.”
“Who and what the fuck is a Sol Bomba?” Bone said. “That the goat your momma fucked?”
“The man who felled the first Titan.”
“That’s right, you fellas tore down Gidora years back,” Bone said. “We just rebuilt it, though, so that don’t mean much, do it?”
“Really?” Tsar sneered. “What about the souls lost that day? Have you finished rebuilding those as well?”
“Well, my daddy ain’t knock down no scrapers,” Bone said. “But he sure took a lot of you dirty fucks with him on his way out.”
“Christ, you’re two of a kind,” the General said. “Were it not for your combined ignorance, this planet would be the envy of all the Constant. It would be beautiful.”
“She is still beautiful,” Tsar said. He spoke wistfully as if reciting a bedtime story. “Even through centuries of fallout, when your ancestors left mine behind to starve and burn and twist in deformity. She will be beautiful when Sol finally opens his arms to embrace her and we will be here to celebrate her earned rest long after your ashes have whispered to the wind.”
“Come off it, Chico,” Bone said. “Aren’t you a little old to believe in fairy tales? Y’all came to Terra just the same as anyone else. Those generators shoot out poison and you know it.”
“You trade history for heresy,” Tsar said. “The Disciples of Entropy have walked these lands since First Eden, never leaving, never abandoning our sacred post.”
“If you care so much about this land,” the General said. “Why don’t you and your men enlist? The Corps is always looking for a few more righteous souls.”
“The corrupt Corps?” Bone said. “Hell, even I wouldn’t drink that Kool Aid.”
“What a shame,” the General said. “To think you and your kin could join up, but instead you’re hell-bent on making it worse. It just breaks my frail ole heart.”
“Don’t see you getting much done,” Bone said. “We ain’t been here all of five minutes and you still haven’t shot that inborn piece of shit.”
“Who are you calling ‘inborn,’ you pale bastard?” Tsar said.
“Look at us here,” the General said. “All sides talking it out. Surely, this is representative democracy in action, but it’s time to bring the meeting to order. First item on the agenda: why shouldn’t I just shoot these other two right now?”
“Ansel’s a good kid,” Bone said. “My baby cousin. Promised his momma I’d look after him. He ain’t done nothing but shoot a couple of inborns.”
“Sounds like strong testimony,” Tsar said. “And an admission of guilt.”
“What about your boy, Tsar?” the General said. “He looks pretty green to me. How long you think he’ll hold up once we put the screws on ‘em?”
“Go ahead,” Tsar said. “He doesn’t know a thing. Only Templars are blessed with foresight.”
“Wouldn’t weigh on your conscience if I ended him right here and now?”
“There’s nothing you can do to me,” Tsar said. “I’ve already lost everything. Terra is the wind in my lungs, the song in my heart.”
“Stop,” the General said. “I’ll get sick. What do you have to say for Young Ansel, Bone? Can’t say I’m convinced of his worth.”
“He’s a simple kid,” Bone said. “He don’t know any plans or nothing.”
“They don’t know anything?” the General said. “Not a meeting point…a dead drop…”
Bone and Tsar shook their heads proudly.
“You know what, fellas?” The General crooked his neck to the side. “I believe you. Alright, Ansel and…what’s your ward’s name, Tsar?”
“Elohim.”
“Ansel and Elohim,” the General said. He bent over and yanked out their gags. “I’ll let all of this slide if you two can apologize to each other.”
“Huh?”
“Um…”
“Come on now,” the General said. “It couldn’t be simpler. Just say, ‘I’m sorry for the trouble. I hope you can forgive me.’ That’s it. Two sentences of civility and all of you are all free to go.”
“I won’t say such things to this swine.”
“Who you callin’ swine, goatfucker?!”
The two kids huffed and puffed under their restraints.
“Tsk, tsk,” the General said. He sighed and picked up the bags and re-covered their heads. He stood up and shook his head. “Looks like it’s left to the elder statesmen…”
His hands disappeared inside his trench and came out armed. Click. Click. The muzzles flared, Bone and Tsar ducked for cover, and the burlap sacks flew to pieces around what was left of their comrades.
