10/14/12 - Something Could Change - Pt. 2

"One of the Overlanders tried to teach me the concept of 'irony,' once," Emperor Thurl says as he scuttles the room of Seven Jaws, occasionally looking from its central parapet to hear if something's started yet: "Tell me truly, Blue and Yellow -- are you familiar with the concept?"

Blue and Yellow tries to say something, but really can't. She's discovered why the room bears its name, and is pinned between three of the seven sets, gasping in pain.

"Oh, I do truly apologize," the boy-Emperor says, scuttling closer to her and extending his hands in what might be a warm gesture: "You must be in too much distress to talk. I imagine the field that keeps you from being crushed by the waterweight is close to breaking, much as even the hardiest shell must break when firm and steady pressure is applied."

"Kill you..." Blue and Yellow hisses, trying to fire her eyebeams. They will not come, but make her eyes glow menacingly for a second.

"But we were speaking of this 'irony,'" Thurl continues, bending his eyestalks down to look her in the face: "The fellow who spoke to me, one of the Germans, spent a long time trying to teach me the meaning of this idea. But we do not recognize this concept, here in the Kingdom. We had enough of a problem understanding a 'desert,' I think you call them?"

The Imago ceases her struggles as the Emperor gets closer. He thinks he knows what she intends to do, but that is fine, as he knows his own intentions.

"However, we do have a story that we tell our strongspawn, so they might grow in both mind and form. It is the story of the small and the large. Would you like to hear it?"

The Imago tries once more to break free, just as he expected. Thurl sighs and gestures, his crown jewels trailing behind his hand, and yet another set of jaws clamps down on his captive.

The blow doesn't cut so much as pulverize, and droplets of blood spurt from her lips, somehow escaping from her force field and leaking out into the water. The smelltaste makes Thurl want to end this conversation and do something much more final and toothy to her, but he denies himself the pleasure.

For the moment, anyway.

"Well, perhaps you have no time for such a lesson, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, sitting down before her as the seatmollusks form him a throne: "But I must thank you. In all my lives, I had never been able to understand what this 'Irony' meant. And then you came amongst us, and we learned.

"You see, if you had not come here, after you took control of the Overland, we would have left you alone. If you had simply stayed up there, and tended to the Overland, we would not have come looking for you. We would have been grateful that the Overobligation was ended, and the Great Mistake forgiven by default. But you would have heard nothing from us.

"And even when you rose the City of Darkness from the Wet of the Other Kingdom, and took it above the Barrier and called it your home? Even then, I tell you truly, we would have stayed far from you. Farther still, I think I speak truly, for there are reasons that we fear it.

"But you came to us, Blue and Yellow. You and your Green and Orange friend, missing all these darks. You came to us and pretended friendship. You came to us and spoke of partnership. You came to us.

"And as soon as we learned what you were going to do, you threatened me."

Blue and Yellow gasps, her eyes starting from her skull. Not too long, now.

"If you had stayed where you were, we would have sought nothing more with the Overland. We would have left you to it. What use have we for it?

"But you had to come here and try to control us. You had to become our enemy. You had to threaten the life of my father -- my life.

"And in doing so, I tell you truly that you taught us the lesson that we have been too slow to learn for too long. That I, in all my formlives, have been too stupid to learn.

"I have learned that ours is one planet, Blue and Yellow. The Wet and the Dry are two sides of the same rock. One cannot exist without the other. And those who live in one must be allies with the other.

"And so, we will be allies with the Overlanders, once more. And I tell you truly, Blue and Yellow, that makes you our enemy. But we would never have learned this, or known that, unless you had come to us.

"So now, I truly understand irony."

The Emperor gently reaches towards the Imago's head with his claws. She tries to struggle and get away, but each movement is agony, and makes the collapse of her personal shielding more pronounced. Already the metal on her chest and arms is beginning to buckle.

"And now, I would know what you know, Blue and Yellow," the Emperor says, preparing to crack her skull open: "Do not worry. This will not be like the Deathlifedreamsleep. You will not be conscious, and I will not take you inside myself, as I did my father, as he did his father before him.

"I simply want to know what you have planned, so that I might tell my new Overlander ally, when next we speak on the new communicator he has given us."

And as the Emperor feasts, and learns, there is a deep, booming noise, far away from the citadel. It is a sound that has not been heard for many formlives, given the nature of the Overobligation. But all of the Kingdom know what it is, and what it means, and they instantly drop what they are doing and either prepare to go to into battle, or to take cover from it.

The Warspawn are hatching. The Kingdom will strike.

And woe be unto their enemies.

* * *

Mikhail: So, where do we now stand, my friends?

Dosha: I haven't been able to talk to my government, unfortunately. However, I have been able to talk to the provisional government in exile in Pakistan and the people claiming to be in charge of Bangladesh. And they are in agreement, and willing to contribute.

