Tales of the Parodyverse

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Fin Fang Foom
Mon Aug 15, 2005 at 11:44:55 pm EDT
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SE #3, continued in here...
Originally
Scorched Earth #3: Perpetual Midnight in New America
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Fin Fang Foom
Mon Aug 15, 2005 at 11:43:16 pm EDT
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Of all of the discussions and debates that had ever existed, one of the most important was an epic murder-mystery: what was responsible for killing more people than anything else? (This was in the days before the Swarm.) There were any number of suspects…a particular religion or religion in general, political ideologies (such as fascism), racial and ethnic hatred, or simply fear. The actual pre-Swarm culprit remained unidentified and at large, however--history itself. Or rather, those who were preoccupied with how history would view them. When someone was intent on competing with legendary ghosts and mysterious futures, the real, live people and their situation in the here and now seemed far less important. So what if your life has to be a little tougher for a little while? So what if you have to give up a few basic rights and go serve someone else’s attempt to guarantee themselves a chapter in the human story? While the general public was more than capable of being wrong, and while tough optimism and an independent streak were a big part of what powered America, there was a point where both the masses and reality simply had to be acknowledged. In the case of President Wertham, he knew that the public hated him, that his military leaders thought he was crazy or sloppy, that all of his goals were nowhere close to being achieved, that a ton of mistakes had been made on his watch…but he was sure that History would be on his side.

Like America itself, Washington, DC was very schizophrenic, capable of being many different things at the same time. Many logically viewed it as the nexus of global power, while others liked to think of it as the high-pressure-cooker at the center of the American Experiment. For some American citizens and foreign diplomats, it was the boarding station for a gravy-train of money and influence, while their dissenting colleagues viewed it as a magnetic obstacle that one couldn’t help but be drawn towards--if you wanted to do anything major in the country or the world (even if it didn’t directly involve America), you had to go through Washington, and it was both demoralizing and humiliating. It was a city of white-collar criminals and Constitutional scholars, of wonkish policy geeks and overachieving party-scene interns. The city’s ultimate destiny, however, had been delayed by the attacks: it had been in the very slow process of becoming like one of those cities you see in advanced alien civilizations; the kind that are full of monuments and wonders and remembrances of past deeds. DC had just had a few--the Washington Monument, the Lincoln Memorial, the cultural accomplishments that were the Constitution and Bill of Rights--but gradually, more and more would have been added, turning the city into a sci-fi paradise. And perhaps they still might.

There was a Presidential compound underneath the violated carcass of Washington, DC. This undisclosed location was armed and armored, its interior and exterior patrolled by a ridiculous amount of Safe America troops. Initially, the President and the top members of the administration had been evacuated (though, after it was over, a future press release would use the term “relocated”) to a theoretically apocalypse-proof, mansion-sized bunker in North Dakota, which had been taken out on the first day of the attacks. For a few frightening hours thereafter, when those in line to be President were missing in action, America had been ruled by an unelected, longstanding but never before used shadow-government, thanks to a Martial Law consensus reached by the CIA, NSA, FBI, and the Joint Chiefs of Staff. Wertham had then been sworn in on a nuclear submarine, returning a relatively-elected form of government to the country. But when it became clear that the Swarm had moved on (which, of course, Wertham took credit for, even though everyone had seen the flagship battle with the “Final Five” on TV), they moved him to a secure facility in DC.

It was as opulent as any royal palace, full of marble columns, softly-lit hallways with purple drapes, and stripes of crimson carpet that indicated where only the President and a few others could go. There were war rooms, dining halls, and residential sections for both the administration and the compound’s employees. President Wertham operated out of what some jokingly called the Octagonal Office, which was located at the very bottom of the building. (As best to withstand an attack.) It was actually the central hub of a series of five connected rooms, which went, from left to right: the foreign policy nerve center, a spacious conference room, the Octagonal Office, another spacious conference room, and the domestic policy nerve center. Those who worked in the nerve centers would speak to the President’s people in the conference rooms, who in turn would speak to the President, and then bring his input or decision back out to the conference rooms. The space was utilized very well, except for the cavernous, half-finished rooms that had been intended for a new Senate and House…President Wertham had decided that, in this time of emergency, partisan politics would solve nothing, so he’d dissolved them.

The Octagonal Office was almost an exact replica of the Oval Office, save for (obviously) its shape, its increased size, and the fact that there was no window behind the desk. Instead, there was a long painting of proud-looking pilgrims, who were bringing food and culture and God to an impoverished race of savages that was clearly incapable of taking care of itself. The American seal was emblazoned on a blue floor, and the white walls were made out of some ivory-looking substance. President Wertham wore a flag-motif sweatsuit and white sneakers, working out on his treadmill, while ostensibly watching the viewscreens before him. (The compound had some of the best remaining communications technology.) He was a man in his mid-fifties, with greying brown hair and a relatively trim form. The unfiltered expressions of an overgrown toddler were perpetually plastered on his face. Today, for example, he looked extremely grumpy, and he pumped his arms furiously as he walked, somehow able to tune out the sea of advisors and analysts that were almost constantly camped out in his office.