The General took in a deep breath of night air as the bodies slumped against Bone and Tsar. They slid, slowed, and dropped to the ground.
7:9
“Nice try, Eugene,” Mort said. “But you know your father’s work.”
“Yeah,” Eugene said. “I really don’t.”
“Precisely,” Mort said. “Top secret. Let’s just say your father works in theory while I test the formulas and set up the proper experimental procedures.”
“Oh, honey, just tell him a little bit,” Molly said. “The boy’s interested.”
“Okay, there was one minor development recently,” Mort said. “I can’t say much, but it validated one of your father’s proofs.”
“Please…stop…” Joules said. “It’s just too exciting.”
“Come on, Mort,” Molly said. “You gotta give him more than that.”
“Stop hassling, ladies,” Mort said. “I swear they gang up on me, Eugene. In any event, we may have found a way to bypass our gravitational limitations through purely cognitive means.”
“In Terran, if you please,” Molly said.
“Our simulation granted a representative human the ability to fly by concentrated thought alone.”
“Is it just me,” Joules said. “Or do we need a translator here?”
“It’s not just you, dear,” Molly said.
“So, you’re trying to make people fly?” Eugene said. “Most folks can barely walk. I wouldn’t trust them with a Y axis.”
“It’s not about flight,” Mort said. “It’s about the impossible. Leaps and bounds in human evolution, not just some gadget or more workarounds to sidestep the real problems at hand.”
“Isn’t that missing the point of evolution?” Eugene said. “The only way extreme adaptation sticks is gradually over like thousands and thousands of years.”
“The Industrial Revolution,” Mort said. “The Space Age, splitting atoms, genetically engineered crops. Quantum mechanics and string theory. Natural progression and mankind parted ways long ago, Eugene. Besides, what’s more natural than using the minds nature blessed us with?”
“God,” Molly said. “The minds God blessed us with.”
“God, Nature…” Joules said. “Same difference.”
“We started out in caves and forests,” Mort said. “We scrounged for roots and berries, scraping by until we finally stood on two legs and began taking the long view. Crafting tools, weapons, clothes, tracking big game, storing and cultivating food, building shelters. We adjust our tactics because the parameters change, but there is one constant: no matter what we’ve always used this…” He pointed his fork to the side of his head. “To solve problems, to put food on the table—”
“To bore our children,” Joules said. She faked a face-plant in her food, accidentally knocking the table. The fill lines on the cups teetered. The synth-loaf jiggled in its metal roaster.
“I think I get what you’re saying,” Eugene said. “But genetic updates should be organic. I mean, that’s why the Skins failed, right?”
“The Skins failed because we had it backwards,” Mort said. “We thought our minds could thrive in a manufactured system, but we don’t need to build better bodies. No, we need our minds to make our bodies better.”
“What the mind really needs,” Joules said. “Is an off-switch.”
“I believe,” Molly said. “That’s called alcohol, dearie.”
7:10
Brugada and the Galax Feint dragged the fresh corpses into the open grave. They thumped at the bottom, one after the other, like a final, solitary heartbeat. Zeno gulped and massaged his forehead. Bone stared at the steaming pistols.
“You killed him,” Bone said. “Killed him in cold blood…”
“Now, now,” the General said. “It’s not as bad as all that.”
“The hell it ain’t!” Bone said. “He just turned eighteen. There weren’t no trial or charges and you just…”
“Well, you did admit that he was involved in gang warfare,” the General said. “Getting caught with you didn’t do him any favors either. And maybe you could look past them track marks, but his forearms are full-on scatterplots.”
“We have to sleep with one eye open,” Bone said. “We must be vigilant!”
“Now, I remember where I know your boy from,” Tsar said to Bone. “Been hooked on holy crank for a while now. Consider the General’s actions a kindness. Another few weeks and he’d be peddling that skinny ass of his for a little bump.”
