And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 3: 1986

"Night Makes Right / The Symbol Remains"

(Back) Ariel, President Ronald Wilson Reagan, The Negotiator
(Front) Kanaan, Sheliast, Nemesis, Sphyne, Senchro
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

The future doesn't belong to the fainthearted; it belongs to the brave.

Ronald Reagan - "Eulogy for the Challenger Disaster" 

June 10th, 1994

At some point, SPYGOD realizes he's all cried out. The wet on his face feels cold, rather than warm, and he's no longer hitching his breath.

"Okay then," he says to the storm, which just seems to be getting worse. It only ever seems to rain in California if there's a funeral, or someone's dying. 

And as for this, well...

He coughs into his fist. Enough of this weak !@#$. Time to butch the !@#$ up and go back in before someone says or does something stupid.

Of course, he gets back into the Reagans' living room as something stupid's already been said. 

"... the heck are you to tell us anything, huh?" George H. W. Bush is berating Aaron, over by the window: "I'm surprised you even came here, tonight-"

"I felt it was my duty to attend," the man says, not looking away from the window to address the man who's shouting at him. 

"Your duty? You've got some nerve talking about that, mister."

"George, please just drop it," his wife says from one of the easy chairs, not too far from the other two men in the room. Barbara's not crying -- he'll give her that much -- but she's clearly upset. 

"Yes, please, just drop it," James Baker sighs: "It's done. We can't change things-"

"And if he and his creepy friends hadn't started this, there wouldn't be anything to change, darn it!"

"Don't you !@#$ing take this out on him," SPYGOD snarls, coming in from the rain and the wet: "Don't you dare."

"Why the heck not?" Bush asks: "He's one of the ones who approached him in the first place, isn't he?"

"And he's also the one who !@#$ing lost everything to help us, !@#$it-"

"He's right," Aaron says, still not turning around from the window: "My deeds after we came to our understanding are not sufficient apology for what we did."

"Maybe not," Baker says: "But they go a long way in my book."

"And mine," Quayle says, not bothering to look at his old boss. 

"Well, that's just flipping great," Bush sighs, turning away and shaking his head: "One of the greatest Presidents we ever had is... I can't even bring myself to say it. And you're all wanting to make nice with the person who helped him get that way."

"We're focusing on the future, George," Baker says, walking over to him: "There's nothing we can do about the past, now. We have to live in the world we made. The world all of us made, together."

"Some !@#$ing world," SPYGOD mutters, thinking of everything they lost along the way. 

"Hey, at least we're still here," Quayle says, trying to smile: "That was kind of the whole point of it, right?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD sighs, nodding: "I just wonder when we're really going to get the !@#$ing bill for what we bought, that day."

And no one has anything to say to that. 

* * *

June 10th, 1986

"Well !@#$ me sideways with a !@#$ spoon," SPYGOD shouts into his communicator as he fires out the window of his flying car, dusting HONEYCOMB agents riding swarms of giant metal insects like they're buzzing dust clouds: "I've got amateur hour at the bug house over !@#$ing DC, here, Second!"

"I know, sir," his new right-hand man is saying: "I've got a general call out to anyone available. But it looks like everyone's tied up across the board."

"You have to be !@#$ing kidding me," SPYGOD shouts, doing a barrel roll to avoid being skewered by radioactive bug sludge: "Is this part of a coordinated attack?

"Not so far as we can tell. Everyone else is just... busy. Sir."

Busy. SPYGOD does not like the sound of that. Not at all.

The skies over the nation's capitol are darkened. Waves of tin locusts are descending upon the city. Once they get here, they're going to start eating everything -- buildings, trees, people -- in order to clear the area for some new model city HONEYCOMB wants to build, here.

And it's all he can do to shoot the advance guard and not get chewed up in return...

* * *

SPYGOD.  

Black leather pants. FRANKIE SAYS ARM YOURSELVES shirt. 

Pink Members' Only Jacket. Curly perm. Steel-Toed High-heels

More guns than anyone has any business having.

(Listening to Sigue Sigue Sputnik's "Love Missile F1-11")
"Teenage crime now fashion's dead / Shoot it up
There goes my love rocket red / Shoot it up"

* * *

"See, here's the thing," John is saying in that warbling, grey voice of his: "You can't just make any old cotton-pickin' alterations to reality that you'd like, any old time you'd like to.

"There's a way about things. An order, for want of a better word."

(He's an Operator. Always has been. Wears grey. Looks grey. Beaten hat. Dusty overcoat. Long nose. Never without a !@#$ drink.)

"Now, any penny-ante magician can bend the world to his will, of course. Been doing it for years. You know all about that, I think.

"But when you wave your wand and say 'abracadabra,' everyone knows the hat didn't have a rabbit in it, before. One moment it doesn't, the next it does. 

"And that's the magic at work."

(Knocks back his drink. Somehow it's still full when he's done.)

"Now, people like us. Operators. We can make it so that the hat always had a !@#$ rabbit in it. Only we know for sure it wasn't there before. We do it all the !@#$ time.

"But it takes us years to figure out how. It's no little thing to unzip the guts of the world and sew it all back together. Accidents cause real problems.

"I bet you can imagine."

(Coughs into his fist. Looks at the table. Then around the run-down bar.)

"And here you're telling me that there's a special way the government has of changing things, now? That they've got the power to just flip a !@#$ switch and make changes to reality? 

"Well, my friend... I think that might just be a problem, don't you?"

 * * *

"Second, this is a direct order," SPYGOD says, as calmly as he can: "You've been working for me for, what, ten years, now?"

"Yes sir."

"And you've been my Second for all of a week, right?"

"Yes sir," Second says, smiling a little as he knows what's coming next.

"Well, if you want to not only have your job another !@#$ing day, not to mention breathe in that time? Get me some !@#$ing strategic talents up here !@#$ing ASAP! I don't care if you have to order out from a god!@#$ Pizza place! I don't care if you have to shake them out of the old !@#$ heroes' home and put their diapers on! Just get me one decent cape up here. Now!"

Second hears the line go dead, and sighs. Some of the other people on the Flier look at him as though he's a dead man walking, already. But he didn't get this far by being a pushover, or being afraid of his boss all but !@#$ting down the phone at him.

He got this far by doing the one thing his boss can't do: delegate, with a !@#$ing vengeance. 

And, after a few seconds to catch his breath and decide who on this bridge needs to feel his boot up their !@#$, he does just that. 

* * *

Point, aim, shoot. Point, aim, shoot. Over and over again. 

SPYGOD doesn't even think about it, after the first 100 or so. He wills bullets to their targets.

He makes them die with his mind.

It's the mystery of the projectile. The riddle of the gun.

A secret handed down one gunslinger to another, like bullets from a barrel.

And until his Second can come through for him, it's just his weapons against all of this. 

("Sometimes you're better off dead / There's a gun in your hands and it's pointing at your head.")

Point, aim, shoot. Point, aim, shoot.

Over and over again. 

* * *

"So let me see if I've got this straight," the Negotiator says, sitting bolt-upright in the booth of the upscale bar they've met at: "You have a friend. And your friend made a deal with... let's call them a rival corporation, for want of a better word?"

"I figure that's the best way to put it, anyway."

(Just another suit-wearing corporate weasel, one thinks. Expensive, crisp suit. Fancy silk tie. $500 haircut. Soothing, even voice.) 

"Now, this deal? It's forever. There's no going back for him, which is the bad news, I'm afraid."

"I know you're disappointed. I would be in your place, too."

(A smile that never wavers, but leaves you feeling cold as ice.)

"But as for the peripheral parts of the deal? The ones that are affecting others? 

"Well, those are not forever. In fact, they're very breakable, provided you know how."

(Every so often, the feeling that there's something behind that smile. A darkness, cold and absolute. Red glowing lines where there should be facial features.)

(The smell of sulphur.)

"However, there is just one catch...."

* * *

"Sir?" Second is saying, exactly four minutes and fifty-nine seconds later: "I've got you some capes."

"Well thank !@#$ for that!" SPYGOD shouts, doing a barrel roll in his car to avoid a shower of busted metal bug guts: "Did you have to call up the old folks home?"

"No sir, I've got you some top talent, in fact. Ten of them."

"Who?" SPYGOD asks, knowing full well that all the top talent he can think of is elsewhere, doing other things.

Then he hears the thunder, from not too far away. Boom after boom after boom, ringing through a clear sky.

"Oh !@#$," he mutters: "Um, Second?"