Jose: Where the !@#$ is your government, Dosha?

Dosha: Where they've always been in times like this, Jose. In hiding. Just like you. 

Mikhail: Can we please be dispensing with the insults? Jose comes to us with good news. 

Khalil: He does? So far all we have heard are words from someone I have never met. 

Jose: There is a reason for that, pendejo.

Dr. Krwi: There is? SPYGOD always told me that you prided yourself on showing up to these things late, just for a joke 

Jose: And who is this? 

Dr. Krwi: The man who just got most of Eastern Europe to sign in with our efforts, sir.

Mikhail: Jose, this is Dr. Krwi, a man of many talents and much experience with insurgencies. 

Jose: I'll believe it when I see it. 

Khalil: Please! We have no time for this. 

Dosha: Agreed. Jose, please accept my apologies. If your organization can help, I will gladly shake your hand and call you an ally. 

Jose: Oh, I can do more than that. I have managed to talk our government into allying with a number of other governments in Central and South America. We have not gotten everyone, yet, but the people there are furious at what has happened. 

Khalil: As are several African nations. But the partnership is very tenuous. A number of the new governments aren't keen to work with their old allies, and some of the countries have more than one party claiming leadership. This is going to be a logistical nightmare. 

Mikhail: And if you think that's a nightmare, you should see the state that Russia is in! But I have played the right cards, I think. I spoke to the military, rather than the government. And they are quite prepared to come to our side. 

Dr Krwi: What about Japan? Do we know what bargain SPYGOD struck with Ju Kikan? 

Dosha: He told me he got a giant favor, but wouldn't go into specifics. Just like the bhen chod. 

Dr. Krwi: That sounds like him. And of course Mister 10 will not speak to us directly. 

Dosha: Of course not. I take it you've had some experience with him? 

Dr. Krwi: When I would hunt in Japan I needed to get permission from that group's predecessors. It was never easily given, or arranged. And all the time I felt as though they might try and kill me.

Mikhail: Very well. then we seem to have as much as we can have. So now it is merely a matter of waiting.

Khalil: I'm not very comfortable with that. Did SPYGOD say when we should tell our people to move? 

Dosha: No, but he said we'd know it when we saw it.  

Dr. Krwi: And, knowing him, that is as much of a warning as we are going to get. 

Dosha: Agreed. Speaking of warnings, Doctor, I couldn't help but notice you crossing yourself at the meeting, the other day. What is the contingency plan you are so afraid of? 

Dr. Krwi: I do not wish to speak of it. With any luck, you will never know. It is bad enough that I know. 

Mikhail: Now, Doctor, we promised each other no secrets. 

Dr. Krwi: Yes, we did, didn't we? Then I hope you'll eventually forgive me for having said nothing.  

(Dr. Krwi Leaves)

Dosha: That could not have been good.  

Mikhail: No, it could not. Khalil, do you have any idea what he could be talking about? 

Khalil: None, but I am not certain of that. I keep thinking there is something I am forgetting. Something about SPYGOD I either know or need to let him know. But what it could be? I have no idea. 

Dosha: Do you feel as though someone has tampered with your memory? 

Khalil: It is just possible. I suggest for the sake of security we do not talk again, like this, until this war is over and done with.  

Mikhail: I think it the wisest course of action, my friend. And good luck to us all. We who are normally men of the shadows are going to have to step out into the light, for a time. I can only hope we can withstand that scrutiny.

* * *

 "So how do I look?" the President asks for the fifth time in as many minutes, adjusting his tie and running a hand through his hair.

"I think you look like a man who could use a drink," Ben says, handing the man a very large glass of beer: "I insist. If you fret any more, you will look worse than Richard Nixon did that one time he debated Jack Kennedy on television."

"Well, I could use some makeup," the President says, but takes the beer all the same, giving it an appreciative sip: "!@#$, that... that is some good stuff, Ben."

"Glad you like it. Old recipe of mine. I brewed it in anticipation of victory, and there's ten kegs downstairs, so you better deliver."

The old man smiles and looks at him over his glasses. The President just smiles back, uncertain whether to trust this man or not. He walks and talks just like he always imagined Ben Franklin would, but his conversation topics and ribald anecdotes are so disturbing that he's having a hard time believing this man was ever a Founding Father.

But he's the one with the camera, and the B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G., and a few other things besides, so he figures he should give him the benefit of the doubt.

"Where did that cat go, anyway?" The President asks, hoping to change the topic.

"Probably !@#$ed off to the penthouse to check on his vodka stores," Ben replies, checking the camera again, and then turning back to the multitude of screens behind him: "Poor pussy's been having to drink poor man's potatoes for the last year, since he took it on the lam."