“You take that back!” Bone said. “You son of a—”
“I’d come down from that high horse, Tsar,” the General said. “Them guns we found on you were of a Saintly make and model.”
“We never buy from white trash,” Tsar said. “Never.”
“Never said you did,” the General said. “But fiery swords don’t sprout up from the ground. Honest, you should shake this man’s hand. Without him, you’d probably be nothing more than a shitty poet.”
“Lying sack a shit,” Bone said.
“Fool,” Tsar said. “Old fool.”
“That’s the problem with the government,” Bone said. “You can’t even tell the difference between honest folk and backwoods rapists.”
“Perhaps it could be all the bodies left in both of your wakes,” the General said. “Hard to draw the line between such sorry excuses for human beings.”
“At least the Saints have some decency,” Bone said. “We don’t sneak up on folks or turn ourselves into bombs.”
“You parade around town carrying automatic weapons and gun down dark-skinned folks in the streets,” the General said. “I don’t see you bringing anything other than gasoline to the fire. Honestly, I don’t know what to do with either of you.”
“Why don’t you go ahead and beat on the redneck?” Tsar said. “Maybe he’ll give up the location of his sister’s pussy.”
“Say that to my face!” Bone said.
“Let’s keep this civil, gentlemen,” the General said. “Tell me, Tsar. Who’s running the Pilgrims these days?”
“We are a people,” Tsar said. “A faith. We have no leaders.”
“That much is obvious,” the General said. “But you still have your lightning rods. Did the Suicide Twins ever come back or is Vlad still your talking head?”
“Vlad the Impala knows the truth,” Tsar said.
“That charlatan don’t know jack,” Bone said.
“Hate to say it, but Bone’s right,” the General said. “Vlad was born ‘Daniel Tarn’ on a cushy rock smack in the middle of the Klux Territories. Been grifting his way across the Constant for years, must’ve gone through about a dozen different identities since he left home. Only started going by Vlad after he got caught stealing a duster and skewering the guy who caught him. But I hear he likes the hammer now, doesn’t he, Tsar?”
“What else do you expect from his lot?” Bone said. “Butchers and frauds, every last one.”
“Check yourself, Bone,” the General said. “Colonel Crawford isn’t half of what he claims to be.”
“You survive a scalping from the Pilgrims,” Bone huffed. “Then we’ll talk.”
“Vlad knows the truth,” Tsar said. “And truth frightens vultures like you.”
“No, it frightens me you actually buy into it,” the General said. “Got to hand it to them, though. I’ve never seen so many gullible folks on one planet.”
“I know and accept my fate,” Tsar said. “I take comfort knowing that your flames are already burning, waiting below for your wicked soul.”
“Bone, you could learn a thing or two from this fella,” the General said. “At least he believes in something. All you’ve got is a puffed-up ego and a whole lotta worthless stock in skin pigmentation. Sure, you can talk some big, nasty talk, but guys like this? Hell, he’s never known anything else. There’s a purity to him, an exactness. I kind of admire that. I’m sure I could beat on you all night, Tsar, and you’d just recite scripture.”
“That’s the first truth you’ve spoken,” Tsar said. He hocked and spit at the General’s feet.
“Come now, if I had wanted a spit-shine…” The General backhanded Tsar across the face with his pistol. There was a wet crunch in his nose. Tsar gasped. His eyes went wide and wild. The General smiled and shoved his prisoner into the grave, gurgling and squealing as he went. Tsar landed with a smack and went silent except for the occasional wheeze he choked out.
“Tell me something, Bone,” the General said. “What’s the upside here?”
“I was wrong about you,” Bone said. “Howard Mendax ain’t no friend to Terra. Ain’t nothing but a weak-willed puppet.”
“Say you actually come out on top,” the General said. “You take out the Pilgrims with every cheap trick in the book. You butcher them to kingdom come until there’s nothing but good, honest, white folk left. What then? The Constant would never recognize such a misshapen political body. Even if you win, what’s stopping them from canvassing the Promised Land with napalm?”