He was currently being briefed by his National Security Advisor, Mary Vasquez. She was a gorgeous Hispanic woman in her mid-thirties, her hair just slightly darker brown than her skin. (With blonde highlights.) Previously, she’d been his mistress, but after the divorce and subsequent “breakdown” of his ex-wife, she was now his girlfriend, though she preferred to think of herself as the unofficial First Lady. After college, Mary had served in the Marines, and then graduated at the top of her class at the esteemed War College, taking an analyst position with the CIA. She’d been tapped for this new position after the previous one had, naturally, died in the attacks. Mary had on her usual black blouse and slacks. She was usually the one that gave him the news, as the majority of it was bad, and everyone else was too afraid of him.

“--emind me again why we can’t seal off the Alaskan coast,” Wertham sighed.

“Because if we divert that much of our fleet from the mid-Pacific, we’re open to a naval attack from the European Collective. It’d probably be launched from India. The Bering Strait shouldn’t be a priority, it’s more important to protect the West Coast than to stop the black-market people from smuggling things in through Alaska. Now, Russia isn’t a problem, the EC could never launch an attack from their ports. Russia’s nuclear plants were ruptured in the attacks, remember--so the majority of their coastline is kinda useless to them for the next thousand years.”

“I remember…but India? When did they join the EC?”

“Right after Turkey, back in October. It was in your daily briefing.”

“Yeah, well…”

“General Adams is requesting that another division be sent to Sumeria--Iranian and Syrian refugees have been flooding across the border and joining the insurgency. The thing is, Fallujah is in better shape than any other city in the region, so the refugees head straight there…but since the insurgents control it, they’re able to convince them to join up. He says he can’t secure the pipelines with the amount of troops he currently has.”

“If we know where they are, why can’t we bomb ‘em back to the stone age?”

“We’ve tried that, sir. Here’s what usually happens: we attack, the insurgents just leave and set up shop in another city, and we end up killing a ton of civilians instead. A week or a month later, the insurgents come back, and they have an easier time recruiting and gaining popular support, because of relatives and friends of the dead civilians. They’ve had to turn soccer stadiums into graveyards, they’re filled to the brink with women, children, and the elderly--especially the elderly; they aren’t that mobile, so they can’t run fast enough.”

“Well, war is a little tough on everyone. What I don’t get is, the insurgents are killing innocent Sumerians, too, so why are they siding with ‘em at all?”

“The Islamic jihadists? Yes, sir, they’re the source of the suicide-bombers, like the one on the bus in Baghdad today. But the Fallujah insurgents are mostly Ira--I mean, Sumerian nationalists that just want us out of their country, and not their fellow citizens. As a general rule, they hardly ever target civilians, it’s mainly the jihadists and the warring ethnic and tribal factions doing that. The nationalists focus on fighting the foreign fundamentalists and our troops, so, they’re pretty popular, because occupations tend to make nations more xenophobic. Speaking of which, about those extra troops…”

“Send some Falconers and call it good. This is a time of war, we have to make due with what we have.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How many insurgent attacks do we have a day, there, now?”

“Let’s see…around seventy attacks on Safe America personnel per day. Mostly IEDs and hidden shooters, with a few suicide-bombers. We don’t have estimates for attacks on the Sumerian populace: police and troops we’ve trained, the new government, and other portions of the populace that have sided with us. Not that many have. At least ten carbombs a day, though.”

“What’s going on in Venezuela and that, uh, that Caspian place?”

“Pretty much more of the same--homegrown insurgencies, foreign fighters that are probably financed by the EC, and not enough manpower. We’re getting less than 25% of our oil production estimates from both, so the self-financing thing isn’t exactly working out.”

“What about Saudi Arabia? We took out that insurgency, right?”

“Well, most of the Saudi populace was killed when our fusion-powered battle-robot blew up, so, technically, yes.”

“Mission accomplished!”

Mary faked a cough and stared at the floor. “It’s horrible, but, at least the oil survived.”

“That’s great. I mean, not to sound heartless, but…y’know.”

“We’re still fighting conventional armies in South America and the Arctic Circle, so we haven’t had a chance to do anything more than test-drilling--the combat is too hot.”

“The Arctic Circle?? Who lives up there?”

“Some secret kingdom of, I don’t know, albino vikings or something. Thomas thinks they’ve been hiding in an underground city up there for a few thousand years, maybe. He isn’t really sure. They’re at about 1920-level technology, so they’ve got tommy guns, primitive tanks and explosives, and a few biplanes. But there’s like sixty thousand of them, so, obviously, they’re a problem. And the EC wants that oil, too--they sent a few squads of winter-outfitted hovertanks. But in all likelihood, they’ll try to win them over diplomatically.”

“Can we send a battle-equipped skycarrier?”

“No, they have problems with that cold of weather.”