"So he can fly a spaceship, shoot a gun, and drink SPYGOD under the table?"

"Oh, that's nothing. That !@#$able creature can drink me under the table. And that is saying something, if you don't mind my saying so."

"Where did he get that cat?"

"Oh, now there's a story," Ben says, and then gets distracted by something he sees: "Randolph, this is Ben. You need to get more televisions over to the North part of the island. There's not enough coverage over there."

In a second, Randolph Scott's face appears on the screen, with one of his conspirators behind him: "I'm working on it, Ben. I'm trying to get some last-minute interviews with the post-bridge refugees, first."

"Well, get someone on it, !@#$ it. The Third American revolution is about to take place and I'm not going to miss my moment in the sun because you were too busy asking them who their favorite musical group is!"

"That's not what I'm asking them, Ben-"

"Just a second," the President asks, getting up and looking at the screen: "That man behind him. Excuse me? Aren't you...?"

The man behind Randolph looks at him, and then dominates the screen. It's been some time since they've seen each other, but the recognition is instantaneous.

"Hello, Mr. President" Jess Friend says, nodding and smiling: "I'm very glad to see you, again."

"I'm glad to see you, too," the President says.

"I'm sorry I couldn't have saved you, sir. I tried, but..."

"Hey, son?" the President says, tearing up a little: "I don't know if you know this, but I saw you kick in the door and try to stop what was happening, just before they transported me away. That gave me hope that someone might come to rescue me. And that hope's what kept me alive over there. 

"So yes, Agent Friend. You did save me. And thank you for that."

"Well, not an Agent anymore," Jess says, holding up the hand they had to reconstruct: "They kind of blamed me for the whole thing."

"Really?" the President says: "Well, when this is all over? You come and find me, and we'll set the record straight. It's time your talents were recognized, don't you think?"

"I can't disagree," Randolph says: "And when this is all done and over with? You and me need to have a talk, too, sir. Your Vice President made me swear to pass along a few things, the night before he died. I'd like to keep that promise."

"Then we'll do that," the President says: "Go make us proud, guys."

With that the screen goes blank, and Ben Franklin nods and claps the President on the shoulder: "Spoken like a true leader."

"Third American Revolution, huh?" the President says, looking at the older fellow.

"Ah, well," Ben says, going back to his screens: "Nice thing about our country, my good President. We may never fully agree on the lyrics, but the song always remains the same."

A while -- and a few beers -- later, the President realizes that his host just skillfully forestalled an argument, which was probably for the best. Right now wasn't the time for people for fall apart.

Not when the whole world was about to come back together. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Words (Missing Persons) and having some of Ben Franklin's own)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 3

"How bad is bad?" Khalil asks, getting more and more pale as Mikhail's story goes on.

"Let me put it to you, my friend," the Russian says, downing the rest of his bottle of vodka in two gargantuan swigs: "If you are not drunk now, you had best be soon. Or we will have to carry you out of here, after the story is done."

"You may have to carry him out, anyway," Sir George says, his tone rather archy. 

"It will not be from total destruction of his soul," Mikhail says: "In war, there comes time when every man sees a thing that puts his mind into that war, once and for all. For some, it is the first dead man you see. For others, the first man they make dead. And some must wait for the most horrible of things. Death camps, gulags, torture, slavery, the worthless slaughter of innocents.

"In this war, we have all these things. I would spare him full horror. I would offer him chance to make an anesthesia in his veins, first. I think it is most kind thing I can do."

"Ignorance would be the kindest thing," Dosha opines: "But in its absence, I suppose a good drink would be just the thing."

Khalil takes his point, and, buzzing for the waiter, orders a bottle for everyone -- even Sir George.

* * *

Warsaw is cold and wet, this morning. It's raining like mad, and that's making it hard for the people of the city to go about their business with no electricity. 

In the city, every Monday is a "no" day: no power, no telephone, no internet, and no work. The Imago need the power in the nearest work center, in Pultusk, at least for now. When winter comes, they plan to ease back, and say that only a few hours -- maybe between Midnight and Sunrise -- will be "no." But for now, the people are being asked to do without for the good of all.

Left without work or power, the people tend to take to the streets. They go for walks, read out of doors, play chess in the parks, and barter for goods in the open spaces. The Imago watch these "free markets" with a strange interest -- maybe because they're curious as to how they work, and maybe because they fear them.

They know what can happen when too many people gather in too small a place, after all.

So the Imago aren't really looking as a large, black-clad Indian fellow appears out of nowhere, in the heart of Zoliborz. 

He looks around him and takes a few deep breaths, as though he'd been running to get here. Then he pulls a large stack of photographs out of a deep pocket, and takes the top one to the bottom. He then proceeds to look at the new top one for a full minute, as though whatever he was seeing was the most important thing in the world. 