Bone flexed his muscles in his restraints, fire and brimstone in his eyes, impotent with righteous anger.
“Exactly what I thought,” the General said. “Not a goddamned thing.”
He whistled and waved to the transport. Brugada came out the back with a ladder. Another grunt caught the end and helped him carry it over. He set it down next to the grave.
“Gonna need a ladder bigger than Jacob’s afore you get me to climb down that hole,” Bone said, trembling.
“Not what it’s for…” The General knelt down and squeezed his temples. “And you wouldn’t be climbing…”
“My men already know I’m missing,” Bone said. “Only a matter of time before—”
“Your men are in their own graves,” the General said. “In their own special place in the desert. Are you ready to join them?”
“Fuck you,” Bone said.
The General whipped out his pistol. Bone crossed his eyes and stared down the barrel. Bone swallowed nervously and the General chuckled, turning the gun to the side so his prisoner could get a better look.
“Nice, huh?” the General said. “Can’t say we have much in common, Bone, but I know we both appreciate the craft. Had these pieces made special. Mauser Boomslangs. This here’s got a pneumatic release, automatic turn-bolts. Custom everything: metal forged from the Masada bullet hills, even got real wood in the hilts from the last forest of Novak.”
“That supposed to impress me?” Bone said. “You can afford a nice piece. So what?”
“Just thought you’d be interested in what’s coming to you.”
“Ain’t those mixed discharge?” Bone said. “Thought they outlawed that crap.”
“Yeah, but there’s a special permit if you know the right channels.”
“Ain’t much sport in it, if you ask me,” Bone said. “Lasers or bullets, just pick one. Don’t like the thought of scoring a kill on account of melting shrapnel ‘stead of my shooting.”
“I’m not hunting for sport,” the General said. “A kill’s a kill in this game.”
“What you call them again?”
“Boomslangs.”
“The hell kind of name is that?”
“Agreed, it does sound like something a child made up,” the General said. “Had to look it up in the archives myself. They were snakes. And wouldn’t you know it, they seemed all sorts of harmless until some poor sap found out the hard way that the slithering shits were rear-fanged. Their venom’s nasty business, too. Ain’t nice like other biters. Don’t numb you up or let you go catatonic while the poison’s working you. First it destroys the blood cells and you start bleeding from…well, everywhere. The gums, nose, ears, other orifices, likely even the one you’re shitting yourself from. I figure you’d feel it all. Every drop of blood leaking out. Drip, drip, drip till you go cold…”
The General sighed up at the sky. Most of the stars were hidden behind clouds. Even in the clear spots, though, Howard only saw small lights amidst the crushing black. A shooting star streaked overhead and faded. He didn’t make a wish. All he could think was, damn, lost another satellite…
“But enough about snakes,” the General said. He grinned and relished every word. “Let’s talk rats…”
“This some kind of damn biology class?” Bone said. “Ain’t nothing to talk about rats ‘cept for the one I’m looking at right now.”
“They’re easy enough to kill, sure,” the General said. “Get a shovel and get to it, right? But I’ve found it makes most folks uncomfortable. The mere thought of blood makes them downright sick. They find a rat stowed away on their ship, believe you me, they won’t spill a single drop. Even in the middle of a storm, instead of solving the real problem, they just toss it overboard. And, yes, they learn their lesson soon enough, but only after the whole swarm finds them. They learn too late that plague is the only reward for gifting mercy to vermin. Some of us know better, though, don’t we, Bone?”
“You know nothing of me and mine,” Bone said. “You ain’t never lived a day in our boots.”
“How could I?” the General said. “We’re not even the same species. We’re civilized people trying to make it on the edge of it all and you? You’re a pest, an infestation, and pretty soon all you rat bastards are going to sink the ship.” He stood up straight, his knees popped, and he felt a tickle in his chest. A precursor to another coughing fit, but he swallowed and held it tight. “So, I say, as soon as your ship hits ground, dig a hole nice and deep, and that’s where you put the rats.”