"Yes, sir?"

"Did you call the White House?"

"I did, sir."

"Did they send the god!@#$ Olympians?"

"Yes, sir. They did. You should be seeing them about now?"

"I am, yes," SPYGOD says, very carefully flying his car out of what's about to become an even more insane warzone, and then accelerating as quickly as he can: "Please have the Flier standing by for emergency assistance and clean-up. Like !@#$ing right now."

"Sir? Is it that bad?"

"That bad?" he winces, looking back just one time: "Second, I think we just !@#$ing bought ourselves a ringside seat in Hades. Literally."

"Oh dear..."

* * *

If he lives to be 200, SPYGOD will never forget this moment. 

January, 1981. Just after Inauguration Day. It's time for the Supergods to meet the new boss.

And he's not having any of their nonsense, anymore. 

SPYGOD stands there, helpless. He watches as the President, who's been a friend an ally for decades, rips into these seventeen well-meaning men and women as though they were delinquent kids. Upbraiding them for their global focus. Accusing them of collusion with the Communists.

Telling them they should be ashamed of themselves for playing at being gods. 

What could he say? How could he have interfered? He has no idea. 

But he sees the look on Seranu's face when Reagan tells him things are going to change. It's the same look that august being gave him when he left that Gathering, back in '77, with Reagan.

Knowing and sad, like he knew this was coming.

Like he knew this had to happen, here and now. 

And yet, here he is, somehow ok with it...?

("I look to you / And your strong belief / Me, I want relief / Tonight")

Their King-Father's certainty shames him. Reminds him of Jesus, carrying the cross.

He looks away, embarrassed, as one friend crucifies another...

* * *

"Oh, that is nothing, truly, my friend," Benjamin Franklin says as he puts yet another wondrous contraption down on a table filled with equally-amazing things: "None of these devices are really more than toys, to be honest.

"You should see the truly impressive work I am doing elsewhere, with myself."

(Much as you'd expect him to be. A portly, older gentleman, looking somewhat out of place in a fine suit and vest. He's kept his old glasses, though.)

"You see, the action by Shift, of bringing me from my time into yours, has caused my body to be suffused with time energy. Now most physicists speak of tachyons, which are particles that travel backwards in time.

"Except that I have become convinced that my particles are not so much a traveling thing as a bridge between places. I am both here, in this time, and still in mine, right where Shift found me. 

"Do you understand?"

(A big contagious smile. Nights of drinking and dancing in a new body, unencumbered by his age and girth.)

(Weird stories of what he gets up to, late at night, when no one is looking.)

"Well, it is very technical. I must confess that half the time I do not know what I'm doing until I have done it. But it is very exciting.

"In fact, I think I may have just made a car that can arrive before it departed. 

"Would you care for a ride?"

(A bigger smile. A layer of innuendo. Strangely compelling attraction.)

(The uncomfortable knowledge that he's been set up for a fall.)

* * *

"This is bull!@#$, son," SPYGOD barks at the young Marine inside the suit of high-tech armor, standing outside what has to be the tenth set of underground, guarded double doors he's gone through in less than fifteen minutes: "You know !@#$ well who I am."

"Rules, sir," the Machinemarine squeaks out.

"Please don't make trouble, sir," the other one there pleads: "This is the White House."

"And I've been welcome here longer than you've been alive, kid."

"Sir, please," the first one all but begs: "Don't get me disciplined. It's my first day here."

"Oh, alright," SPYGOD sighs, showing off an official, laminated picture of him flipping off the camera: "Here's my god!@#$ ID. Just !@#$ing let me through-"

"Sir, will you please just look into the retinal scanner like we asked-"

"It won't work, you dumb!@#$. It's made of glass!"

"Then, the other one? Under the eyepatch?" the other Machinemarine asks.

"Oh sure, let's !@#$ing do that," SPYGOD snorts, and lifts his flap to show off the other eye.

The moment the scanner registers it, it begins to smoke and make unhappy noises. Fortunately, the door does open. 

"Waste of !@#$ing taxpayer money," he says, walking through the doors that were not there just yesterday: "Someone's getting the mother of all kickbacks."

Down one more hall. One more ramp. One more set of doors that is opened for him, this time, and he's in the cavernous Command Room, finally. 

There are big screens on the walls and ceilings, focused on various trouble spots around the world. Technicians and Generals stand everywhere, taking and giving orders. Scientists are gathered around banks of computers, overlooking the reams of data coming in. 

And not a !@#$ing one of them seems to understand the gravity of the situation.

"Alright," he says to those assembled there, which includes the Vice President and Dr. Yesterday: "Does someone want to tell me what the !@#$ is going on?"

"I beg your pardon?" Yesterday says, almost dropping his teacup. The Vice President just sighs.

"You !@#$ing told me you had the Olympians under lock and key until you, and I quote, 'figured this all out,'" SPYGOD says, stomping towards the man with a look like murder on his face: "Well, I just saw them go Full Metal Jacket overhead, Bob. I don't think that counts as !@#$ing figured out."

"Well, yes," Dr. Yesterday says, sighing and gesturing to the big board: "We decided it was time for a field test, (REDACTED). And I think you'll agree the results were pretty spectacular-"

"Oh for !@#$'s sake," SPYGOD groans, grabbing the controls for the big board away from some gawp-eyed tech and refocusing the view from the skies of DC to the ground: "Does that look spectacular to you?"

Everyone gasps at the wreckage. Buildings are burning. Streets melt and catch fire. Storefronts shatter and explode.

And throughout it all stride ten of the Olympians -- gleefully destroying the city they were sent to save as they destroy the enemies that tried to beat them to it. 

"All they !@#$ing did was bring the fight from the skies down to the ground," SPYGOD shouts at everyone there: "No concern for civilians! No concern for property damage! No concern for all the god!@#$ memorials and tourist attractions that make this town a !@#$ing vacation spot instead of the black pit of leftist bureaucracy that it actually is!"

"I think you need to calm down, sir," the Vice President says, as gently as possible.

"Calm down?!" SPYGOD shouts, smashing the controls with his fist: "What does it say when I'm the one being !@#$ing concerned about collateral damage, George? Huh?"

No one has anything to say to that. 

* * *

Inside the Oval Office, Ronald Wilson Reagan sits at his desk, staring into space.

He just forgot where he was, for the third time today. 

It's happening more and more, this absence of self. This disconnection from the here and now.

The moments when he stops being here, and goes elsewhere. 

It's a horrible feeling -- vertiginous and strange. He thinks about what he has to do, and what the day has brought him, and then he sees things.

Terrible things. 

When the state passes, he is back. He knows what he must do, but not always why. 

And he has an understanding, clear as crystal, of what will happen if he gets it wrong.

He reaches into the jar of jelly bellies on his desk, and munches on a few. The taste brings him back to the here and now. 

(How many has he had, today? He used to know. He can't remember, now.)

He begins to write about what he saw. The state of emergency in South Africa. Yet another excuse to keep their people from freedom, but he knows he must criticize but not confront.

He must allow this Apartheid abomination to continue, in spite of what he could do to end it. 

It breaks his heart. So much power, yet so little freedom to use it. All his moves watched over. All his words carefully measured. 

All his decisions made for him, by his Backers. 

("That's just the way it is / Some things will never change") 

He closes his eyes. He refocuses. He writes. 

And it all comes true...

* * *

 

"Oh, the connection to up top is !@#$ real," John warbles: "We Operators, we sort of skirt around it.

"That's why we're all in the Grey. Somewhere between the dark and the light, if you know what I mean.

"And I think you !@#$ well do."

(Still working the same magically-refilled drink, hours later. A little more talkative, now.)

"Normally, the folks up there are happy to just let us stand or fall on our own. Hasn't been a real !@#$ intervention since the Man Jesus, all those years ago.

"And look what a god-!@#$ mess that was. Trying to splice the kingdom of Heaven with the world below it...."

(A wistful look. A crack in the cynicism.)

"But here's the thing. To make this sort of thing work, they'll need a physical point of intersection.

"A link, if you want to call it that."

(Pats his gnarled hand on the table. Nods at it.)

"Oh, you know what I'm !@#$ing talking about?  Well, that just figures. They say you know all.

"Or is that just you saying it, all along? I've never been sure about that.

(A raised eyebrow, then furrowing)

"Well, know this, my friend. As long as that link is there, and they've got some poor !@#$-hole to connect to it? The problems are just going to get worse.

"A lot !@#$ worse.