"Not too far, now," he says. His voice is ragged from crying and exertion. 

He huffs and puffs, and closes his eyes. Then he's gone, again. 

And when he comes back, a few minutes later, he is no longer alone. 

* * *

"The entire leadership?" Khalil asks.

"All of them?" Dosha tries to clarify.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says: "All of them, in one go. They knew the general shape of what was to come. Their precognitives, yes? They all woke up screaming, that morning, knowing that the end of the Palestinian Authority was at hand. So they chose to go out with defiant bang."

"Self fulfilling prophecy, eh?" Sir George snorts: "I expected better, quite frankly."

"!@#$ you," Dosha says: "They chose defiance over subservience. That's a !@#$ sight better than either of our governments have done."

"Your former government, you mean," he says, giving Dosha a gimlet eye: "I seem to remember they tried to burn you after your special friend shot his President."

"Is irrelevant, now," Mikhail insists: "All we hang together, or else they hang us separately, yes?"

"You're drunk," Sir George quips, having a sip of his own brew.

"And you're a goat!@#$er," Dosha says: "But at least in the morning he'll be sober."

"Well, if you have to mangle Churchill-"

"I heard they had been genetically farming certain powers in their children, but I had no idea the program was that advanced," Khalil interjects, hoping to change the conversation from an argument to a discussion, again.

"Advanced? Feh!" Mikhail says, having another drink: "Is not too hard to give a power to a person, so long as you do not !@#$ing care about their survival. In fact, is easiest thing in the world, it seems. Soviets, HONEYCOMB, Nazis, they do it all the time, back in the days. They create human equivalent of missiles. You fire them, they do their super thing, and if they die or melt or explode, well, they can not be interrogated if they are pile of ashes, yes?"

"And the Palestinians had a lot of contact with the Soviets, by way of Egypt, back in the 70's," Sir George adds.

"Which would have been when these children were altered?" Dosha asks.

"Their parents," Mikhail corrects: "Parents are altered, but do not show power. Their children show the power. And the power is sloppy, brutal thing, only really good for one use. You can guess which use that is, yes?"

"And how many children did it take to wipe that part of Ramallah off the map?" Dosha asks.

"That I do not know, my friend. I have heard maybe twenty. It was enough to destroy their administrative center, a few blocks outwards."

"And the Imago who came to see them?" Khalil asks.

"Not even !@#$ing scratched."

Khalil sighs, and downs a slug of his drink: "!@#$ me in prison like a white tourist. This is truly terrible."

"Still, it gets worse," Mikhail says, having another slug: "Because this is the moment, my friends. This is the moment in which Imago realize that they cannot rule this land. Not the way that they want.

"They prefer to tell no one nothing. They want the leaders there to tell them, and only speak once in a while. But there are no leaders left to tell the people what to do.

"And no one they approach to become new leaders will do or say these things. In all these lands, they only find people who will say 'no.' No one to say 'yes.' No one to suck their metal butts and tell them how much they love the chocolate, there.

"No one."

He sighs, and pulls out a blown up photograph. He puts it on the table, so the other three men can look at it.

"I'm... I'm not sure what this is," Sir George admits: "It's a little grainy."

"Gavril, he sends me this after he takes it," Mikhail says: "He is high up on building, shooting camera down. He cannot get very good shot, but you can see enough."

"Is that a crowd of people, running away?" Khalil asks: "Some of them falling down and dying when they're hit by... what is that?"

"Bright orange lines," Dosha says, tracing the course of one as it snakes from the top of the photo down to the face of one of the people who is running away: "I've seen them use that weapon. They fire twin beams from their eyes, and the beams follow you, no matter where you hide."

"And they strike you in the eyes," Khalil adds: "Your eyes turn to steam. Your brain becomes ashes in your skull."

"Once they fire these beams, there is being no escape," Mikhail adds: "You are dead man."

"And that's what this is?" Sir George says, pointing to the couple of Imago as they float above the crowd: "They just started firing at this crowd?"

"Firing at every crowd, everywhere," Mikhail says, sadly: "They float above gatherings for one hour, waiting for signal. People who do not know what has happened, they come out to look, wondering if is some announcement. They laugh and play. They have no idea.

"And then, when signal is given, the execution begins..."

Mikhail takes in a deep breath: "It takes them only two hours. They move throughout country, top to bottom, left to right. They fire beam after beam. Each one finds a target and kills. Men, women, children, babes in cradles. Everyone living is dead, and there is no escape.

"Gavril, he takes this picture. He maybe takes more, but they do not come to me. He sends me message, and says 'Remember us. Remember that we lived and died for right to say no.'

"Then he jumps from building, rather than be shot."