“We send ‘em into Central all the time…”

“It’s gotten even colder, up at the pole. The techies are working on modifications, but it’s a slow go, at best.”

“Nobody but us and the Eurotrash knows about the vikings, right? Why don’t we just wipe these mothers out? If the EC says anything, well, hey, it’s just anti-American propaganda.”

“Canada knows, too, and we’re depending on them for staging bases in the region. With their stance on human rights, our diplomatic relationship with them is bad enough as it is--we can’t take the risk. We had to cover up the design flaw warnings about the robot in Saudi Arabia just to keep them off our back.”

“Uppity socialist do-gooders. Like we’re supposed to be all worried just because the chief scientist or whoever he is wanted more testing before we used it. We aren’t as bad as the aliens, that’s all that matters. How’s recruitment going?”

“It’s still down, but they’re working on a new marketing campaign. With the casualty rate so high, well…”

“I thought we weren’t making that public.”

“We aren’t, but, it’s getting around through word-of-mouth.”

“Did you look into my Labor Initiative transfer idea? I mean, is that possible at all?”

“Um…probably not, sir. Making someone a slave and then training them and giving them a gun, it’s a little risky. They could turn on their commanding officers en masse and join the insurgency.”

“Yeah, I guess so.”

She resisted the urge to deck him.

“What about the domestic insurgency?”

“It’s staying at the same level. We did lose a skycarrier, yesterday, though--in Central.”

“What, another one?? Didn’t we lose one there, um, last month or something? When that hospital or whatever it was got taken out?”

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“Something about that hospital…did we have somebody important there?”

Mary took a deep breath, which the President didn’t notice. “No, it wasn’t an A-level site.”

“I know, but, I thought maybe we had someone working there, or, I don’t know.”

“You may be thinking of the Chicago facility, sir--that’s where we sent your second ex-wife.”

“Right, right. By the way, I’ve been wondering: how’s our new Secretary of Information doing?”

“Well, he isn’t really new, anymore, sir, but the latest batch of results from the focus groups was disappointing. They didn’t react as positively as we’d hoped--he thinks they might be becoming immune to the usual tricks. His suggestion is to avoid raising the Alien Attack Alert level for a few weeks, as they’re starting to realize that we’re doing it whenever we need them distracted.”

“That always worked when Christopher did it…”

“I know, sir.”

The President went through multiple facial contortions, all of them unhappy. Then, he glared at one of the viewscreens, which was showing the only remaining TV station--the New America News Network. “That chick they have on today is kind of flat, find someone with bigger boobs. We don’t want ‘em thinking too much about the actual ‘news’.”

“I’ll get the Secretary of Information right on it, sir.”

“No, I’d rather have you handle it. I don’t trust him to do the job right.”

“Sir…”

“I mean it. I don’t trust his taste. Hey, you experimented in college, right? So you know--”

Her voice took on a growling, simmering tone. “Sir…I’m your National Security Advisor. I’m coordinating simultaneous wars all over the world, in addition to our domestic war with the insurgents--and we’re obviously having some problems with these wars, so they need all the attention I can give them. I mean, for god’d sake, we control less than half of our own country! I’ve told you about the four points: from Montana to Michigan, and from Arizona to Indiana, it’s a wasteland ruled by the insurgents. Our troops are terrified to go within that square. They don’t even like going into the states that border it, like Texas. And even if we somehow manage to beat them, with the weather being so bad in that area, we’ll probably never be able to rebuild its infrastructure…god, we don’t even have enough money or manpower to rebuild the infrastructure in the parts we do control! Only a third of Safe America-protected territory has running water, something like that. I know that you miss Dr. Price, but, it’s time to accept his replacement and move on to more important issues.”

“I guess.”

Several minutes passed, with the two of them just watching the viewscreens. Wertham sulked and pouted like a teenager. Eventually, she smiled, stepping closer to him. “I’m not wearing any underwear, today, sir...”

“You are too.”

“This outfit is pretty tight, the lines’d show.”

After making sure that no-one was looking--his staff was keeping their distance and actively looking away, as he tended to take his anger out on anyone who was close or paying too much attention--he slipped his hand up her shirt. She returned the favor by reaching down his pants.

Mary kissed him on the forehead. “We don’t need anybody else, baby. It’s just the two of us, ruling the American Empire and saving the world.”

“God, I’m glad you talked me into dealing with Sabrina. I can’t believe how much power she had over me. It’s completely different, with us”

“Of course it is, I’d never treat you like that.”

While many young Americans dreamed of someday being President, Wertham had never even considered it, in his early days. His father had been a major figure in both the public and private sectors, changing history in ways that most people would never know about. Wertham stood to inherit a multi-billion-dollar estate based out of California, and, like many in his situation, he took this opportunity to have an extended childhood. He spent most of the first forty years of his life partying, golfing, and “sowing his wild oats”. While his father had been a determined, rugged individual--a decorated WWII vet, a pioneer in several fields of business, a self-made man and American success story--Wertham was, quite simply, a slacker and screw-up, the kind that gave his fellow Baby Boomers a bad name. He’d discuss the evils of promiscuity and drugs and abortion with his father’s political allies, and then go off to snort coke and sleep with the allies’s underage daughters, who’d often need to have a pregnancy issue dealt with. He nearly flunked out of one of the nation’s top colleges. For the most part, he didn’t remember the 1970s. After a safe, obligatory stint in the military, he married someone his parents wanted him to marry, and took over control of several lesser family businesses in the early ‘80s, despite protests from stockholders and all levels of management.