"Why? Well, it's bad enough now. But just wait until some !@#$ fool gets it in his head to bring about a real change."

(A cocked eyebrow at the obvious question.)

"Like, how about Hitler never came to power? How about no more Communism? How about no more bad guys, anywhere?

 "As it is, they can't even !@#$ing rewrite the fine details on a bakers dozen superpeople. You know !@#$ well about that.

"But just wait till they try to handle all the angles on ancient history, or a whole concept. Just wait till they realize there's too way too many fine details to rewrite.

"And when they can't... well, you'll know, friend. You'll see us there to clean it up. 

"And if we have to clean it up..."

(The most stern and threatening look he's ever seen this man give.)

(It chills. Truly.)

* * *

It's some time later. The fires have been put out. The wounded have been tended to, the damage contained.

And the toys have all been put back in the box.

"This seriously !@#$ing creeps me out," SPYGOD says, watching on closed-circuit TV as the ten Olympians cleared for active duty are marched through the complex, guided by fully-armed and very nervous Machinemarines.

They're all wearing shiny, white uniforms with a big, round O on the right lapel. Black boots and belts. High tech wrist communicators.

(Blank, vapid expressions.)

"Well, it's the best we could do, at least for now," Dr. Yesterday says, pouring himself another cup of coffee from a handy pot. They're in his office, now, going over things now that everyone's had a chance to cool down, somewhat. Blue dwarfs run this way and that, bringing tools and components here and there, as they tend to do.

(And SPYGOD knows better than to ask who made the coffee.)

"'The best you could do,'" SPYGOD mocks: "You're supposed to be our expert on Strategic Talents, Bob."

"It was Mr. Franklin and I," the man says: "We handled it together, and I know I held up my end. So if there's any mistakes...?"

SPYGOD just looks at the man, and then shakes his head in disgust: "'If?'"

"Well, this is a work in progress. It's a very complex thing-"

"Bull!@#$! You're the one go to when we're !@#$ing broken, or growing extra arms or heads! You mean to tell me you can't handle their biology?"

"It's not the biology that's the problem," the scientist sighs, watching as their leader, Seranu, is deposited at the door of his living quarters, and has to be reminded to go in and close the door: "It's their minds."

"What, you can't get them some competent therapy?"

"It's not that simple, (REDACTED). When we rewrote their history the second time... well, something got lost. Something we haven't been able to get back."

"Why the !@#$ did you have to rewrite them, anyway?" his guest says, grabbing a cup himself, and then tipping most of a flask of hooch into it: "What was wrong with the previous story?"

"Oh, having them be gods hiding in mortal form?" Dr. Yesterday says, taking notes as the others are led, in turn, to their homes: "Well, I guess that proved to be kind of sacrilegious. I think the Reverend Falwell complained, and, well, you know how tight he is with the President."

"Don't !@#$ing remind me," SPYGOD snorts: "I had to sit there and listen to him call me a degenerate at the last prayer breakfast. I swear, one of these days I'm going to dress up like Satan and bring a god!@#$ flamethrower..."

"You know, you could try being a little less flamboyant, (REDACTED)," the scientist says: "Sometimes you have to go along to get along."

"And maybe you should ask your !@#$ wife to help you with this problem, Bob," SPYGOD says, deciding not to kick the man's testicles into his skull -- this time.

"Oh, Geri?" Dr. Yesterday visibly blanches: "Well, she's really busy with a lot of projects right now. I don't want to disturb her-"

"No, you just don't want her to know how badly you !@#$ed this up."

"Now, see, that's unfair-"

"Unfair?" SPYGOD snorts: "All those people ever wanted to do was !@#$ing help us out, Bob. And in return, we magically lobotomized them. Twice."

"I had my orders," Dr. Yesterday insists, sadly: "So do you."

"Oh, I know all about those !@#$ orders. I seem to recall fighting a war against some !@#$ers who were all to happy to follow theirs. And I know you know where that led."

"That's..." the scientist blanches again, almost dropping his cup of coffee: "My god, that's offensive."

"Yeah, it is," SPYGOD replies: "But maybe that's why you really don't want to bring Geri in on this, Bob. You know exactly what she'll say.

"And you know why, too."

And then he walks away from Dr. Yesterday before he says, or does, anything more harsh than that.

* * *

The thing they all really remember about that day is the light. 

They all wore special sunglasses, in that room. They were warned to keep them on. They were also told to stand well back from the insertion point. 

And no one was going to argue with those Backers -- not then, not ever.

The room was specially prepared for weeks. Lined with steel they found somewhere unbelievable. Work crews with concrete stood just outside the door, waiting for the signal to brick it up.

But inside, there was something that had to happen, first. A sign of fealty, they said. 

A sign of dominion. 

Reagan alone knelt. He was the one, after all. The one the Backers had chosen to work with.

The one who had taken the yoke upon his own neck, for good or for ill.

Everyone else? They just stood and watched, agog. 

They stared in disbelief as the one called Ariel brought a blazing, long sword from nowhere -- its light the equal of a million suns, yet cold. 

They shook as he drove it into the floor of the room, speaking a language not heard on Earth since the Garden of Eden.

And then they all gladly left when bidden, the heat just starting to lick at the back of their shoes. 

When it was done, and the room sealed, they went up to the Oval Office. There, in the corner, was something that had not been there before. 

A telephone, up on a marble pillar. A big, black and intimidating thing with no dial.

It had no cord. It didn't need one. 

It began to ring. The sort of noise that was impossible to not acknowledge. 

And then Ariel pointed to it, and told the President he needed to answer it when it called. 

"Who's on the other end?" The President asked.

"Who do you think?" the Backer said, smiling. 

And it was not a kind smile. Not anymore. 

They all left the room, after that, giving Reagan some privacy. And they all looked to one another, already inventing explanations for what they just saw. Already doing their best to reject it. 

All but SPYGOD, who had seen it through an eye that allowed no rejection of the obvious.

("How can you be so invisible? / Give me the nerves to see")

Ever after, either Aaron or Ariel was at the White House, or wherever he went. Ever after, when the phone rang, he answered it. 

Ever after, he would stare into space for some time, and come back with some new answer to whatever question was perplexing them -- sometimes for things that hadn't happened yet, sometimes for things that, now, never would.

Ever after, the White House no longer belonged to the people of America, but to the God they said they were under.

And while some were alright with this, and some ecstatic, some could tell that the weight of Heaven was a terrible burden for their President.

And some decided something should be done about it...

* * *

"Really? You're asking me?" The Negotiator smirks.

"Well, I mean no disrespect, but given your line of work I'd have thought you'd have figured that out by now. In some ways we're not so different.

(A hand held up to deflect wrath.)

"No, don't get upset. Think. 

"We both get what we want by giving others things they want but can't have, or don't think they can get. The trick is knowing what those things are, and how much to ask for them.

"You see?"

(A disappointed smile, most likely just for show. Scripted.)

"Ah, well, maybe it is a hard thing to understand. Even you can only see the world through so many angles.

"How about this, then? Imagine you're a creature of duty. I'm sure you can do that."

(Knowing smile.)

"Now imagine you are immortal, created to fulfill that duty for an eternity. Imagine you have the imagination to think of other things to do, but no opportunity to do them, because you're always busy.

"And imagine that, when you're down here, watching over humans, you gain a vicarious thrill from seeing them go about their free lives. Making mistakes. Having victories. Living and loving all on their own.

"See, that's what they want. Not free will, as they actually do have it. But they want the freedom to try and to fail.

"The luxury of sin."

(A flicker at that word. The blackness becomes visible, just for a second.)

"Oh yes. They love humans for that simple, small thing. The failing people like you try to purge from yourselves to enter Heaven is the one thing that those who live there wish they could do.

"But no. They're on 24/7. Little angel bees, out making the holy honey for the big G. No time to sin. No time to do anything.

"Unless, of course, they could come down here on official business, and yet not be seen..."

(The worm..)

"Oh yes. There's ways to do that, my friend. Many ways."

(... the hook...)

"Are you interested in hearing about them?"

(And one good, hard pull...)

* * *

"Oh, so good to see you, good friend," Ben Franklin says, shaking SPYGOD's hand as he enters a side room he wasn't expecting to stumble into.

He really was just looking for the exit. Or the john. Maybe both.

"Good to see you too, Ben," he says, looking around at things. There are a bunch of scientists in here, all poring over notes and charts, and looking at photographs and videos. There's also some ladies in amusingly-scanty attire, alternating between hanging all over the scientists and serving cocktails off of trays.