The Russian tears up, and puts a hand over his eyes: "My grandfather's brother, he left Russia many years ago. Went to Israel with other Jews. Said we were crazy to stay behind, but my grandfather, he was true believer. He said there was nothing in Israel but capitalists trying to !@#$ you and Arabs trying to kill you. In USSR, there was safety. In Israel, only danger.

"And look! He was right. He was right."

Mikhail sobs. Khalil tries to not be sick. Dosha closes his eyes.

Sir George stiffens and gasps, feeling a long, wet thing impale him through the back of his neck.

"Hello," Amporn says, her head floating up from behind the Englishman as he starts to die, and her tongue sucking the life from him: "I hope I'm not disturbing you gentlemen?"

(SPYGOD is listening to Three (The Cure) and having a Smirnoff, straight up)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 2

"You know how it was on 3/15," Mikhail begins, making sure everyone has at least two shots of his obscenely strong vodka in them, first: "The revolutionaries struck the leadership of every country, supposedly on behalf of the United States of America. They had the leaders at their mercy, and then called in for further instructions. This is part one.

"And then the Imago came, and saved our leaders, which is part two. And then they tell us that they'd also come to save us from ourselves. That they would be watching us for a time. Protecting us. This is part three. You know all this, already."

"We do, yes," Sir George says, running a finger along the lip of his shotglass: "Just as we know that the Imago were lying, and clearly had their own agenda."

"And just as we know that they've been quite ruthless about enforcing that agenda," Khalil adds: "Many who were leaders in Africa on that day are not leaders now. And their families..."

"Dead, or worse," Dosha finishes his sentence, pushing his glass over towards Mikhail in hopes of a refill.

"Yes, my friends," Mikhail says, filling up Dosha's glass and offering the same to others: "And worse, well... you have seen how keen they are to separate parents from children, especially in the places where they have given work to the people. They have made it clear that they can take anything they want from you. Take anyone. It is not hard to convince people to say what they want said, and do what they want done, when your children will pay the price if you do not.

"But Israel? Ah, they are nothing but trouble, right from the start.

"Part one does not happen in Israel. The revolutionary fools who try to take Israeli government are smashed to pieces. The idiots who try to take down Palestinian Authority? Also smashed."

"Why them?" Dosha asks: "What is so special about them?"

"It seems that both sides have many precognitives, who are screaming that something terrible is to happen on 3/15, but do not know !@#$ing what it is. Naturally they suspect one another, and remain on quiet high alert. So when revolutionaries strike, everyone's Supers are there. And they smash them."

"Smashing," Sir George smiles, downing his new shot: "So what went wrong?"

"The Imago come down, and you can tell they are not happy," Mikhail continues: "They are expecting things to be one way, and they are other way. So they do their best to go to part three without there being part one or part two. But no one is having this !@#$. Both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?' And 'Who do you think you are to tell us these things?'

"This does not go over very well. The Imago want Israel and Palestinian Authority to broadcast to their peoples the things they wish them to say. Again, both sides, they are saying 'Who are you?'"

"What did the Imago do?" Khalil asks, looking very pale.

"At first? Nothing," Mikhail continues, taking a swig of vodka straight from the bottle: "They say 'fine, be !@#$holes.' They !@#$ off to the sky, or thin air. They leave the Israelis and Palestinians to fend for themselves, no imports or exports, no emergency supplies.

"But, you know these peoples. Both are used to eating !@#$ and !@#$ing gold. They are little shaky at first, but soon they are fine. No problem, yes?

"And then, at last, Imago come back again. This is months later, after Presidential trials are all over, and last American President is man who fell to Earth. And now they say they need Israel and Palestinian Authority to tell their people things. They need to organize people to work, to prepare the Earth from this danger that is coming. They want to take their mentally incompetent away to be healed, and their children away to be educated. Same thing they do in some places."

"Again, why Israel?" Dosha asks: "It seems that most places where the populations were taken from major metropolitan areas and set up in tent cities are less developed places, in less developed countries. Most of India has been resettled, with only places like New Delhi still as it was."

"And Africa," Khalil adds, agreeing: "Major cities like Nairobi and Addis Ababa were left alone, but everything outside of them was uprooted."

"Maybe to punish them for being so !@#$ stubborn," Sir George offers: "Maybe they really hate Jews and Palis. Who can say? World conquerors don't always have rational reasons."

"Is good point," Mikhail says, pouring him some more vodka: "Who can say? But what happens next, we can say. Because we have seen."

He shudders, and takes another swig.

* * *

In a darkened room with one, shuttered window, not too far away from Poke's, two Thai men -- one young, one middle-aged -- are standing by a large, metal crate. They smoke bad cigarettes and wait, occasionally thumbing their very large, loosely-holstered pistols, and shooting nervous looks at the crate.

