The Age of Imago - June - Pt. 1

The next phase of the Imago's plan for Earth's betterment started slow, but quickly built up steam and speed.

Not long after the last sitting President of the United States of America fell to Earth, small groups of Imago visited every country in the so-called Third World. They floated down into their capitols like metal angels, with little or no notice, and asked to see their leaders as soon as possible. And while their ever-smiling faces may have been as pleasant-seeming when they asked, it was fairly clear that they meant business.

There was a steel behind their words: one not seen since the day they'd revealed themselves, and told those leaders exactly what to say to their people in the wake of what had happened.

Once the leaders were roused and made ready, the Imago began to ask them all sorts of questions, and gently -- but firmly -- made it clear that they needed exact answers. The topics they discussed seemed simple: various populations, their education levels, natural resources, infrastructure (or the sad lack thereof). They were also asked about certain social mores and customs, especially pertaining to their children.

What the Imago may have been planning was not made clear at that time. When they were satisfied, they looked at one another, smiled, and thanked the leaders for their coopperation. They promised to be in touch, shortly, as a new and exciting step would soon be taken to prepare the Earth for the danger to come.

One small thing, though: they were reworking the globe's communications networks, in preparation for the next step. They should tell their people that they could expect to experience small delays and connectivity issues on the internet. Nothing serious, of course -- it would soon be fixed, and all would be well, again. 

And then they were gone -- floating back up the way they'd came, or else teleporting away.

Within three days, after exasperatingly long interruptions in internet connectivity, the Imago returned, this time in droves. The skies over some countries seemed filled with metal-suited, smiling people, and when they descended to the ground the world seemed to shake with the weight of their presence.

The leaders were again given speeches. This time they were not telling their people to stay at home with their loved ones, and be calm. They were telling them to leave their things behind, assemble in their town squares and city centers, and meet with the Imago that were gathering there. They would be given further instructions, and they should comply with them, just as though they were hearing it directly from their leaders.

But not to worry! This was not a bad thing, and they were in no danger. The Imago had promised humanity a chance to work together to stave off the evil that was approaching the planet. Now, after a long period of preparations, that time had come, and while the new ways of living and doing might take some getting used to, in the end they would all be worth the occasional confusion and concern.

The great new world was about to be built, and humanity would build it together. The light the Imago had known for ages would soon be shared with the entire planet.

Soon we would all learn to soar.

Most leaders, understanding exactly what was happening, here, still did what they were told in the hopes of escaping what had happened to the American Presidents. A few resisted, but after what happened to them and their entire families -- right then and there, in front of everyone -- their assistants, advisers, and stand-ins were more than happy to get in front of the camera and read the scripts.

In return for their compliance, they were kept in their capitols and houses of government. They would, after all, be needed to give more pep talks and instructions as time went on.

But they would not be leaving, nor having any serious, unchaperoned conversations with any other leaders around the world. Those who had cooperated were told that they were under the protection of the Imago, in case the forward armies of the coming evil decided to harm them.

Those who had stepped in to take the places of those who had not cooperated didn't need to be lied to, but were instructed to relate that fiction to anyone who asked. The sorry fate of the deceased would be blamed on agents of those armies, as would all inconvenient and unfortunate demises from here on out.

And that was simply the way it would be. The future of the Planet Earth was at stake, and nothing less than cheerful and total obedience would be tolerated from here on out.

Humanity would soar, or be put to sleep.

* * *

And so the leaders -- old, new, and just-installed -- watched as the Imago quickly tore down and reassembled their countries.

They watched their people be led from their homes and their communities, and taken to high-tech, stark-white tent cities that had seemingly sprung up overnight. They observed as they were given time to acclimate themselves, and enjoy the luxuries and conveniences that these ultra-modern encampments had to offer. They witnessed them luxuriating in levels of comfort they'd only ever seen on someone else's television, and wonder how they'd ever not lived like this, before.

And then, over the next week, they gave pep talk after pep talk as the Imago showed those people the work they would be doing, and took all but the youngest of their children away.

Again, they were not to worry. They would be seeing their children soon, and be able to speak with them on a regular basis, over the internet. But the Imago were concerned that, with the darkness approaching, its forward armies would be targeting their means of production. As such, they may seek to harm Humanity's young ones in order to make their parents obey them, instead.