A bar in the corner. Anti-communist posters on the walls. Heavy rock playing from a stereo.

(Blue Oyster Cult's last album, he thinks. Not really his thing.)

"Can I offer you a drink?" the Founding Father asks, waving a hand around the room: "I think we're all a little lit up, at this point. That is what you say these days, is it not?"

"It is, and I don't mind if I do," SPYGOD sighs, closing the door behind them: "Truth to tell I could !@#$ing use a whole car full of drinks at this point."

"Yes, I hear things were... not so well, up top?"

"That's putting it !@#$ing mildly," he says, grabbing two drinks from the nearest tray and downing them one after the other: "Hopefully my Second's got the !@#$ figured out, or he's going to have the shortest career in the COMPANY."

Ben laughs for a moment, and then realizes his new guest isn't joking. After that he just has a drink along with him, and nods sagely.

"So what is all this?" SPYGOD asks, looking around: "Tappa Kegga Brew having a careers in science day?"

The portly man laughs, and then shakes his head: "I must give myself credit, my friend. I actually understood that."

"Caught up on a few movies, eh?"

"One could say that. I have also been pooling the graduate students at the nearby colleges for talent! I've found them most refreshing in their youth and enthusiasm."

"Not to mention the looks," SPYGOD snorts, grabbing another drink and walking over to a nearby table. There, the scientists are discussing something about weaponized dreams. A picture of pale, willowy Sphyne is passed around and tapped.

"So?" SPYGOD asks again. It's the sort of tone he takes with people when he doesn't want to have to repeat himself.

"Well, this is sort of top secret, or so they tell me," Ben explains: "But in short? We are working on doing something with the other eight Olympians."

"Something?" SPYGOD asks: "Like what?"

"Well, as you know, not all of them have talents that are directly applicable to a battle with other Strategic Talents. Case in point, as much as I may appreciate the more erotic side of things, well... could you see Rosi in a fight? What would the young lady do, love them to death?"

"S/he does alright," SPYGOD says, watching a rather large, black man discussing a large stack of printouts about Syphon. He's talking about cloning programs. Short-lived armies made for specific battles, needing only DNA, programing, and a mission.

"And then there's the other limitations," Ben sighs: "Apparently Nemesis is proving to be quite bothersome."

"How so?" SPYGOD asks, remembering the last time he ran into the fiery lady. The look she gave him made even him just a little scared.

And what she'd said...

"Well, here's the thing," the Founding Father goes on: "You know the trouble our government has been having with Libya? That fellow who runs things these days is apparently being quite bothersome and warlike. Not far removed from the troubles we had with them in my time-"

"That he has," SPYGOD interrupts: "What of it?"

"Well, someone had the good sense to ask if Nemesis would be willing to kill him. She asked why. So she was told all the things he had done, and when we were done, she said she could only kill him for those crimes if she killed all other heads of state for the same crimes."

SPYGOD cracks a smile, which Ben was clearly not expecting: "Well, good sir, you can imagine how well that went over..."

"Yes I can," SPYGOD says, smiling even wider: "A god-weapon with a conscience and a sense of humor. Must be !@#$ing inconvenient."

"Well, do you have any advice?" Franklin asks: "Given how much time you spend with others like her, perhaps you could talk some sense into her."

"No," he says, grabbing a drink for the road before he heads out: "But let me give you some advice, Ben."

"What would that be, good sir?"

"Stop it," the man says, looking around the room: "Stop this !@#$. All of it. Stop trying to turn Kanaan into a probability bomb. Stop trying to make Sheliast your personal island-sinker. And as for messing around with Hoosk... well, good luck there."

There's a hush over the room, just then. All the scientists look to Ben, who looks to them, and then to their guest: "You do realize we're... well, we are supposed to-"

"Ben, the best thing I ever !@#$ing read in school was you telling people to stop !@#$ing obeying orders and start listening to what you thought was right," SPYGOD says, tapping the portly man's chest: "Take your own advice, Mr. Franklin."

"Sir, I am not accustomed to having my own words turned against me," the founding father says, taking the drink out of his now-unwelcome guest's hands: "And if you cannot be civil-"

"And just so you know, doing this?" SPYGOD says, leaning in close to whisper: "It's not going to !@#$ing save you when the time comes. Trust me on that. If Shift said something, it's going to come true."

That gets him a look of hate and fear so dire it almost breaks his heart. At the very least, it does silence Franklin up, but at a terrible cost. 

So he gets out of there, cursing his tendency to shoot his !@#$ mouth off.

* * *

"I don't like this," the Vice President is saying: "Not one darn bit."

"I agree, sir," SPYGOD says, looking out the window of the limo they're in for this meeting. It's the middle of the day, but yet it's dark as night out there.

It's a COMPANY Car, made for these kinds of meetings. No sound gets out. No light gets in. No one can hear them speak or think.

Total blackout. 

"I've seen that man go right down the tubes the last few years. Ever since the day they put that sword into the floor of the basement."

"He hasn't !@#$ing been himself, no," SPYGOD admits: "It almost looks like he's got a !@#$ limiter in his noggin."

"A what?"

SPYGOD just looks at him: "Come on, sir. You were in charge of the other Company for a hot minute, back in the day. Don't you remember when SQUASH was putting biochemical and hypnotic programming into their agents' brains?"

"I... might have read something about that."

"Well, it's a moot point, now. Making it so you can't !@#$ing think about anything but the mission causes a lot of !@#$ing problems. Turns your !@#$ brains to J-E-L-L-O pudding after a couple months."

"And that's the problem, isn't it?" the man says, looking out the window at whatever SPYGOD was staring at, a moment ago: "In two years, I might be President. Am I just supposed to... I don't know. Kneel down? Become their darn puppet?"

"That might well be the !@#$ plan, provided we're all still around."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that... !@#$, I feel stupid saying this, sir, but do you get the feeling we're being !@#$ing pointed at World War III?"

The man looks at him, and then nods -- very slowly and sadly.

"I do. A lot of reckless things. Very silly things. Well, we could be handling things better. A lot better."

"Agreed. I mean, I !@#$ing hate the commies more than anything, but I don't want it to end with us nuking Moscow. I'll just do damage control until they can overthrow them, same as always."

The Vice President smiles: "A sensible view. You're a more practical man than I took you for, sir."

"So, speaking practically?" SPYGOD asks, leaning forward: "If there was some way for me to get the President out of this !@#$hole he's fallen into, and our country out of this !@#$ing arrangement, would I have your blessing? Seeing as how you're most likely going to be the next President?"

George Herbert Walker Bush smiles.

("Those lips conspire in treachery / To strike in cloak and dagger, see!")

Carefully extends a hand to shake. 

SPYGOD takes it, knowing he may yet live to regret this.

But, for his nation, and a friend, he'll do !@#$ near anything. 

 * * *

"So, I've had a chance to think, since our last conversation," Ben Franklin says, as the Bugatti takes them across the country in -30 seconds. 

(Less relaxed now. More cautious.)

"I think you may just be right, sir. I do not like the direction this is going. Not at all.

"I think we are tampering with things best left alone. And I say that both as a scientist, and a man who, while not always in step with the Lord God, knows enough of the divine to know that one does not merely poke at it with a stick."

(Downshifts, making the journey last longer.)

"I am not certain what direction this may go. I am not entirely certain of my own motives, given how things are.

"But I do know that, when the time comes, and our masters decide they no longer wish to try and rework and remodel these beings, I feel I can have some say in what happens to them.

"And I would very much like your assistance with this, as you alone seem to care for their welfare. 

"If I leave things up to that Dr. Yesterday fellow..."

(A long, cold shudder.)

"Are we agreed, then? When the time comes, let us be one in this, my friend.

"We both owe them much, and I so most of all..."

* * *

Outside the White House, in the Rose garden, SPYGOD lights up a cigarette. He doesn't give a !@#$ who sees, or what they might say. 

Let them all watch.

The situation has been contained and cleaned as best as possible. Second pulled out every stop to make sure it was done so. He was also amazingly contrite about it, but did not offer to resign, even in spite of the casualty lists. 

SPYGOD likes that. This man might be able to hack it after all...

"You know, you really shouldn't smoke out here," someone says to him, not without some humor.

"You think anyone's going to stop me?" SPYGOD snorts, turning to look and see who it is. But the moment he realizes it's Nancy Reagan, he coughs and puts the cigarette out in his hand, and then tosses the smoking butt into a zippered pocket on his suit. 