Especially when they hear what's inside of it move.

"Why haven't they called, yet?" the younger man asks, looking at the cellphone over on a table with no chairs. It's sitting next to a small, wooden box that's quite old, but has a very new lock on it. 

"Because they haven't called, yet," the older man sighs, wishing the kid they'd stuck him with would learn to relax.

"They really should have !@#$ing called by now-"

"Shut up," the older one says, slicking back his hair and wishing this safehouse had a !@#$ air conditioner that worked.

"You know I'm right. They should have called by now."

"And I'm telling you to shut up," the other man says, walking to the window and looking out for no real reason: "You know how this is. We'll be called when we're called. Until then, we are patient."

The younger man sighs. He joined Internal Security to have more control over his own situation, but since those Imago bastards showed up, it's been less about having control, and more about people having control over him.

(Of course, upon reflection, he realizes ISOC's always been that way. It was just a better illusion before 3/15.)

Finally, the slim, black cellphone rings. They both look at it, and then at each other, and realize no one wants to actually answer it. But after the third ring, the older man sighs, walks over, and bites the bullet.

"Yeah," he says, listening: "Pokes? ... Okay, that makes sense. ... You want them all dead? ... Okay, no problem. We'll tell her."

He hangs up, puts the phone down, and pulls out his pistol. He nods to the younger man, who gulps, and then, very slowly, goes over to one side of the crate. There's a hidden keypad, there, and he types in the combination that opens it up.

The well-oiled metal slides open like a flower greeting the sun, and then there's a woman in the room with them. She's wearing a simple shirt over a flowing skirt, like what a country girl might. Her skin is as pale as the Moon, and her eyes are blood red with black, nickel-sized pupils.

And her jet-black lips are curdled into a very nasty frown, looking at the two men.

"Hello, Amporn," the older man says: "You remember me from last time, right? You know what this gun does, and what we have."

"When do I get it back?" she demands, her voice deeper than it should be for one so seemingly frail and light.

"We're not sure, yet," he says, and this is the truth: "Things have changed. But soon, I think."

"That's what they said twenty years ago," she accuses: "You have no truth to you. I will enjoy taking you, when they tell me."

"You be quiet!" the younger man shouts, pointing his gun at the box at the table: "I will !@#$ing shoot it, you !@#$. Don't think I won't."

"And I won't stop him," the older man says, trying to mask his annoyance at the younger agent's outburst: "We can always find another thing like you. Maybe Cambodia, this time. I hear the ones up there have better manners."

The girl smiles. Her teeth are white, long, and jagged, like the shards of a broken plate: "I will have your wife, before I have you. I'll wait until she's with your child, and suck it out of her in the night. And then I'll slop its broken, little body into your mouth as I'm having you, just to hear the sounds you make..."

The younger agent picks that moment to be horribly, violently sick. The girl laughs at his nausea and embarrassment as he scuttles away from her, trying to regain control and point his gun at the box.

"You nasty little !@#$!" the older man shouts: "If we didn't need you..."

"Oh, but that's just it," she smiles: "You do need me. And that's why you won't hurt what's in the box, and you won't even breathe on my body, when I leave. Now will you?"

She has them there, and they know it. 

"Now, what are my orders... master?"

"The bar, Pokes, over on Silom Soi 4. On the second floor there's a table. There are four farang there: a Russian, an Indian, an African, and an Englishman. You will go there and kill them all, and then return here."

"Are they special?"

"We suspect one or more of them may be, but we're not sure how. The Indian has a special man, but he's gone and won't be disturbing you."

"He'd better not," she says, stretching her back and arms: "I'm hungry enough to eat ten men, today."

"Well, go have your meal, woman," the older man says: "You have an hour. After that, we burn your body. Same as always."

"Same as always," she repeats, looking at them with luscious contempt. 

And then, with the wet rushing of unspeakable things, she's gone.  

* * *

"It starts in Jerusalem," Mikhail continues, after a moment: "In house of government. There is cabinet meeting, and it is being taped for posterity. They are deciding something important and want record of it.

"Halfway through meeting, Imago show up, and tell Prime Minister to get all his people there. And he does this, but who knows why. He gets other Party heads, the President, some ambassadors. Maybe he is wanting an audience. Maybe he wants strength in numbers.

"And then, once they are all there, these Imago start to tell him what he will be doing, and saying. Like old Soviets, they make it sound like good things, and important things, and how could he possibly resist such sensible commands?

"And there, in front of his people, and the heads of the other parties, and the President of Israel, he says 'No.'

"And they are shocked, and ask him to repeat himself. To explain himself. 

"But he says 'No, I will not do these things. I am not your puppet. I am the leader, here, and we do not do things because metal men from the past come and tell us America has gone insane and a space monster is coming to Earth. If America had attacked us, we would have known. And if there is such a monster, we will fight it off, with others if we can, by ourselves if need be. 