That was where the fun started. His first attempt at being a CEO caused the company to crash and burn within a matter of years, and his second attempt, with a new company, resulted in it going belly-up in all of eleven months. Deciding that he’d do better with something that was his own, rather than his father’s, he embarked on several new business ventures: the software company that he created was responsible for the worst marketing campaign and biggest flop of a product in the ‘80s. He bought an NFL team, which never won more than five games in a season, during his tenure. His public relations firm had a quick slide into irrelevancy and then bankruptcy. During this time, his wife divorced him. He told everyone that he didn’t care about his professional or personal failures, however, as neither his work nor his wife had really mattered to him. They were just things his family had made him do.

But he had an unlikely romance with a poet laureate named Sabrina Lewis--she came from an equally-powerful family that was the exact political opposite of Wertham’s own. While most of his family was shady, Sabrina thought that he was harmless, admittedly inept, and kind of funny. As far as she could tell, he was a ladies’ man who just wanted to relax and enjoy the finer things in life…not at all different from her brothers and cousins, who happened to live in a difficult-to-pronounce place in the Northeast. Their marriage was allowed by the Werthams, only because it was politically opportunistic, in terms of their future plans for him. Those plans became clear a few failed companies later. With a lot of help from his father and his father’s allies, Wertham ran for governor of California. All he had to do was run on a reform ticket, appear to be a moderate, stick to the script, and appease the right demographics. He won, of course, and the years passed, as he slowly moved up in the party. Though his own state was in disarray, thanks to his bad-but-good-sounding policies, he was always on the shortlist of future Presidential contenders. He was bored to tears by politics and ideology, though--going along with his father’s plan was just the path of least resistance.

However, shortly before he’d ran for governor, something disastrous had happened--Sabrina got pregnant, and she wanted to have the baby. (This greatly confused Wertham, as he’d been taught certain things about women from her side of the political spectrum.) In theory, the happy-go-lucky Wertham wouldn’t have been concerned…but his fun-loving nature was just denial; his method of coping. He’d always known that there was a ton of pressure on him. His father had started with nothing and turned it into everything, whereas he’d started with everything and turned it into nothing. He knew that he was expected to change the world. Thinking about it scared him, so he distracted himself with drugs, alcohol, women, and whatever else he could get his hands on. If not for his father’s constant intervention, he’d have been penniless (due to wasted investments), unable to get a job worthy of someone of his stature, and probably scandalized by the celebrity-obsessed media, as his father had covered up the drugs, the abortions, the affairs, the motorcycle accident, the checkered military record. And though he was no longer publicly involved, the future of the family business rested on his shoulders, as well as the future of his country, according to his father’s political allies. Adding a child on top of all that responsibility…it was too much. But he said nothing.

After the birth of his son in 1990, this utterly ambitionless politician had a new goal in life, one that he was actually interested in: to ensure that his son wouldn’t have to go through what he’d gone through. Wertham had been given every reasonable advantage in life, and it still hadn’t been enough to keep him from making a mess of things--so, he’d give his son unreasonable advantages. He wanted his son to inherit something that he couldn’t possibly fail at. But did such a perfect thing exist? Not having much of an imagination, Wertham spent almost ten years trying to figure out what to give his son…and then, of course, the attacks happened, and the title of President passed down to him by default. With even more pressure and responsibility, he would have broken down completely, if not for a group of previously-obscure intellectuals from his own party: the neocons. They claimed to have an idea that would revitalize America, in this time of darkness.

Roughly a hundred years earlier, an American Empire had first been attempted. Unnecessary wars and nation-building were the hallmarks of the day. Politicians actually stood up on the floor of the Senate and House and claimed that America’s manifest destiny was to Christianize and rule over the poor, coincidentally non-white savages in the nearby islands. The obvious logic being that America was in a better position to decide what these people needed to do than these people themselves. Needless to say, it didn’t work out, and America became quite isolationistic as a result, eventually getting dragged into one world war, swearing never to do it again, and then leaping headfirst into the next one, after a fashion. But wasn’t America an empire, anyway? When using common sense, it was clear that America had been expanding its territory from the very beginning, and didn’t that define “empire”? The idea had modern-day appeal, the neocons said--military action against enemies to sell conservatives, and spreading human rights to sell liberals. Plus, the attacks provided the perfect opportunity to ram it through. To Wertham, it made sense, and even seemed noble. Yes, let’s go secure both the resources and populations of these decimated countries, as we’re the only people powerful enough to help. What could go wrong?