"Oh, (REDACTED)," she chuckles: "What are we going to do with you?"

"I won't say no to an iced tea."

"Neither would I, normally. But... not today, eh?" she says, taking hold of his arm and letting him walk her around. 

They walk in silence for a time. Her tiny hands can't both wrap around his arm, which amuses them both.

(He likes her touch. It reminds him of his mother.)

"He's not doing well, is he?" he asks, as gently as he can.

"No, he's not," she says, trying not to stumble in her words: "He's been having nightmares, now."

"Oh?" SPYGOD asks: "What kind?"

"He wakes up screaming. He says 'It's coming.' But when he comes to, he can't remember what. He just knows that he's terribly afraid of what he saw."

"How often?"

"Almost every night. He used to be able to just shake them off, but now... he's not a young man, anymore, (REDACTED). He's later to rise and unsteady. And that phone... every time he gets off of it I think he's got another grey hair."

He nods again: "Nancy, I have to ask you to ask me something."

"That's a really strange way to put it."

"It is, but..." he stops, and turns around to look at her: "I might be able to help him. I might be able to end all this. But it's going to take some doing. It's also going to take some... drastic things. Maybe even bad things."

"And you want to know if I'm okay with it."

"Yes," he says, trying to find the strength to look in her eyes as he says this: "I can't promise anything, right now. I'm still looking into it."

"But...?"

"But I've seen and heard enough in my time to know that something like this? It's... well, excuse my French, Nancy, but it's not going to !@#$ing end well. Not at all."

She looks at him for a moment, as if she was going to scold him for his potty-mouth. But she just nods, looks askance, and then looks back up: "The man I married made a bad deal with people he thought he could trust. He told me he did this to save America, no matter the cost. But I don't think we're saving anything. I think we're just marching faster to the end."

"I don't know what I can do about that," SPYGOD admits: "But I might be able to save him."

"Then please do it," she says, looking off to the Oval Office windows: "Bring me my husband back, (REDACTED). If you still can, please do it."

She doesn't cry. He gives her that much. 

And neither does he. At least not today. 

* * *

Speed is the game in the shadow of kings
Where the company of angels fly
They appear at the crossroads at once in the future
Clad in the darkness on the highways of night
With no love ... from the past

(SPYGOD is listening to Shadow of California (Blue Oyster Cult) and having a Ghost King)

And All the Friends of President Reagan - Pt. 2: 1977

"He said 'we haven't had that spirit here since 1969'"

(Back) Mr. USA, ex-Governor Ronald Wilson Reagan, Ariel
(Front) Syphon, Aegio, Shift, Pontus. Seranu
(Art by Dean Stahl)

* * *

Freedom is something that cannot be passed on in the blood stream, or genetically. 

And it's never more than one generation away from extinction.

Ronald Reagan - "Whatever Happened to Free Enterprise"

June 10th, 1994

The Reagans' living room seems a fragile thing -- liable to break with so much as a cross word.

Dozens of collector's plates are on display, on special shelves mounted on the wall. Its tabletops are filled with with small, plaster statuettes and figurines. The bulky, square easychairs are a festive red and white floral design.

Chairs a number of important people sit in or stand around as the storm rages outside, all waiting for a certain something to be done.

Something necessary, but terrible. 

"Have another tissue, honey," Barbara Bush says, handing a very red-eyed Nancy Reagan the box again. Once upon a time, Nancy wouldn't have heard of someone else telling her when and how to cry, but tonight she's gratified to have someone with her.

Someone other than all these men, none of whom seem to know what to say to her, just now.

"How long is this supposed to take, anyway?" James Baker asks from where he sits, clearly unnerved.

"As long as it takes," George Bush replies from his own chair, clearly irritated.

"That's not an answer, George-"

"It's done," someone else says -- someone who's standing as far from everyone else in the room as he can get.

A beautiful man in a suit, wearing sunglasses they haven't made in over twenty years.

"How do you know, Aaron?" Dan Quayle asks, getting up from his chair, hands on his legs.

"I felt the connection sever, a few minutes ago," the man says, turning from the window to look at the others: "He is no longer anchored."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" Nancy asks, trying to be strong as the lightning flashes, nearby.

"It means he's not in pain, anymore," SPYGOD announces, appearing from seemingly nowhere, seconds before the boom.

"Oh my God," Nancy says, almost about to cry again: "Oh my God. Thank you, God. Thank you."

"I'm not sure we should be doing that," George mutters, getting up, himself: "Thanking God. After all-"

"Put a !@#$ing sock in it, Herbie," SPYGOD snorts as he walks over to the former first ladies, and gets on one knee before Nancy.

"Is he... I mean, is he...?" she tries to say the word. She can't.

"He is," SPYGOD replies, softly: "You should go see him. It'll help."

"I don't know if I'm ready for that, yet," she stammers.

"I'm so sorry, hon," he says, taking her hand in his: "You know we had to do this."

"I do, yes," she says, taking one last, hard honk on a tissue. And then she takes a deep breath, clears her head, and gets up to go to her husband's room.

"Do you need someone with you?" Barbara asks.

"Should we all go in together, maybe?" Baker asks, looking around the room. 

"No," Nancy insists, putting her face back together: "Thank you all, but no. I have to do this myself, alone, or I'll never be able to do it. You should all know that by now."

No one knows what to say to that. SPYGOD stays where he is on the floor, admiring the woman all the more for this simple act of strength. Knowing that this is the longest walk she's going to take in her life.

The moment she's gone, the room goes back to being silent, again. In that silence, SPYGOD finds a way to slip out a nearby door and stand in the rain of the storm.

And then, at long last, he allows himself to cry.

* * *

June 10th, 1977

"Is it really a good idea for me to go to this party?" Reagan asks Ariel as their limousine slows down, just within sight of a big, floating door to nowhere -- all lit up in the darkness.

A door that literally appeared overnight in the deserts outside LA.

"Yes," Ariel says, still reading his newspaper.

"I mean, the last time I went to one... well, you know what happened."

"I do, yes," the Backer says, putting the paper down and away, and then adjusting his sunglasses so his client can't see his eyes: "Not that you do, Mr. Governor. But that's neither here nor there."

"You really shouldn't call me that, anymore," he bristles: "I'm not the Governor, anymore."

"This is true."

"And I'm not President, either," Reagan says, pursing his lips: "You made sure of that."

"We did, yes," Ariel nods: "And we've been over this before, Mr. Reagan."

"I know, we have," the man sighs: "I'm better off as a voice from the wilderness, right now. I know that."

"A very loud voice, sir,"  Aaron pipes up from the front seat, where he's sitting behind the wheel of a car that's driving itself through the long, rolling line of vehicles -- some much more fancy and/or official than others: "That radio commentary show is a powerful thing."

"And it will pay off, in time,  Mr. Reagan," Ariel reassures him: "Trust me, between that show, and letting things take their natural course with Carter? You'll be in the Oval Office in 1980."

"I do trust you, yes," Reagan says: "You know that. I've handed my future over to you, and I have faith. I just feel so helpless, watching on the sidelines. I need to be out there handling the ball, you know?"

"I understand perfectly," Ariel says, looking out the window as they get closer to the destination, taking in the very long line of people going through the large, glowing red pillars: "When we started this, we told you that you would be the man for your time. I know waiting to take the ball, as you put it, is galling. But the time is not right just yet."

"Why not?" Reagan asks, feeling he's earned the right to ask, by now: "What are we really waiting for?"

"Well," Ariel says, coughing into his fist: "I really shouldn't be telling you too much. Especially as you're about to walk into enemy territory, as it were. But to be blunt? Things need to get just a little bit worse before we bring you into things. And four years of having that silly fellow in the White House will do nicely."

"And then we'll have you in there for a very important eight-year block of time," Aaron says, smiling.

"But that's not what you should be thinking about," Ariel scowls. The smile very quickly disappears from Aaron's face, and he realizes he's talked out of turn.

"I see," Ronald Reagan says, and then the car comes to a halt.

"Remember your training," Ariel says, taking the man's hand to shake it: "Remember the Lock of the Mind and the Cross of the Heart. So long as they are within you, the Kingdom is within you. And so long as you have faith in them, nothing can harm you."

"And for all other things, well, I've got help," Reagan winks, looking out the window at the crowds milling into the pavilion. 

SPYGOD stands there -- wearing a black leather leisure suit, leaning against a pillar and smoking a cigarette like he invented the !@#$ thing.