"'But this is Israel. It was purchased in blood. It was won through combat. It has been secured, time and again, by the sacrifice of its people. We will not do what you tell us to do, because you do not have the right.'"

Sir George blinks: "Bravo. I would have never thought he had that in him."

"Maybe he did not know, either. But this speech, it made them very angry. So one of them teleports away, and when it comes back it has his wife."

"Oh no," Khalil says, knowing what's coming next.

"This does not deter him," Mikhail continues: "Not even when her head is on his desk and her body is out in the street, having been thrown through the window. He is screaming, and so is everyone there, but still he is saying 'no.'

"So they find his children, and ask him one more time. And, again, he says 'no.'"

Mikhail stops, picks up the bottle, and is about to have another swig, but then puts it down. He closes his eyes for a moment, and when he opens them they are very wet. 

"I forget who succeeds the Prime Minister in case of sudden death," he continues: "So I do not know who they ask once the Prime Minister is sent out of window to join his wife and children in street below. But I know that person also says no. And the President says no. And next person after that says no. And no and no and no, all the way down.

"Eventually, is just down to one cabinet minister. And she stands there, covered in blood of her colleagues and friends and rivals, and people did she did not truly know until this day, and looking at her husband's frightened eyes as some metal man has his hands around his neck, like chicken for the pot. And she says to them 'You are tiny. You are nothing. You have nothing on your side but lies and tricks. And you will find no one here who will say yes to you, because this is Israel, and whatever reason God put us here, it was not to say yes to the likes of you.'"

The Russian finally has that swig.

"So they went to the Palestinians next?" Dosha asks.

"Oh yes," Mikhail says: "And that is when things get really bad."

(SPYGOD is listening to A Reflection (The Cure) and having a Phuket)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 1

Bangkok's a sauna, come September: its incessant humidity broken only by intermittent showers of rain you wouldn't want to drink, even on a bar bet.

On afternoons like this, in Patpong, the streets are full but the sidewalks are nearly empty. Anyone with any sense has gone inside to get out of the wet and the heat in hopes of finding some dry and cool. The electrical grid flickers, every so often, with all the air conditioners threatening a brown out, and the bars do a brisk trade of bottled water and cold beer.

But then, no one really comes here for just the drinks.

Patpong, for better or worse, is the best-known expatriate playground in the city. Farangs looking for that certain thing that the tourist brochures and hotel concierges don't want to talk about, but everyone knows about, wind up here, eventually. The ground floor go-go bars bring in the average joes, while those in the mood for something a little more exotic -- or illegal -- go up to the second floor, or higher.

Not all of them come back down.

It would be grossly unfair to say that Patong is all about the skin trade, though. There are many other reasons to visit this neighborhood, and many other kinds of drinking establishments, some of which cater to expatriates just trying to keep in touch with one another. Lonely foreigners who want to see friendly and familiar faces head there, first, knowing that sooner or later they'll encounter one of their countrymen, and possibly a new friend.

And then there are those places that cater to the sort of people who don't want to be found.

On Silom Soi 4, nestled amongst the bars that cater almost exclusively to gay men, Katooeys, and the like, there's a two-story place called Pokes. In spite of the suggestive name, and the makeup of some of its clientele, the well-appointed, wood and brass establishment is not necessarily geared towards hooking up for sex. Indeed, anyone who goes in there looking for go-go girls or available boys tends to get toyed with by the bartender, and then gently escorted out by the bouncer.

Put simply, Pokes exists so that people with certain needs can meet people who can provide those needs, or put them in touch with someone who can. If you need a tourguide who will take you places that aren't on any map, a man who can help you hide your money, or reclaim what was stolen, a journalist who can get you in touch with hard-to-find sources, or a detective who can get you out of trouble, Pokes is the best place to go. 

And, judging from how busy it gets, there are a lot of people in Bangkok who need it.

Yet, at the same time, the bar conversely provides a shelter for those who don't want to be disturbed. Business happens on the first floor, and solitude -- both singly or in groups -- takes place in the curtained, recessed tables on the second. Fine dining can be brought up from the restaurant next door, drinks are shuttled up by dumb waiter to a stone-deaf server at the back of the darkened room, and woe betide anyone who tries to take their noisy needs up the staircase.

(They say there's a third floor, too, but no one's willing to say what happens, there, if anything. Maybe that's where the gatecrashers go.)

Today, around two in the afternoon, a large, burly, and quite homely fellow dressed -- and bearded -- too heavily for this weather walks in, nods to the bartender, and points up to the stairs. The tender nods and gestures, and up the stairs he goes, heavy feet clomping all the way up. 