Even after the answer to that question became apparent (foreign citizens, it turned out, wanted safety, freedom, and control, not incompetent NA puppet-governments; some of the countries they were invading were neither threats nor in need of help; not having a plan other than “hope for the best” had turned out not to be a good idea), Wertham didn’t care, as he’d found the answer to his other question. If America was an empire, then it was also a monarchy, rather than a democracy…and what better gift could he give his son than America itself? Not Old America, with its mostly continent-trapped existence and burgeoning bureaucracy, but a legendary New America, a network of nations that spanned the globe and had a streamlined, executive-privilege-powered government. He’d make it so powerful and unstoppable that his son would never have to worry about pressure to succeed. Conveniently, such a historic final victory would also overcome Wertham’s own mountain of failures. Sabrina hadn’t particularly liked the idea, but, she’d been silenced easily enough. And now, as more and more of his mistakes piled up, he’d found a new style of denial, which was just as self-destructive as his old one…blind optimism and either ignoring or rationalizing bad news and dissent. It was all that kept him from snapping.

An uncharacteristic hush came from outside the Octagonal Office, starting far away and approaching quickly. Annoyingly-perky aides and disgruntled advisors alike ceased their constant game of verbal chess. Secret Service men swung the double-doors open, revealing an entire crowd of personnel that was quickly backing away, going to the right, while a lone man approached from the left, entering the room. He was six foot six, with bright blonde hair and glowing green eyes. Though he didn’t look like a steroid-powered caricature of a man, he was definitely a walking wall of muscle, square-jawed and imposing. He wore a pristine, black three-piece suit that had to be designer material. His face was focused into a furious mask. The man known as Jarvis was Wertham’s partner and chief enforcer, in addition to being the only thing that kept their multiple wars feasible. When undermanned, undertrained Safe America forces were overrun by insurgents (domestically or abroad), he was there to pick up the slack. When they couldn’t penetrate the defenses of a city, he simply flew in and razed it to the ground.

He was now actually hovering a foot or two off the ground, just a few feet away from the President, smoldering in his silence. Though he had a tendency towards anger and overreaction, it was clear that this was a special example of it. He said, simply, “Out.”

Wertham calmly stepped off his treadmill, as all of his staff (save for Mary) flooded out of the room. Every time he saw Jarvis this angry, he wondered if he were about to die, due to the secret he’d been keeping from him. Regardless of that, there really wasn’t anything keeping Jarvis from just offing him and taking over New America--he’d seen Jarvis throw submarines, destroy cities with cosmic energy, withstand near-nuclear explosions--except for the fact that he didn’t want to deal with the day-to-day business of ruling. Wertham often wondered if Jarvis viewed himself as the true President of New America. With the casual, smug tone that he used to hide his constant internal panic, Wertham asked, “What’s going on?”

“It’s about the Flagstaff Dossier.”

Behind Jarvis, Mary’s usually-controlled reactions failed her, and her eyes went wide. She reached into her pocket to call the Secret Service. (Not that that’d do any good.) But a glance from Wertham drew her hand back out. If he knew that about the Flagstaff Dossier, he’d have killed them as soon as he’d come in.

“Mary, could you lock the doors? We don’t want any company for this talk.” He turned to Jarvis. “Mind if I ask how you found out? Just for security reasons.”

“General Stone died, yesterday. South American theater. He wanted me to know about it, in case it could help.”

“Monty died?? That’s news to me.”

“The unnatural hurricanes are getting worse, down there, so even our anti-static comm-tech can’t cut through.”

“Ahh.”

“I was hoping that maybe I misunderstood what he told me.”

“What did he tell you?”

“That we’ve had Swarm tech sitting in some bunker in Arizona, this whole time.”

“Well, that’s true, and that’s not true.”

“What, you think you can spin me like you spin the idiot public?”

“No, not at all. You want the whole story?”

Jarvis’s eyes went back to their normal blue. “Absolutely.”

Wertham hid his shaking hands, trying to appear calm, as he had to dance around a major fact to make this work. “This is all secondhand, okay? There aren’t any files on this, they destroyed ‘em all, so take it with a few tons of salt. Apparently, back in the ‘70s, the government found out about the Swarm’s existence. The thing was, we had a mutual enemy--some other alien race that was gonna build a base on the moon. A few of the guys thought it might’ve been an offshoot of the Swarm. Maybe a civil war-type thing. Anyway, the Swarm made contact with us, and we set up a meet. They said if we’d help them out with a problem they had, they’d help us out, with this moonbase situation. Our predecessors didn’t exactly like the idea of aliens setting up shop so close to home, y’know? We gave ‘em what they needed--what that was, I don’t know--and they chased off the other aliens and threw in some tech, too. Took a huge cover-up to make it work. Thank god the public fell out of love with NASA ‘round then, or else we’d’ve had to explain why we weren’t sending people up there. Not enough funding, whatever.”

“Wait, what could we possibly ‘help’ them with? You know how powerful and advanced they are.”