At the schools, the children would be nearby, and protected. They would be fed and cared for, and given a level of education that would stagger the imagination. They would come out of the ordeal stronger, smarter, and more intelligent than they would have otherwise.

And in the new world to come, they would be poised to take full advantage of the many wonderful things that their parents would be helping to build.

Anyone looking in from the outside would have wondered how any parent would have agreed to such a thing. But after a week in the new cities, almost all of them were willing to acknowledge that this was a good idea. It not only solved a serious problem, but would be good for their young ones. Who could say no?

(Those few who did not agree received special, private visits from the Imago, and their friends and neighbors were told that they'd not only agreed to the plan, but had gone to help oversee it.)

Before long, the work camps were assembled and put into full production, and the children were at their special schools, and communicating with their parents via once-a-week teleconferences. Their parents were happy to be working for such noble endeavors, and their children -- while seeming a little off in their responses, at times -- were happy and learning.

And if anyone cared to say otherwise, they didn't say it too loudly, or at least for too long.

One strange thing had been noticed, though: while internet speeds had gone back up to normal within the countries, any attempt to deal with sites whose servers were outside their borders had been slowed down quite a bit. And while they might have continued to email people outside their countries, and maintain friendships through social networking sites, the responses of people seemed a little odd at times -- somewhat stilted, or not quite what they'd been before.

But there was work to do, and shows to watch, and a newer, much better standard of living to enjoy. So they buckled down, worked on improving themselves, and learned to soar, instead.

* * *

Thus was the so-called Third World transformed, but over the rest of the planet nothing had really changed -- at least not that drastically. 

They went to work, earned and spent money, and watched their television on the internet. Their children went to school, studied, did homework, and also watched their television on the internet. The poor were cared for, the homeless housed, the mentally incompetent looked after, and all watched their television on the internet.

And their leaders got on their news sites -- or made quick commercials on their online shows -- and told them that everything was fine, and nothing was wrong, and soon they'd be seeing the great dividends that the Imago would be sharing with them. Everything was great, and anything that was not great would soon be looked into.

And, as always, their patience and cooperation was greatly appreciated.

In America, they had no such leaders to tell them anything. Instead, an Imago that some had come to call Green and Yellow would be one who spoke to them, and tailored her speech and idioms in such a way that she seemed to be addressing the entire nation as a friendly, older sister. She had fan clubs and admirers, and her posters were everywhere, and when she appeared in public people just couldn't get enough of her presence.

(People even wrote online erotica about her, usually with Hollywood stars or recalcitrant, young people who needed to be taken "in hand" with the new world. And so the phrase "let us soar" took on a whole new meaning, indeed.)

There had been some changes, of course. As their economies had been stabilized and corrected for post-3/15 deficiencies and variations, some things were now slightly cheaper or more expensive than they'd been before. But, since electric power was now free -- thanks to the Imago's strange technology -- and their vehicles gas-burning engines were eligible for free swap-out with ones that only needed refueling with tap water, the little inconsistencies were hardly worth worrying about.

The really odd thing was that the news coming from the non-industrialized spheres of the world seemed kind of samey and odd. Specific news about any of the countries in the Third World wasn't as rich and full as it had been, before, and internet conversations seemed off, and full of lag time. Certain products made overseas weren't as forthcoming as they used to be, and the only explanation anyone could give was "economic restructuring in the name of economic equity," which wasn't really the best answer, but couldn't really be argued with, either.

Besides, who really cared what went on in Bangladesh or Eritrea? The future of the world hadn't been in their hands before 3/15, and it sure as !@#$ wasn't going to change now.

* * *

There was also what had been going on in the schools.

Not long after the Imago had made themselves known, they'd moved into the schools, and started to "help" with the curriculum. Math and science requirements were made much more important, with social sciences -- especially history -- eased way back, and more emphasis placed on communications over literature. The pl;an seemed to be that, by the time one was in the last few grades of primary education, the day would be almost all mathematics, science and technology, and mass communications.

Every day, in every school, there was a pep talk given by an Imago. They would speak of the new world to come, and how the children would be helping to build it. They would lecture on the importance of keeping a positive attitude, a useful mind, and a desire to help themselves by helping others first. And they would exhort everyone to enjoy these years, and remember them, for in the ages to come -- once the threat to Earth had been repelled -- they would be able to tell their children, and grandchildren, that they had been the ones who'd made it possible. 