He goes to a large table, draws the curtain behind him, and sits down facing the stairwell. It takes him a full five minutes of sitting there to actually relax, and then he's just waiting for the waiter to send up his usual bottle of vodka -- without the cap, of course.

Ten minutes -- and three significant shots -- later, he's joined by a tall and large man dressed nicely, but still too warmly for the climate. He's dark skinned, with a very flat nose, short hair, and a neatly groomed mustache. He walks up the stairs, takes in the room, and heads straight for the curtained-off table. 

"Mikhail," he says, his voice deep and musical. (Ethiopian.)

"Khalil," the burly fellow replies, his thick accent giving his nationality away more than the vodka does. (Russian.) 

Khalil smiles, and makes a point of sitting up against the wall, so that he can keep one eye on Mikhail and another on the stairwell: "Do we know who else is coming?"

"That I do not know, my friend. I only who is not coming."

Khalil's about to ask the obvious question, but then there's another set of footfalls coming up the stairwell. This time it's a short, ginger-haired fellow who's dressed in shorts and a polo shirt, which is the perfect clothing for this sort of day. He gives off the carefree vibes of someone who's just on vacation, but there's traps in his eyes, ready to spring shut on anyone who might mess with him.

"Sir George," Mikhail says, not bothering to rise: "This is Khalil, from NGUVU. Is your first time meeting in person, yes?"

"I do believe so, yes," he replies, his British accent as clipped as a well-trimmed toenail: "But I know who you are, sir."

"May I buy you a drink?" the African asks, smiling. Something behind George's eyes hardens, just for a second, and then it's gone, but that's told Khalil all he needs to know. 

Just before Sir George can come up with a polite refusal, there's a noise like a marker on a whiteboard, and two Indian men are in the room. One's large, young man, dressed like he watched too many Matrix movies. The other's older, and dressed more conservatively, with bad facial scars and raggedy, long hair.

"Dosha," Mikhail says, standing up: "I am so relieved to see you, my friend. I had heard bad stories."

"They are all quite true," Dosha Josh says, nodding to the young man who brought him here. There's another sound, and then the young man is gone, just as Dosha pointedly takes the seat that Sir George was going to take.  

"So, this is all of us, then?" Sir George asks, trying to rebound from that snub and take the last --and least safe -- seat that remains.

"It is," Dosha replies: "Francois did not survive 3/15, and what's left of Direction Noir isn't to be trusted, now. Mister 9 is missing, presumed dead, and his people are next to useless without him."

"And, as I understand, Jose Julia has pulled one of his famous disappearing acts," Mikhail says, pouring himself another shot.

"And we know what happened to poor Jomo and his agency, don't we?" Sir George says, shooting a significant look at Khalil. 

"That just leaves the Gavril person you spoke of," Khalil says, choosing to ignore the glare, at least for now: "Will he be joining us, then?"

"I am afraid the answer is no," Mikhail says, hitting a buzzer on the table to summon the upstairs waiter: "Gavril is also dead. But before he died, he gave to me much useful information. I would give this information to you, my friends. But first, we should drink."

"To his memory? Quite right-" Sir George begins to say, but has his speech halted by a large, red palm.

"To settle us in this place, in this moment," Mikhail corrects him: "To loosen our minds and let certain terrible things wash over us, rather than sweep us away."

"Then the rumors are true?" Dosha asks: "About Israel?"

Mikhail nods: "I have a horror story to tell you, this day. And I fear none of you will ever wish to meet again, after I tell you this thing. But I owe it to him to see that his last words are known, and heard, and understood by those who might be able to do something about this.

"As for whether you are willing, well," he shrugs, regarding the waiter as he appears at the edge of the curtain: "We shall see, yes?"

* * *

Three blocks away, in an alley that's best left deserted, Anil appears. He takes a look up and down the cramped, wet passage, and then navigates its trash and detritus until he comes to a locked metal door. 

He hesitates, just for a second. Then he bangs on it, three times, his eyes screwed shut as he does. 

The locks tumble and and unlock, and suddenly he finds he can turn the knob. He sighs, opens it, and goes into the darkened interior. 

Inside there's a room that's mostly empty, except for an orange crate, and a black, slim cell phone. He closes the door behind him, picks up the phone, and dials a number he wishes he didn't know.

"Where are they?" a raspy voice asks.

"Poke's," Anil says: "The second floor. The large private table."

"Very well," it answers him: "If this is true, our agreement stands."

"It is true. Please let her go. Please-"

"Once this matter is concluded, and not before," the voice insists: "You should understand that by now."

The phonecall goes dead. Anil puts the phone down. He weeps, for all the good it will do him.

But there's nothing he can do now but regret.   

(SPYGOD is listening to At Night (The Cure) and having the nastiest Russian vodka you never heard of)