“Maybe they aren’t actually that good with science, or maybe they were sick or near-extinction or something, and we gave ‘em a cure and brought ‘em back from the brink. No idea. If you ask me, it was a scam: I think there were two groups of Swarm that were actually on the same side, and they were just playing us, to get whatever it was they wanted.”

“But they gave us some technology, why would they do that if--”

“They didn’t. A few days after they cleared out, the stuff all melted into puddles of whatever.”

“So you’re saying Stone was wrong?”

“What, you think if I had some stuff that could win all these wars we’re fighting, I wouldn’t have broken it out, by now?”

“I just--I mean, when he told me that your father was involved--”

“Hey, I only found out about this after the attacks, after he died. I spent the ‘70s sleeping with chicks from that angel show.”

“Could I at least go take a look around Flagstaff?”

“The remains aren’t there, anymore. I had the same thought as soon as they made me President. They moved it someplace else, and the people that knew, well, they must’ve died in the attacks.”

“And no files on it whatsoever?”

“Are you kidding me? Whatever they had left, they shredded on the first day of the attacks. If the public knew we helped out the monsters that ended up attacking us, we’d be dead meat.”

“You might be dead meat, anyway--I’m sorry, but, the controls are breaking down. This new Secretary of Information is no Christopher Price. I’m out there on the front lines with the Safe America troops, and even they’re starting to have doubts. This never would’ve happened a few years ago. I’ve been wondering, what ever happened to Price?”

Wertham briefly engaged in deep thought. Mary stared at the floor, again.

“I don’t know. Maybe Mary does. After that Sumerian stuff, we demoted him and reassigned him up in, uh, Mon-tania or something, right? Some torture ward?”

She repressed a sigh of relief. “I think that’s right, sir.”

“Look, I know he screwed up, but maybe we should think about bringing him back,” Jarvis said. “Want me to go have a talk with him?”

“Actually, sir, we have a situation in the Arctic Circle that could use your help,” Mary said before Wertham could say anything, quickly pulling a file out of her briefcase.

He scanned it. “Are you--?? You seriously expect me to take on an enemy force of 60,000 with that little manpower?”

“Just assess the situation, and give them a boost for a few days.”

“More like a few hours,” Jarvis retorted. “They need me for an offensive in South America, our people are getting flooded in the northeast, and a superhuman has been making hit-and-run strikes in Sumeria. Yeah, I could take out 60,000--but without being able to destroy the region, because of the oil, it’d take a few weeks. I don’t have that much time.”

“We appreciate whatever you can do,” Wertham assured him.

“Look--we can talk about this Price thing later,” Jarvis sighed. “Just make sure the new guy does a decent job with the press release for the killing of Hatman and Goldeneyed.”

“I thought Hatman was--”

“I’m talking about the official line, Mr. President. Whenever we’d kill a super, Price would always throw in how they were trying to kidnap or rape someone right before we did it. And since it’s newspapers, we can just make somebody up, it’s not like we need to recruit an actor for people to see.” With television being made virtually obsolete by the climate-bombs (only the NANN station had enough power to cut through the static, and even then, it still interfered), newspapers were now the main source of (dis)information, and they were all controlled by the administration, naturally.

“Hey, that’s a great idea. Mary, tell what’s-his-name is to do that.”

“Of course, sir.”

Wertham glanced at Jarvis, wiping the lying-induced sweat from his brow. “How’s Project: Horus coming? You saw it, right?”

“Yeah, they called me when they found it. The object left the underground hanger in the Andes about a half-hour ago--it should be in our airspace in a few hours.”

“We’re sending it to that new, what do you call it, aerospace place, right?”

“Yes, sir,” Mary said. “The facility isn’t finished, but they do have a place to store it…I talked to one of the Falconers stationed there, the day before yesterday.”

“I’m no expert, but, it seemed to be in pretty good shape, to me. The basics work, anyway.”

“See? It’s all coming together, just like I always tell you. We’ll be winning all these wars in no time,” Wertham said, with a terrified smile.

Mary and Jarvis exchanged skeptical glances.

“The important thing is to remember who the real bad guys are. Yeah, a lot of the Safe America troops and the Labor Initiative people whine about how we’re making them do all this work, but, let’s put it in context. The Swarm tried to kill us and take our land, it’s not like America’s ever done that to anybody.”

“Okay, if that’s it, I’m gonna hit South America--literally.” Jarvis flew out of the room, somehow unlocking the doors instead of crashing through them. Mary was now alone with Wertham. He was so nervous that he didn’t notice that she was pretty shaken up, herself, like a person might be if they were keeping secrets from the two most powerful men on Earth.

He was currently considering the one of those secrets that he knew of. Part of his overall plan for New America involved using a piece of Swarm technology that had survived the “meltdown”--for his son to really assume power, Jarvis had to be out of the way. For a regular person, any superhuman could be a threat; political power alone was nothing when there were individuals with so much physical power. Which was why Wertham had secretly recruited one of his top scientists to build a new, godlike body for his son, one that could survive any assassination attempt and vanquish any foe. The protection every father wanted for his son. Obviously, if Jarvis found out about his replacement before it was completed, it was game over. And regardless of the quagmires of wars that were going on, regardless of the deterioriating situation in New America itself, Wertham knew that he could win this. He’d have a place in history because he deserved it. Because he was a Wertham.