And the way he tosses it aside when he sees Reagan get out of the car makes the old man smile.

* * *

They call it The Gathering. The Olympians have one at the same time, every year, but never the same place twice, oddly enough. Some make jokes about lightning striking. 

And some know better than that.

In one sense, the Gathering is a massive, upscale party, where the world's best and brightest mingle with the most intelligent and interesting -- something between Davos and Woodstock. In another, it's a celebration of another year gone by, and life continuing on. 

A massive and mighty celebration with one primary understanding: what happens inside must go outside, but what is happening outside must not infringe too highly upon the inside.

Strange games are played for charity, there on the floor. Odd ideas are formed and floated, and then expressed to the masses while still in their raw and heaving state. Strangers become intimate, enemies become friends, allies are torn asunder. 

And the one rule is that, if you are invited, you must attend, or else send someone as worthy in your stead. 

Ronald Reagan has been invited to three of these Gatherings. Each time before now he's politely declined, and sent one of his conservative allies. All of them have come back telling of a strange time that never failed to enchant and disturb in equal measure. 

All of them have come back changed, and not necessarily in a bad way...

But this year, it was decided that Reagan has to go. This is in spite of what happened the last time he went to one of their parties -- the first Gathering, they now say -- back in 1968.

Something he still can't fully remember, try as he might. 

However, the Backers would not be dissuaded. Something has told them that their client has to see this -- he has to know. 

He just won't be coming back changed, if they have anything to say about it. 

So, unlike the last time, he's going in clear of mind and eye. Like last time, however, SPYGOD is going to accompany him, if only to make certain he doesn't get compromised again.

It's just that he can't know why he's going, any more than he should know anything about the Backers at all...

* * *

"So what do you find is the best thing to do at these kinds of parties, (REDACTED)?" Reagan asks as they approach the end of the long line of thick, floating pillars, leading up to a massive portal, just hanging in the air.

"Honestly, sir?" SPYGOD shrugs: "Mingle."

"Just mingle?"

"Pretty much," he says, gesturing around them: "Everyone who's here is someone you might want to know. And if you already !@#$ing know them, seeing them when they're in a situation like this? Well, it can be a big !@#$ eye-opener."

"Really?"

"Oh yes," the man says, casting an eye around as they start to approach the floating stairs "It's too bad they won't !@#$ing let me bring any of my COMPANY people in here with me. I think the Intel department would have a !@#$ing field day."

"That's one way to put it," the politician says, already seeing someone he knows from outside of here: "I think I should pretend he's not with his wife."

"Oh, that's okay. Wait until he meets his husband."

"What?"

SPYGOD laughs, and Reagan has no idea if the man's being serious or not. So he just sighs and keeps walking, knowing this is only going to get stranger from here on out.

* * *

Over the years the two men had struck up a solid political alliance that had turned into a very weird friendship.

It had started with SPYGOD rescuing Reagan, of course. But then, over the years, Reagan had actually managed to rescue SPYGOD a time or two -- politically speaking, anyway.

The most recent incident was something of a double play. 

When their new do-gooder President, Jimmy Carter, took office, one of his to-dos was to revamp the COMPANY. He'd decided that maybe America didn't need it, anymore, and even if it did it didn't need someone like SPYGOD at the helm.

Reagan was livid. He immediately took to the airwaves to mobilize middle America against any move of the sort, giving a speech about the unsung American hero that so galvanized people against the move that the phrase "unknown soldiers"became all but ingrained in the American psyche. By the end of a week, Carter had become something of a laughing stock in a town already growing leery of his well-meaning but foolhardy ideas. 

The farce came to an ignominious end a few days later, when the President called a press conference to publicly reaffirm his support for the COMPANY, with SPYGOD as its indisputable leader. To his credit, SPYGOD was actually quite gracious about the whole thing, in his own outspokenly profane way.

But watching Carter visibly squirm just outside the spotlight was its own reward. 

Reagan had also rescued SPYGOD behind the scenes as well. A number of his more socially conservative allies -- especially leftovers from Nixon's disgraced administration -- were rather upset by his now-open homosexuality. And they were ready and willing to throw some bipartisan support behind the President, so long as he appointed Mr. USA to head up whatever replaced the COMPANY.

While Reagan had to talk tough on gays for obvious reasons, and had purposefully dragged his feet on repealing anti-sodomy laws in his last years as Governor of California, he'd known and befriended a lot of gay conservatives in his time. In fact, he knew a lot of very prominent gay conservatives, without whom the movement would suffer greatly.

Keeping that in mind, he quietly rallied conservative support behind SPYGOD before anyone could try and link up Carter's boneheaded maneuver to their own agenda. He let it be known that anyone who had a problem with SPYGOD had a problem with him, which all but silenced the attempted maneuver.

(He was surprised at Mr. USA's reaction when he told him, though. Not so much disappointment as despair, which seemed unlike him.)

Reagan hadn't told SPYGOD any of this. Part of him wanted to just keep it a secret -- one he might one day need to use as leverage if they ever parted ideological company. But a larger part of him thought that maybe the man already knew, and was keeping mum about knowing as a mark of respect, and a silent thank you. 

SPYGOD was a weird one, alright. But he was anti-communist as all get out, conservative as anything, and as fine a patriot as he'd ever met. What he did in privacy, or alluded to in public, could never detract from all he'd done for his country, much less distract from his current duties. 

That and Nancy found him to be a gentleman, oddly enough. He didn't swear so much in her presence -- actually acting with some degree of manners. He even let her scold him a time or two about one thing or another, which he took with good-natured humor.

Why? Reagan wasn't sure. SPYGOD once joked with him that she reminded him a lot of his own mother, but only in a good way.

(He refused to elaborate on the bad ways, even while mind-splittingly drunk.)

Thus was maintained a very odd but effective political alliance -- one that Reagan was counting on continuing all the way to the White House. And possibly beyond, depending on what the Backers actually had in mind.

As for what that might be, who knew?

* * *

The stairs lead to a large portal -- easily larger than most cathedrals -- floating some ten feet in the air. Beyond it is a white, shimmering field that people are going into, mostly without fear.

And every time they enter, a bell rings -- deep and portentous. 

"Don't worry, sir," SPYGOD says: "I know it looks !@#$ weird, but it's just a warp corridor. It'll take us to wherever the party actually is."

"Don't you know?" Reagan asks, a little nervous as he watches someone from some band walk in with his entourage, and just disappear: "You can see, can't you?"

"Normally, yes. This time... no," the spy admits, tapping his eyepatch: "Always nice to be pleasantly surprised for a !@#$ing change, eh?"

"Says you. I like to know where I'm putting my feet."

"Point taken," SPYGOD says, holding up a hand to indicate his guest should stay put. Reagan does, and watches SPYGOD walk into the field. There's a sound like someone putting a hand into a body of water, and then nothing.

Several nerve-wracking seconds of nothing.

And then he's back, and his eye is wide with wonder.

"Oh man... !@#$, wow. Sir, you have to come in and see this. It's... wow. I don't !@#$ing have words."

"Well, alright then," Reagan says, allowing himself to be led into the shimmer.

It's a weird feeling. His hairs stand on end, and he feels like the world is breathing on him, ever so gently. He smells honey and milk, and gets the sense that all is well, and all will be well, forever and ever-

And then he's through, on the other side, and he gasps in amazement.

They're underwater. He realizes that much. They're in a massive bubble, underwater, and they must be somewhere where the sun is still shining because he can see it, overhead.

They're walking on an extremely large, raised, white marble platform over the sea floor. It must be ten football fields wide and long. And there are more steps, floating in the air. More platforms, floating atop one another.

Music. People. Lights floating in space...

Oh, they're that light woman. Rachel, or whatever her name is. Curled up into a ball, singing along with the music.

"How can she be all those places at once?" Reagan asks, watching as a shoal of brightly-colored fish fly by the edge of the bubble. Of all the questions he could ask, that one seems most pertinent.

"He still doesn't get it, huh?" a familiar rumbling asks. Reagan turns around and sees the tall black lady with the Sun for hair, clearly standing guard at the door. She's clearly looking down her large sunglasses at him, just like last time-

(-thought it a good idea to have this man here?" she demands of the others, now that the conflict is clear: "Do we allow in thieves as well as beggars, now-)

"-Rahmaa, honey, remember," SPYGOD says: "Some people just don't !@#$ing get it until they do."