Bone opened his mouth to speak, but the General knocked the wind out of him. He kicked Bone backwards into the grave, falling on the others. Tsar Bomba convulsed, choking on his own blood, and spasmed over to make room. Bone’s baby cousin and the nameless Saint cushioned his fall. Their bodies still warm, the pools of blood steaming in the cold ground.
“You bury them.”
7:11
“I don’t get it,” Eugene said. “It just sounds dangerous.”
“Has anyone tried the sweet potatoes?” Molly said. “Might be from a can, but you’d never know.” She picked one up and made it dance on its way to her mouth. Joules shook her head.
“Danger and discovery go hand in hand,” Mort said. “Nuclear power and radiation poisoning. Without interstellar flight, we wouldn’t have to worry about shuttle crashes, but you don’t stop—”
Molly kicked her husband under the table and glared at him.
“My sincere apologies, Eugene,” Mort said. “Sometimes the words come out before I’ve had time to think them through.”
“I’ve been diagnosed with a similar disorder,” Eugene said. “Maybe if you could dumb it down a bit?”
“How best to put it…” Mort stroked his chin and nodded to himself. “Okay, consider the human mind. It regulates your heartbeat and breathing, monitors organ functions, nerve endings, countless other processes. All of that without requiring your input. At the same time, you have an internal monologue. The story you’ve been telling yourself since you first developed the capacity for conscious thought. The narrative of your existence, if you will.”
“I get it,” Eugene said. “Brains are awesome.”
“Stay with me,” Mort said. “There’s a point coming up.”
“Three hours later,” Joules said. She pushed her scraps around on the plate, shaping them into a sloppy smiley face.
“On the flipside,” Mort said. “Your unconscious mind keeps all that going while you’re asleep. And here’s where things get interesting. Our dreams are populated with people, places, things, moments. We can imagine entire universes replete with details we could never possibly know or understand. All of this is seemingly constructed out of nowhere. Spontaneous creation.”
“Hold up,” Eugene said. “Was that the interesting part? Did I miss it?”
“Think about it,” Mort said. “The conscious…” He held up his left hand. Then he raised the other. “And the unconscious…” He brought them together and clasped his fingers. “What if you could combine the two?”
“That’s called sleepwalking, Dad,” Joules said. “You’re trying to invent sleepwalking.”
“Quite the opposite, Joules,” Mort said. “Imagine being able to exercise similar control over reality as we do in our dreams. What if our worlds were only limited by focus and imagination?”
“Sounds great,” Eugene said. “In theory, but how could perception possibly alter our physical reality?”
“Look at you, Eugene,” Mort said. “You’ve got more of your old man in you than you think.”
“No, you’re just describing the effects of hallucinogens,” Eugene said. “And, while perfectly fun in their own right, it’s all limited to the user. The man only thinks he’s the last great lizard king of Ambora. He might believe it, it might seem more real than anything else he’s ever felt, but that doesn’t stop him from getting arrested when he runs naked down the street spouting nonsense.”
“Sounds like you’ve had experience,” Joules said.
“My dad’s not the only one who likes to experiment,” Eugene said.
“Forgive my rambling,” Mort said. “I’m sure Walter could explain it a whole lot better.”
“Yeah,” Eugene said. “I’m sure he could…” He turned back to his plate, but he still wasn’t hungry.
They sat a moment in silence. Joules yawned. Molly caught it and yawned too. A generator kicked on somewhere behind the walls. Mort chewed his last bits of synth-loaf.
“If you’ll excuse me,” Eugene said. “I need to use the restroom.”
“Just down the hall, dear,” Molly said. “Third door on your right.”
7:12
Bone blinked through the dust at the bottom of the grave. His back was on fire, pulsating, screaming in shock. The General circled around the top. Bone squinted, his eyes shifting into focus just as the ladder came down on his neck.