While he thought about carving both his and his son’s likenesses on the mountain of human achievement, Mary, decidedly a pragmatist, took stock of her current situation. After a moment, she nodded, and set off for the compound’s security center. She’d need the extra keycard to Jarvis’s personal suite, for this.

------------------------------

While the idea that civilization could be seduced by anarchy was deeply-planted and obvious enough, the opposite notion was barely focused on at all. With the planet being little more than a graveyard of societies, each new nation or empire seemed illogically convinced that they’d be the exception to the rule--that, unlike those others, they’d last forever. The naïvete of newborn states. Why were they so drawn to a plan that had never actually worked, over the true long-term? And even without considering past failures, what was really gained by setting up institutions that were bound to weaken and making human bonds formal, rather than keeping them natural? Instead of corruption happening on a relatively small scale (anarchy meant tribalism, which meant “governments” with limited capabilities), with a powerful nation, it could take place on a massive scale, which led to world wars and systematic injustice and weapons that could wound continents. Centralized civilizations certainly had many major benefits, but, after this long, shouldn’t they have produced some semi-utopian success stories? As Hadrian Villas found himself involved with the creation of a society of his own (as part of his cover), he’d come to wonder if it deserved a chance to succeed or fail on its own merits--and, committing heresy against his natural law theory, he sometimes wondered if maybe he was the one that could make this flawed social blueprint work…

Night had washed over New America, though it wasn’t much of a change from the daytime. Hadrian’s daily tasks had kept him busy until four hours after midnight, at which point he’d handed both the to-do list and the proverbial baton off to his second-in-command, Akiko. (She’d always been more of a night person.) His room was spartan, resembling a monk’s cellar--a handmade wooden bed, a creaky metal rack to hang clothes on, two lamps and dressers, a nightstand, and a small desk. However, he did have his own bathroom, which was virtually unheard of. Only one of his lamps was on, and it was turned down low. A trunk containing his costume and a number of handwritten essays (he and Harmonic had an ongoing contest to see who could philosophize the most) was at the foot of the bed. With a supernatural amount of mental and physical energy, in addition to his lifetime of discipline, Hadrian needed no more than three hours of sleep in a forty-eight-hour period. He did have a selfish reason for going to bed, however. Civilization wasn’t the only thing seducing him.

They’d just started off as friends, of course. Since he knew he’d eventually be turning against his allies, Hadrian had planned on avoiding close relationships (platonic or otherwise) with any of the other insurgents--but Lilith had proven to be different. His previous relationships had never had this level of sheer chemistry or mutual understanding. Like him, she was a pilgrim, making an unusual journey through existence. (Just like many others, she was trying to discover her purpose in life…but in her case, her creator was a now-dead sculptor named McQueen, and she was pretty sure that he’d been trying to make a specific statement with her, both in terms of art and in terms of practical effect; since he’d used special clay to make her, he’d probably planned on her coming to life. But why? Her quest for knowledge and wisdom was internal, rather than external, just like his own.) Their relationship started off as a mistake, and then two mistakes, and then a friends-with-benefits thing, and then they got closer, and it got to the point where, one day, she simply moved her stuff into his room, and neither of them ever said a word about it.

He knew he shouldn’t be doing this. Given what he’d have to do in the future, after they defeated the New American government, he couldn’t afford to become emotionally-involved with someone he might end up needing to kill. Unfortunately, he was weak. He’d tried to break it off many times, early on, but he’d always found himself going to her room in the middle of the night, when his willpower had given out on him. Or she’d forgive him for his inexplicable withdrawal by surprising him while wearing nothing at all. It was stupid. It was dangerous. It was the best relationship he’d ever had.

Lilith’s criminally-snug leather pants were now drooped on the floor, and she peeled her top off, revealing full, flawless breasts. A purple thong was all she wore. Hadrian was already in bed, in the boxers she’d gotten him last Christmas. (She’d found them while chasing a jetpack-wearing Safe America soldier through a department store.) Lilith ran her thumbs through the thong’s waistband, straightening it.

“Doesn’t it hurt to wear that all day?”

She laughed. “Getting hit with a missile doesn’t hurt me, but you think a flimsy little piece of fabric does, huh? Is that your way of getting me to take it off?”

“No, this is my way of getting you to take it off.” He altered his aura’s polarity, drawing her to him, and kissed her deeply.

“Gggmphcheater!”

After a casual makeout session that lasted a few minutes, she crawled under the covers. Once underneath, she pulled her thong down and slingshotted it across the room, giving him a “Happy, now?” expression.

He wrapped his arms around her. “How’d the rest of your classes go, today?”