They would be the first ones to soar, and lead future generations by example. 

It sounded great, though some might have asked why history and humanities had taken a backseat. The answer was that, in the days ahead, it made more sense to prepare the young for science careers than anything else. Once Earth had been defended, and Humanity began to put together the exciting new world to come, there would be time for old deeds and great works. But for now, other things were more important.

Again, their patience and cooperation was greatly appreciated.

Not everyone agreed, of course. Some parents -- mostly American homeschoolers, who'd had their kids yanked away and put into schools against their will -- began to protest this state of events, and even went so far as to refuse to send their kids back unless certain guarantees were made. As was their wont, the Imago listened to what they had to say, and then told them no in such a way that, by the end of the conversation, there was no question that the parents had been wrong, and the Imago right, all along.

Still, anyone who remained reluctant to trust them was given special dispensation, in the end. They could keep their children home if they wanted, and teach them whatever they liked, so long as they completely divested themselves from all other services and advantages that the Imago had brought with them. Such as engines that ran on tap water, free health care and medicine, the new internet (which also included phone service, now), and, in some cases, the jobs one or both parents worked at.

Faced with such a choice, most parents relented. But a few remained adamant, packed their things, and went "off the grid." Some were already there, and were happy to return to it, and as they drove away, there was a sense that the Imago were somehow happy to see them go.

But why, no one wanted to speculate.

(SPYGOD is listening to Cathedral Oceans (John Foxx) and having an Almanac Extra Pale Ale)

The Age of Imago - March

At first, there was confusion, which was only to be expected. The trauma of seeing the beams coming down from the sky -- the last thing many people ever saw -- and hearing that their airports and planes had been vaporized by them was bad enough.

But then there was the additional shock of the aborted takeover to consider. Most people, when told that their governments were nearly overthrown, tend to react badly at best. So one could only imagine how they felt when they heard that every government around the world was almost overthrown, and then by whom.

The United States of America? Really?

Though many around the world always suspected that something like this might one day happen, given that country's tendencies towards enforcing global security with aircraft carriers, nuclear missiles, and The Flier, only a few of them ever believed that it really would. Such persons were often called cranks or paranoids, and not always without good reason.

But here were the new saviors of humanity, telling them that this was what had happened. Such was the power of their presence that even the most skeptical and suspicious of people, once they saw these "Imago," couldn't help but remember those days, so long ago, when the world was on fire with brightly-colored superheroes, and they all felt a lot safer for knowing they were there.

Looking at those costumes, and seeing those smiles, they felt that wave of nostalgia, and let themselves be drawn into trust.

And then, not long after the Imago spoke to the people, their own leaders came to speak to them. They confirmed what the newcomers had said: that daring and bloody attacks had taken place in their houses of government, and that, just before these deadly armies could carry out their final orders -- to kill their captives, one and all -- the Imago had come and saved them from death.

Their leaders went on to praise their new friends, and assure their people that things would be alright, now. As the Imago had said, a terrible danger was on its way, and the people of the world needed their help to stave it off. But they would receive that help, and soon.

They told their people to be calm, and be patient. They told them to return to their homes, and not give in to panic, or sow anarchy and chaos. They told them to go be with their friends and loved ones, and be assured that, in the days to come, while things might occasionally seem a little strange or fantastic, that was just the Imago's way of doing things.

They had accepted the help of the Imago, they said, and their people should be prepared to do the same.

Those were great and stirring speeches, to be sure. Many listeners would say that they'd never heard their leaders speak so eloquently, or assuredly. Some listeners were still a little uncertain, of course, but they were mostly ignored by the multitudes, who, feeling reprieved from the destruction of everything they ever knew, were willing to trust in their leaders, and their mysterious new friends.

What they couldn't know was that, except for a few minor variations from country to country, in order to give them local flavor, the speeches their leaders gave were exactly the same.

And they also couldn't know that, except for the most naive or trusting amongst them, their leaders all went home, held their families tight, and wept, knowing that they had been conquered.

And knowing that if they valued the lives of the people they had returned to, they would let no one know the truth.

* * *

That was the reality that most of the world went to bed with, that day. But, in the United States of America, things were quite different.