"Some never do," the person she's guarding the door with intones. He's a man with skin like onyx, dressed in what appear to be jet-black Asian robes of some kind. His eyes are also hidden behind large sunglasses, and his hair a glowing, white ball with what looks like... craters?

"Always a pleasure, Noyx," SPYGOD lies, quickly ushering Reagan past the two of them before he gets utterly weirded out: "You'll have to !@#$ing excuse them, sir. They tend to look down on people."

"Was that man wearing the Moon for a hat?"

"Yeah, that's one way to put it. I think it's supposed to be his hair."

"And it is the Moon," Reagan clarifies: "Just like she's the Sun?"

"Yes, sir."

"Alright then," the former Governor says, taking a deep breath and doing his best to remember his Lock and his Cross: "I think we're good."

Just then one of the platforms lowers, and a large, tall man with a full beard takes a step to its edge to address them. His deep blue suit is festooned with coral and buttoned with seashells, and water seems to shake off of him with each loud and booming syllable.

"Good evening and good morning, gentles! I am Pontus, Lord of the Oceans! And with the arrival of a long-awaited guest, I call this Gathering into motion!"

There's a cheer raised -- one that echoes around the bubble and almost deafens him.

"You are welcome, one and all! Welcome to laugh! Welcome to love! Welcome to speak and be heard! Here, all are equal! None are excluded!

"Here, let your hearts be your guide! Here, let your minds be freed, your bodies untethered! Here, let wisdom prevail, but foolishness be divine!

"And with these words, we embrace the mystery of the future! Lead on!"

Another cheer, and Reagan feels as though the world were dissolving around him. A spell of some kind, obviously. But he remembers his training -- the locked steel box around his brain, and the cross implanted into his heart and soul.

The spell washes over and past him, and once more he can see clearly. Hear clearly.

God be praised, he can think. 

SPYGOD smiles, perhaps not aware of what's just happened on either level: "And just in case there was any question, sir? That was Pontus, and he is the Ocean."

"I could tell from the booming," Reagan says, winking: "Well, sounds like we were invited. Shall we attend?"

SPYGOD smiles and gestures ahead of them, where the mingling is at its height: "After you, sir. If you need me, I'll be nearby."

* * *

Things get downright weird after that.

Reagan meets a number of people he already knows, many of whom are happy to see him there. He also meets a number of people he knows only by reputation, or their headlines. And he is introduced to people he's never heard of before, or at least sees them in action for the first time.

As SPYGOD promised, it's quite an eye-opener. 

He hears John from the Beatles have a very animated argument over free will and human rights with the newly-elected Prime Minister of Israel. They almost come to blows, at least until one of the ladies with Lennon steers the conversation into more neutral territory, at which point they find out they share a love of Marlon Brando's films.

He watches as Jacques Cousteau speaks to a warm, large woman who seems to be made entirely of water. His attitude is approaching stammering reverence, and he clearly has to restrain himself from reaching in to touch the small, colorful fishes that dart about her transparent anatomy. 

He joins in a discussion with two older gentlemen and a full-figured woman in a short dress whose fabric is a moving print of oceans and islands, and who is surrounded by many, colorful birds. They're talking about massive spheres, and how one could put the world in a protective bubble, safe from harm. 

At some point Reagan asks if the bubble could be fitted with weapons to make sure less civilized countries didn't try and attack others. It's an idea that horrifies one older man, but amuses the other, perhaps the same way a child's silliness might amuse adults having a serious conversation.

(Just don't ever point them at me, dear, the lady chuckles at him: Remember me kindly, when you enter your kingdom.)

And he listens to weird electronic music played by some fellow from Italy, featuring a song that won't be released for another few weeks: Donna Summer's the voice making it happen, but she's nowhere to be seen, here. 

At some point he has to stand in a corner -- a curve, really -- and take a breather.  The music, the fumes, the ideas... it's all become too much.

"It's an interesting thing," a small, gentle voice says. He turns in surprise, not realizing there'd been someone there at all. 

"What is?" he asks the person --  a somber shade of a man with a mop of white hair and big glasses.

"It's like we're seeing the future, but it doesn't know what it wants to be, yet," the man says, patting his chest as if he were in discomfort: "Like a giant puzzle, in pieces all over the floor. Or a blank canvas, just waiting for the paint. Do you ever see things like that?"

"Sometimes," Reagan says, remembering some of his experiences at the Bohemian Grove. Seeing the light bulbs go off or on in people's heads as they hear the talks, or make friends with the right people.

"But then, I look out there, and I think it's being assembled," the man says: "It's just that we can't see the hands."

Suddenly, Reagan remembers who this man is: "You know, you look different without your entourage."

"I am different without them," Andy Warhol says, smiling wistfully. Then he nods and moves down the curve, clearly wanting privacy. 

"Sir!" SPYGOD says, coming over: "Sorry about that. I didn't mean to leave you alone that long. I just... did you see Shift, over here?"

"Who?" Reagan asks.

"Shift? Silver guy? Blank mask? Looks like he's an echo?" 

"Um, no..." Reagan says, suddenly remembering-

(this man is the answer," the blurred, silver man announces, pulling a very bewildered Ben Franklin from seemingly nowhere: "An understanding will be made, here and now. A promise made to be broken. We will reign and then decline, suffer and then shine. This is the way of it, now and-)

"-forever. Well, at least since that weird !@#$ thing with the King of Time, back after you and I met," SPYGOD explains, still looking around: "He went to go fight his stupid !@#$ and then we never saw him again. But every once in a while he just !@#$ing pops up, out of nowhere."

"How can he do that if he's gone?"

"Sir, he travels in time," SPYGOD explains: "And if you die now, but you were in the future a bunch of !@#$ing times, well, you're still there. You're just... !@#$, this is confusing."

"You're telling me," Reagan says, looking around: "I think I need a drink, (REDACTED). Preferably a !@#$ stiff one."

"I think I'll join you," SPYGOD says, glaring across the room at someone who's been observing them from a very frank-faced delegation of Chinese diplomats. 

Someone well-dressed and lithe, who seems both pleased and annoyed to see him there. 

* * *

They call it ambrosia. Reagan's had a number of drinks that claim to be it. This, however, is the genuine article.

"Amazing stuff," he says, feeling a little younger, up at the bar with everyone else.

(Except SPYGOD. He had to go have a word with someone.)

"It bloody well is indeed," a clearly drunk English rock star with huge lips says, swirling one down and handing his empty glass to the woman made of water, behind the bar: "I'm always !@#$ing saying that, mate. But then, when I leave this place? I can't !@#$ing remember what it tastes like. Funny, innit?"

"!@#$ strange," Reagan admits, already forgetting the taste that was just on his tongue: "They ought to bottle it."

"Doesn't work that way," a frankly disheveled man says, rubbing his stubble: "Won't keep longer than a day."

"Well, if you bottle it-"

"It vanishes," the man says, winking: "Only good for so long. Just like so many other things."

"I hear you there," Reagan says, extending a hand: "Ronald Reagan. Nice to meet you...?"

"Oh, you know me, sir," the man says, trying to seem a little less disheveled as he shakes it "I'm Edward Crisp. I don't think you've ever seen me out of uniform, is all."

"Oh? Are you a strategic talent, sir?"

"I am, yes," the man whispers, trying to smile: "But, if it's all the same to you, I'd rather remain incognito, tonight. That's why I'm at the bar and not over there on the floor."

"I understand," Reagan says: "I don't like talking shop when I'm at parties, either. Except that this party is apparently all about talking shop, even if it isn't supposed to be."

"That and making deals," the man says, looking over at someone he's clearly been waiting for: "Speaking of which, my ride's here. It was good meeting you, sir. We'll talk again soon, I'm sure."

With that, the man downs his glass of ambrosia, puts it on the bar, and walks over to a large woman in a stunning, extremely sexy dress that accentuates each and every bounteous curve. He walks up to her and takes her hand. Then she kisses him, suddenly and passionately, and nods, as if in agreement.

For a moment, Reagan thinks he knows her, but that's impossible. That large, profane woman he danced with at that first Gathering, she died three years ago, didn't she? 

She looks over at him for a second, and then winks right at him. His heart stops for a second. 

It is her. But how...?

("Please, father-brother. I am so sorry for this," she weeps, kneeling at the feet of someone there -- someone to whom they all pay fealty: "I'll pay any price. I'll do anything. Please just let me suffer instead of us all.")