He gasped and tried to lift it, but the weight dropped as the General steadied himself and descended slowly, rung by rung, crushing Bone’s throat with each step. The General stopped near the bottom and plopped down. Sand shook loose from his boots and dribbled over Bone’s face. The unfortunate Saint coughed and sputtered.
“What’s that?” the General cupped his hand to a false ear and leaned over his prisoner. “I can’t hear you…” He stood and lifted the ladder. Bone lashed out for breath, but the General brought it down again before he could gasp. “Speak up, son. I’m a busy man.”
“How…Howard, please…just take me in, lock me up…”
“You’re operating on outdated info, Bone,” the General said. “We already tried diplomacy. You want mercy here, you gotta sweeten the pot.”
The General nodded to Brugada up top. The ladder raised a few inches and hovered over Bone’s neck. The General straddled the man and got in his face.
“Come on, shitkicker,” the General said. “Out with it…”
“You…” Bone’s eyes burst blood vessels and went glossy. “Eureka…”
“Ghost town,” the General said. “You’re trying my patience, Bone. I gave you all this time…” He grabbed the ladder and held it shaking over the man’s bruised esophagus.
“End of every season,” Bone said. “God…shit, they’ll kill me.”
“They say you torture a man enough,” the General said. “He’ll whisper sweet nothings till sunrise. Next, you’ll be telling me I’ve got the biggest cock in the Outer Rim.”
He pulled out his pistol. Bone tried to cover his face with his arms, but they were pinned under the ladder. The General fired three quick shots into the others and shoved the hot gun barrel into Bone’s mouth. It sizzled and steam escaped through Bone’s nose as the bloody mist from his baby cousin graced his cheeks. The General muffled the man’s scream with his hand. When he was finished, he holstered it.
“Choose your next words very carefully, Bone,” the General said as he stepped back onto the ladder. “I want you to appreciate the chance you’ve got here.”
The General went up slowly. He took Brugada’s hand at the top and stepped off. The ladder came up and Bone gasped.
“Bathard,” he mumbled, his tongue numb, junked from the gun barrel. “Thupid bathard—”
The General snapped his fingers and his troops began shoveling into the grave.
“No!” Bone yelped and clambered to his feet. “Please. Wait!”
“Too late, sweetheart,” the General said. “Unless you’ve got something useful to say…” He turned his back on Bone. Dirt kept falling in little showers. It stuck to the man’s cold sweat.
“Tunnels!” Bone cried out. He clawed at the dirt walls, stepping on the corpses, losing his balance and falling forward. “In Eureka…Garlock…all of ‘em…”
“Tell me more,” the General said.
“False wall,” Bone said, spittle flew out with each syllable and panicked breath. “Crawford’s chapel, far side…”
“Sure…”
“Please, I thwear, please…” Bone started whimpering. Piss welled up in his crotch and spread down his leg. “You gotta believe me…you gotta…”
The General held up his hand and the shoveling stopped.
“I’ll be damned,” he said. “What do you know, Bone. I do believe you.”
“Yuh?” Bone wiped dirt-streaked tears from his good eye like mascara. “Really?” His eyes went wide. A puppy dog waiting for scraps.
“Hand to God.” The General crossed his heart and nodded compassionately.
“Oh, thank God,” Bone said. “Thank God, bless him…”
“I’m glad I saved you for last, Bone,” the General said. “I doubt the others would’ve given up so easily.”
The General snapped his fingers and the shoveling commenced. Bone screamed and flung himself against the walls. He clawed and jumped and coughed.
“Cover him quick, boys,” the General said. “Wouldn’t want to wake the neighbors…”
He left Bone’s muffled cries and walked over to Brugada where he pulled out another cigar. Corto Maltese: only the best. He smelled it and grunted.
“Brugada, order your men to Hazmat when they’re finished here,” he said. “Have them keep their distance. It’s a small town and I want some room to breathe. It’s a good night to stretch my legs, maybe catch up with some old friends.”
“Of course, sir,” Brugada nodded and went back to the transport.
The General puffed and puffed and sent smoke up. There was a flash not too far away. A bulky figure holding a large, lumpy bag and a violin case.