The people of that country heard the same worldwide speech from the Imago. But then, instead of hearing a speech from their President, they heard another speech from the Imago -- one aimed directly at them.

In that speech, they were told that, in spite of what had happened, and what their leaders had conspired to do, they would not be held accountable. How could they have really known what was going on in the White House basement, or the CIA's headquarters? To punish them would be unnecessarily cruel, and would not serve the cause of justice.

However, justice would need to be done, and America would need to regain its place in a world no longer run by money, or defined by who had the largest weapons. 

To that end, special tribunals would be convened by the Imago. The architects of the plot, and those who had been complicit in its carrying out, would be brought before the world and made to confess their crimes before it. Many of those who were found guilty would be set to work undoing their damage, but a harsh example would have to be made of the most guilty ones of all. 

Also, America would need to prove its willingness to reenter the world, and learn the value of nonviolence and trust. All private citizens who possessed firearms for purely self defense purposes, as oppose to those rural citizens who used them for hunting, would be required to hand them over to the local authorities within a few days time. The age of the privately held handgun was over.

Further, all so-called Strategic Talents were to turn themselves into the Imago for vetting and possible inclusion within the tribunals. No doubt, many of America's "super heroes" were innocent of any wrong-doing, but given the level of collusion between the country's intelligence community, the current Administration, and The COMPANY -- who no doubt knew what was going on -- these persons would need to step forward and prove their heroism at least one final time by telling the truth about what they knew.

There might be other, smaller issues that would crop up, of course. The Imago asked for patience and trust in these matters. While they appreciated that Americans were, perhaps quite rightfully, highly skeptical of their leaders and institutions, now was not a good time to be overly doubtful and suspicious. Now was a time for trust, reconciliation, and the pride of knowing that, in a few short years, Earth would be a better, finer place for their having weathered a few small inconveniences.

The world was ready to soar, and America would soon be flying right alongside them into the glorious new world to come.

* * *

The screams from down the windowless, cold prison block stopped as abruptly as they had begun. 

Myron had been awoken from his fitful sleep, a few minutes ago, to the sound of the cell block opening and closing, and two sets of heavy armor boots stomping down the concrete. Within seconds he was sitting straight up on his bunk, no longer even remotely asleep, and wondering if today was the day. 

His day.

He was in the exact middle of the block, and the Imago always came from the left, and then went back there. They came anywhere from twice to six times a day, and there were always two of them, and they almost always had a third person with them: one of those naked, sexless, skullfaced things that they used to replace people. 

And when they were done with what they'd come to do (which always involved a lot of panicky, painful screaming) and gone back to the left, the thing was wearing one of his fellow prisoners. 

And smiling wide at nothing, like an idiot. 

He'd been here a week. In that time, this scene had played out about two dozen times. After the first few times, he'd realized what was going on, and why he was here. A few more times after that, he'd looked for some way to escape, but realized that the lack of exterior windows, the high possibility that they were underground, and the electronic sophistication of the rolling, barred doors of the cell made busting out without tools or weapons something of an mugs game.  And once he'd understood that, he'd made as much peace with his God as he could, and was ready for the moment when it came.

But that still didn't stop the fear. He knew what these people were using, and if it was anything like the N-Machines SPYGOD warned him about, he knew that it was one of the most painful ways to die, ever. Worse than having your skin scraped off by cheese graters and drowned in lemon juice, he'd said.

(Of course, SPYGOD said lots. That's why Myron was here, now.)

So he'd sat still, back to the wall, and waited for the telltale sound of the boots slowing down as they approached his cell. CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP, closer and closer...

And then they'd passed on by. 

The person across from him picked that moment to start crying, again. He was someone from the other Company, so far as Myron could get out of him. He was still playing it close to the chest, even here, even after being told what happened to the person who was in his cell before him. 

There were a lot of intelligence people, here, Myron noted. NSA, CIA, DIA. Even a couple of COMPANY Agents who were transferred in after the assassination. Of course, they were all happy to insist that they didn't belong here, and had done nothing. 

(Everyone else told them to shut the !@#$ up.)