"-Glenn, you can't !@#$ing remember it any more than I can," the rocker's insisting to some long-haired man in a cowboy hat at the bar, standing right where Gold Standard used to be. 

"Some dance to remember, some dance to forget," the man sings in a sweet, sad voice. 

"Ah, I've got your hotel right here, you yank wanker," the man says, getting another drink from the water woman as Reagan watches the dead woman walk away with the superhero.

"You're drunk, Mick."

"I am. And I'm single. And my band's !@#$in' done for."

"Oh, come on. You're the Rolling Stones, man. You'll be around forever."

"Ah, you'll think that, Glenn. You would. But don't get too far ahead of yourself. It's all downhill from here."

"You can say that again," Reagan says, getting a bad feeling about those memories. 

* * *

 It's been a half an hour, and SPYGOD still hasn't returned. Reagan's gone from the bar to the highest platform, and back down again, looking for him, but he can't find him anywhere. 

"I'll be right here, Ron," the ex-governor mutters, shaking his head: "Just mingle. It'll all be okay."

He looks down at the floor once more. Some weird game is pitting that bald-headed freak from the devil church in San Francisco against the half-Asian assistant of that Borges writer, from Argentina. They seem to be playing poker, but with each raise the cards all shift their numeric value, making it impossible to play from a knowing position of strength or weakness. 

He thinks he should know that writer. Somehow he should go down there and talk to him, after this is over. Maybe he should go down and throw in a hundred for charity...?

"But then, that would be obvious," someone tells him: "And you are anything but obvious, Mr. Reagan."

That voice. He's heard it before. 

He turns and looks at the man before him. He's very tall, this one: long hair, a well-groomed beard, wise and gentle eyes. And his suit... well, it's very colorful and exaggerated, and so tight against him he can read his muscles and anatomy like a book. 

"Lord Seranu," he says, extending a hand: "It's been a few years since we spoke, sir. I don't think I really extended my full thanks for helping my state, that day."

"You tried, I think," the man says, his hand warm and strong: "Your thanks are appreciated, but not necessary. We are here to help you, in all things, and in all ways."

"Yes, you've said as much," Reagan says, looking down as a cheer goes up from the game, below. Apparently the bald man won, and he seems as surprised as any at that. 

"Some reciprocity would be nice, I will admit," the man says, putting a firm hand on Reagan's shoulder: "But I know that children do not always appreciate their parents."

"Are we your children, then?"

"In some ways, yes," the man says, stepping beside Reagan and looking down: "In other ways, we are your children. Dead worlds have no gods, after all."

"What would happen if a world's gods all died?"

"Died?" the man laughs -- long and deep: "Oh, my friend. You would have to extinguish all life first to do that. So long as you are here, we will be here, beside you. Eternal and forever, and always near and dear."

"But haven't you died, before?" Reagan asks, unsure: "We've been without you for a long time. And then, well, that one lady from that rock group. Mother Cass, or-"

"Syphon," the man corrects him, his eyes flashing a bit: "Yes, she died. A heart attack, or so they say."

"That's not what happened?"

"You mean you don't know?" the man says, somewhat sadly: "Oh, but I suppose they don't tell you everything, the ones who put the things inside of you."

"Sir, I-" Reagan tries to say, something rising inside of him.

Something furious.

"Oh no," Seranu says, putting a hand on Reagan's chest: "Do not apologize, Mr. Reagan. Yours is not to apologize. You are blameless in this. The sword, and not the hand that cuts. I love you and forgive you as I love and forgive all things."

"Well, that's good to know, but..." Reagan says, just barely holding the fury at bay, and not really sure what he's thinking right now.

"You're thinking of that day, all those years ago," the King-Father of the Supergods says: "The party you can't remember. The way you and Syphon danced. The things she whispered in your ear as she learned of you, through that dance. The future you represent, and the problem she created when she tried to tie that future into our own."

That did it. The memories come flooding back. The nightmare seduction by that woman. The way she'd... done things to him.

The reasons she whispered in his ear as it was happening. 

"My God, get out of my head," Reagan shouts, holding his hands up to his temples: "What are you? Who are you to call yourselves Gods? Who are you to forgive us? Who are you to call us your children?"

"Just that," the man says, taking a respectful step back, and looking at him with much sadness: "Your parents and your children. Your rulers and your ruled. We are you, and you are we. Now and forever, even unto the end of time."

"I won't accept that," Reagan says, looking at the man: "There is only one God, buddy. And you're not him."

"That is also true," Seranu says, nodding: "But we are done speaking, you and I. The next time we see each other, well, you'll have something to say to me. And I know I won't like it."

"Enough!" Reagan shouts: "Enough of this !@#$. Enough magic. Enough predestination. Humanity lives on its own, succeeds on its own! We don't need you!"

Seranu just smiles and nods, turning to go: "By the way, tell your Backers one thing for me?"

"What's that?" Reagan asks, wondering where all that anger just came from. 

"Tobacco is an excellent way to stop a heart, but not an undetectable one," he says, winking: "Next time, they'll just have to hire someone... smarter."

With that, he's gone, leaving Reagan to slump down, holding his head in his hands, and wonder what the !@#$ he meant by that.

"Are you alright, my friend?" a large man in a simple, black robe asks, kneeling down next to him. He's got short, snow-white hair curled over a balding pate, a huge, bushy beard, a thick accent he can't quite place.

And two of the most commanding eyes Reagan has ever seen. 

"I think so," Reagan says to the man, who looks oddly familiar: "I was just... I think I just won an argument with a god, but I'm not sure."

"Oh, they're not gods, my friend," the man says, helping the ex-governor up: "Just super people, same as any other. They've let this get to their heads. It's made them insane, clearly."

"Really?"

"Really," the man says, smiling: "I appreciate what you said to him, and you are right. There is only one god, high above us all. Allah, praise be unto him. And they are not him."

Reagan smiles, taking the man's hand: "Maybe we should go and talk, friend?"

"I agree."

* * *

"So, you talked to him for how long?" SPYGOD asks, hoisting another glass of ambrosia by the bar as the floor begins to clear out, at long last. 

"Hours, I think," Reagan says, having one last one for the road, if only to try and remember: "It was amazing how much we had in common, in spite of everything else."

"And you didn't catch his name?"

"Well, he didn't exactly throw it," the man says, trying to chase the last bits of the taste down: "But no. And he's gone, now, so no looking around for him."

"I did enough of that, earlier," SPYGOD sighs: "ABWEHR got wind of where we were, and sent attack subs, and I didn't realize it until they almost exploded a !@#$ing bomb right on top of the new Israeli Prime Minister. I think that's what Shift was trying to draw my attention to, earlier. He always did like the mystery tour."

"I guess he did," Reagan says: "Is that where you were? Dealing with super-nazis?"

"Oh yeah," SPYGOD says: "Me and Pontus, we went out there on giant !@#$ing sharks. Chewed those nazis the !@#$ up. You should have seen it."

The superspy grins, and Reagan can't help but not be angry at him, anymore. So he puts the glass down and gestures to the door: "(REDACTED), I think I'm good to go home."

"Well, I'm happy to take you," SPYGOD says, escorting him to the door: "So, did the guy say anything else?"

"Yeah, he said that someone here had told him that he and I should meet each other," the ex-governor laughs.

"Really?" SPYGOD asks: "Who said that?"

"Oh, some lady doing knitting. That's why he found me. He said that she said we were destined to be enemies. So he wanted to find a way to prove her wrong. And he did! Isn't that hilarious?"

"Yeah," SPYGOD lies: "Did they make any other predictions about you two?"

"Only that he's going to come into his kingdom in nine days," Reagan shrugs: "God only knows what that means. He said he wasn't taking it seriously..."

On their way out SPYGOD catches sight of a figure he hadn't seen so far, tonight. It's a woman dressed in a blood-red cowl -- one that seems to burn with anger.

The woman scowls, and points an accusing finger in their direction, but he doesn't think it's at him.

"Quite a party," Reagan says as they enter the doorway: "But you know, (REDACTED), I think once is enough."

"I have to agree, sir," SPYGOD says, looking up at Lord Seranu, on his platform. The man gives him a sad wave goodbye.

Sad and knowing, like so much he does.

But then they're through the doorway. The bell tolls twice.

And the Gathering is over. 

* * *

 There she stood in the doorway;
I heard the mission bell
And I was thinking to myself,
"This could be Heaven or this could be Hell"

 (SPYGOD is listening to Hotel California (The Eagles) and having an Ambrosia Lager)