The General stomped over as fast as he could. His joints squeaked, he winced with every step.
“Take that helmet off, Major.”
The seal hissed and Nero removed the mask, shaking the sweat from his head.
“Evening, sir,” Nero said. “Just cleaning up.”
“Brugada said you missed the rendezvous,” the General said. “Why didn’t you radio for pick-up?”
“Thought I’d give you a break, sir,” Nero said. “What with all you’ve got on your plate. The shuttle, grid being down. Things not going right and all. Plus, Brugada don’t know his street names.”
“You don’t get to decide what I need on my plate,” the General said. “I’m involved in everything, every little detail, you hear?”
“Sir,” Nero said. “Yes, sir.”
“Open the bag.”
“Why?”
“I prefer to see evidence before I cross it off the list,” the General said. “Open that bag. See what you’ve been cooking. How many warps have you made to get out here with him?”
“Ain’t that many…” Nero unzipped a body bag and immediately turned up his nose. It was filled with putrid, steaming flesh. “Aw, God!”
“Exactly,” the General said. “Walk it the rest of the way, boy. You’re lucky the bag held as long as it did.”
Nero dragged it the toward the grave. The General picked up the evidence: a violin case plastered in stickers. The bag fell into the grave and burst open, spilling liquefied remains over Bone who let out a final gasp and gurgle.
“So, it’s all wrapped up then?” the General said. He popped open the case, pulled out the violin, and tossed the case.
“With a bow, sir,” Nero said.
“I didn’t know he played,” the General said. He plucked the strings curiously. “Shame. I would’ve liked to hear it.”
“What’s that?”
“Nothing,” the General said. He tossed the violin in the grave and watched it get covered in dirt. “Just considering how deep genius runs in the bloodline. I suppose we’ll never know now.”
“Don’t know about all that,” Nero said, taking a hefty drought from his canteen. “Kid seemed pretty stupid if you ask me.”
“I certainly didn’t,” the General said. “Still, I wonder if Walt’s kid was any good, if there’s a chance he could’ve made a man like me weep…”
“A man like you?”
“Never mind,” he said. “Tell me, Major: how’d the surprise party go?”
“Still unconfirmed, Dad.”
“What did I tell you about calling me that?”
“I know,” Nero said. “Never on the job, but…”
“But what?”
“You’re always on the job.”
“Exactly.”
“Should be hearing back any moment now, sir,” Nero said. “Don’t you worry.”
“You seem pretty confident,” the General said. “Especially coming from a man who didn’t take care of it himself. You haven’t underestimated our favorite bitches, have you?”
“Not a chance,” Nero said. “I was there to kick it off. Watched the Hellbender go belly-up. Handpicked the team too. Fake Saints ambush. Unregistered vehicles and weapons. No loose ends, no survivors, just another attack by crazed hillbillies.”
“Not too clean I hope…”
Come in, Bishop. Wild Bunch here. Do you read?
Nero fumbled with the horn.
“I read you, Wild Bunch. Report.”
It’s done, sir.
The Major turned and smiled expectantly at his father, but the General only nodded and lit his cigar.
“Confirmed,” Nero said. “Head back to base, boys. We’ll send out a dune patrol at first light to find your good work.”
Roger that. Over and out.
“Like I said…” Nero beamed with pride. “With a frickin’ bow”
“What a lovely, lovely evening,” the General said. He sighed deeply and started walking toward Hazmat. “Now, get back to the Tank. I want the lab rats ready to go when I arrive.”
7:13
Several klicks away, the com-link shut off. The Hellbender lay on its side, steam emanating from its exposed ribs. Four bodies were splayed out on the ground. Blood streaks splattered the sand like a drip painting.
Adrian Wolfe. Jas O’Connor. Kale Penderghast. Austen Cleric. All four of them, Hazmat’s brave and noble protectors, lay in the sand, laughing their asses off at how dumb you’d have to be to fall for a cheap voice mod.
The God Complexes 