There was also Colonel Richter, though he was a couple cells down to the right and across the way, which made talking to him kind of difficult. Every so often they'd peer out of the bars as much as they could and hand-signal to one another, COMPANY-style. But Richter hadn't kept up with the classes, and it showed, which turned such attempts at communication into sorry rounds of charades after a while.

For a moment, Myron had felt panic, and wondered if today was his day, instead. But the CLOMP CLOMP CLOMP had gone on, past Richter's cell, and then stopped at its final destination.

"Oh God, no," the condemned had said as they rolled the cell doors open: "Please, not me. I didn't do anything. I wasn't involved in anything more than signals intelligence. Please!"

Then the screaming had started, and the weird thrumming noise, and the bright, pulsing light from down the cell block. And once it was done, and their weird, post-Embracing catechism said, the door had opened back up again, and now they were marching back. 

The formerly naked thing was now a man in his mid-forties, dressed in the orange jumpsuit they were all wearing, and smiling like he'd just heard the best joke in the world. 

"Here comes a candle to light you to bed," Myron whispered: "Here comes a chopper to chop off your head."

* * *

"Well, it's really simple, Mr. President," the skeedy little fellow says to him, handing over a large stack of papers and putting it on the Resolute Desk: "The fact is that you may not have been entirely privy to what was going on, given the high level of secrecy that it involved. But you had to have known that something was up. These papers are that something."

The President sighs, looks at them, and pointedly refuses to even touch them: "What sort of something?"

"Dates, meetings, little hints. We tried to be thorough. You don't have remember all these things, of course. In fact it'd be better if you didn't. If it sounds like you're reading off of a laundry list then it'll look like a Soviet show trial, and that'll just throw the whole show-"

"I thought I was going to be put on trial."

"You are," the fellow says, leaning back in his chair and looking around the Oval Office. Anything of worth or value had been taken from it, as well as the entire White House. All that was left was secondhand furniture and the President's desk, as well as one of the couches, which they let the President sleep on. 

"Then why the !@#$ are you !@#$ing telling me to lie on the !@#$ing stand?" the President asks, wishing for the hundredth time in what seemed twice as many days (but had really only been about ten or so) that he could have a beer: "I never heard of any !@#$ plot. If there had been a plot, the President would have told me. And I'd have told him to stick it and I'd have !@#$ing quit right then and there."

"You know, I think you're not getting it," the fellow sighs: "I'm trying to help you out, here."

"By making me complicit in a crime that I didn't do?"

"By saving your legacy, Mr. President," he explains, leaning forward: "This is the way it goes down. We need a villain. We need someone we can pin this whole thing on. That person, for better or worse, was your predecessor. But he's dead."

"How about the !@#$hole at the CIA?" the President shouts, getting to his feet: "That's what you're saying, isn't it? The whole global takeover thing was his doing! He arranged it, he armed them, and we had no !@#$ing idea. Put him on trial!"

"Sit down, sir," the skeedy fellow says. Something about how he says it (or maybe the fact that there are Imago just outside the door) makes the President's knees buckle, and then he complies

"Now, let me back the train up for you a bit, Mr. President," the man says, leaning back and talking with his hands: "Yes, the Director of the CIA is entirely complicit in what happened. But he was just the action man, making it happen. He didn't engage in this all by his lonesome. There was a far-reaching plot to seize the world's mineral wealth, and it's been in the White House armory for some time, just waiting for someone to use it."

"That's bull!@#$-"

"No, sir, it is not. I am sorry to say that this plan existed. It was authored by one of the previous Administrations' people, as a thought exercise as to what to do if peak oil was about to come, and a viable alternative to fossil fuels had not yet been found. Depending on the global political and economic situation, this could have tipped the balance of power away from America, and possibly towards the Soviets, or whatever might have replaced them."

"So you're saying that my President..." the President says, eyes tearing up: "One of the finest men I've ever known? You're saying that he found this plan, and handed it over to that !@#$hole from Langley, and they put it into motion without telling me?"

"That's what you're going to be saying, Mr. President," the man says, patting the pile of paper: "And the good news is that, once we've dealt with and sentenced the f-hole from Langley, as you put it, your partial guilt in things, and willingness to explain everything, will probably mollify the world enough that we won't have to make a terrible example out of you. And you can go to your fate knowing that history will be relatively kind. You'll sort of be like Ford to his Nixon, only on a larger, more devious scale."