“Pretty good. You should see this one little kid I have--I ‘ve spent hours explaining vanishing points and perspective and shading to the adults, and some of ‘em have never figured it out, but he understood it without anyone even teaching him.”

“Hey, that’s right, this is your day for getting new students.”

“Yeah, it was interesting. The thing is, he’s deaf--adorable little black boy, he lost his hearing in the attacks--and his aunt told me not to worry about signing and to just let him do his own thing. But at the end of the class, he was half-done with this brilliant piece. Kinda cartoony in an understated, European way. Incredible detail and texture. It was these humanoid, dinosaur-looking monsters sitting around having tea and wearing formal clothes. He has a better instinct for musculature and weight than half my advanced class.”

“That’s great.”

“What about you? Was it just the usual, or…?”

“It was uneventful, except for when Anne came up with this crazy idea--she thinks that Anvil Man might be gay.”

Lilith blinked. “I always assumed he was, yeah. I thought you’d figured it out, too.”

“…”

“I think he gets a little nervous around Harmonic. I mean, flustered-cutesy-nervous, like from a crush. And, not to get stereotypical or anything, but, when I had that poetry reading, he did show up to listen.”

“I don’t see how I could’ve missed that…”

“You understand the secrets of the universe, Hade, not the finer points of flirting. I practically had to club you over the head and drag you to bed, if you’ll remember.”

“When we first met, and you kept having to bend over to tie your shoes…it took a few months before I realized that you never actually wore shoes.”

“Your eyes were concentrating on other parts of me, hmm?”

He tugged the covers down to her waist. “I’d say so, yeah.”

She pulled them back up, smiling. “I want us to talk some more before we move to the second act, sweetie, and even you aren’t that disciplined.”

“That was a great catch, today--I mean, the doomsday prophet thing. Is Chrissy okay?”

“I think she’ll be okay, but I asked some people to check in on her every few hours, just in case.”

“I’m hoping we can catch this SOB as soon as possible--I have to go to that national LL meeting, next week.”

“Right, I forgot about that. What’s it about?”

“Now that Hatman’s presumed dead, the division heads are regrouping and trying to figure out some longterm issues. If we’re any closer to making an attack on the Safe America strongholds, if we want to set up another division in someplace like Denver, how we want to deal with the Zelner Group, stuff like that--and we have to pick a new leader. Not just for the Gothametropolis division, but for the organization overall. Hatman was both.”

“Messenger’s doing it for now, right?”

“Yeah, but I’m not sure if he’s willing to be permanent…he’s been through a lot. And I know he doesn’t think of himself as the leadership type. Personally, I think he’d be great, but it’s up to him.”

“Think they’ll ask you?”

“I hope not,” he said, letting her assume that it was because there were others with more experience, who’d do a better job.

“But you’d do it?”

“…I don’t know. I’d feel kind of obligated, if they asked.” He held her hand. “If that happened--and I don’t think it will--I’d want you to come with me. But if you didn’t want to, I’d understand. I mean, I know you have a lot of friends, here. It’s just that I couldn’t run the insurgency from Kansas City.”

“Of course I’d go with you! Don’t be crazy.” They hugged. Then, “So, what…would Akiko take over?”

“That’s a good question. I’m honestly not sure.”

“Because of her past, or because of how she’s been, lately?”

“She’s perfectionistic enough to do it, but, she might be a little too intense for the civilians. Harmonic is charismatic enough to do the job, too.”

“Do you think they’d want to bring in someone new? Whitney, someone like that?”

“They’d have to bring in new members to replace us, anyway--so, yeah, that’s definitely possible.”

“ ‘definitely possible’ is one of my favorite Hadrianisms.”

“I have -isms?”

“And I’m sure you’ll have -ites, someday. Some undersexed academic cult using your essays as guidelines.”

“That’s scary.”

“I just hope they don’t turn me into another Mary Magdalene. She wasn’t really a prostitute…”

“Just in case I forget--remind me to talk to Glasser, in the morning. I want to make sure we get all the details about that second killing.”

“Sure thing.” She yawned, briefly hopping out of bed and flashing him, to turn off the light. Her white skin practically glowed in the dark.

“Are we done talking?”

“Make your aura visible--I like it when your hair’s silver.”

“I’m taking that as a ‘yes’…”

As she crawled on top of him, she couldn’t help but be reminded of the genetic tattoo on his shoulder: a crescent whose tips pointed “northeast”, and was smooth on the left side and keylike on the right side, like it was made to interlock with something else. Lilith was very emotionally-intuitive, and every time she looked at that tattoo, she got a bad feeling. She knew that she’d never be the most important thing in his life--that his role as an HV would always take priority--but that was okay, as her own search for purpose was the defining factor in her existence, as well. However, she did expect to be the most important person in his life…and that was where she had doubts. He’d told her all about his background, and the Crescent Key, and why he had the tattoo. Though she believed him, something else was going on. Somewhere, she thought, there had to be a person with the exact opposite tattoo, and not knowing who it was, or who they were to him, distracted her from even glorious moments like these.



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