"And what if I refuse?" the President asks: "What if I say !@#$ you, here and now, and say nothing more?"

"Then you really don't understand what else I mean by legacy, Mr. President," the man says, getting up from the chair and leaning over the desk: "You have children, and they have children. Would you like those grandchildren to live long enough to have children of their own?"

The President just stares.

"We've taken your wife from you. Please let this be all we take. Let us show you this much mercy, Mr. President. Let us help you sleep."

"You're monsters," the President says, looking down at the desk he never ever wanted to sit behind.

"We are necessary," the man says, turning to leave: "Help us to help you, and in return we will see that your legacy soars, even if you will not be there to see it."

And the skeedy man leaves the President to his sobbing and regrets, knowing that he will do anything to save his loved ones when the trials begin, next month. 

(SPYGOD is listening to (S)Crapage (Front 242) and having an Applehead)

The Age of Imago - First Words

O peoples of the Earth, hear us.

We send this to all the people of the world,

in all ways you speak to each other,

so there will be no confusion, no misunderstanding.

No mistake.

We are the Imago.

You do not remember us, but we remember you.

For once we lived amongst you, as good friends in need

We helped you in times of peril, and guided in times of trial,

In times past.

But then, after an era, we had to leave you

We wished we could stay, but had to leave.  

And since then we have walked beside you in time and space,

like brothers and sisters, unseen by all.

Until now.

We have been happy to merely watch

as you rise to the light we gained so long ago.

And we would have been happy to stay unseen,

but for a great evil that was worked upon you.

From within.

For some time, a rogue nation has planned an evil thing.

It has planned to conquer you and control you.

It conspired to take your freedom and wealth

so that they could prosper from your hard work.

And your oil.

For oil, your lives were all made forfeit.

For oil, your fates were thrown like dice.

For oil, your leaders were to be slain, and your governments toppled

For oil, your armies would be stamped flat onto the ground.

All for oil.

For oil, which will soon run dry, these plans were laid.

An army for each nation, there to kill your leaders.

They struck on this day, well armed and with orders

To kill and control, and sow panic and fear

For America. 

We learned of this plot too late to stop it.

This is our shame, to bear for all time.

And we acted too late to stop the chaos and death.

This is also our shame, to bear for all time.

Forgive us.

But we are here now, O peoples of Earth.

We are here now, in our legions, to help you rebuild.

We are here to staunch your blood and salve your wounds.

We are here to protect you, to save you, to guide you.

We are here.

For a new threat is coming, O peoples of Earth

A great and horrid thing from beyond space and time

As you hear us now, it comes for this world,

And will not stop until it has come and gone.

And destroyed.

Once, at your best, you may have fought it and lived.

With your space rays and your bombs, you could have yet won.

With your heroes and your powers, you may have seen it off

With courage and force, you could have been victors.

Just perhaps.

But now, O peoples of Earth, you have nothing left.

Your space weapons are dust, and with them your safety.

Your missiles and aircraft are melted, your heroes dead or missing.

Your once great defenses can no longer save you.

Only us.

We, the Imago, have returned to save you.

We will save you from the threat that comes from outer space

And we will save you from the danger you pose you yourselves.

No more rogue states, no more tyrants, no more oil wars.

No more threats.

The days to come will be hard at times.

There will be a new way of living and doing.

We will ask things of you that you might not understand.

But we ask for your faith, and to know that we care.

Please trust us.

There will also be justice, at long last.

Those who sought to destroy will be made to confess.

You will all know the truth, though it may be hard to hear.

Ambition's debt will be repaid, and justice be done.

This we swear. 

After those hard days will be good days indeed.

We will work with your leaders on a great new world.

A world with no war, no poverty, no want.

A world where work will be given, and well rewarded. 

Your new world.

As one people, we will rebuild the Earth.

We will raise great new cities, and make great new lives.

We will show you things you did not think were real. 

We will bring you to the light we have known for so long.

Together.

We are the Imago, and we have returned!

Rejoice, O Peoples of Earth, for you are now free.

We shall raise you above the heavens you seek,

And deliver you from the evils you fear.

Let us soar. 

(SPYGOD is listening to Crushed (Front 242) and having more of the radioactive mare's milk. So should you.)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 10

 "(REDACTED), I know you can hear me," the President says into the CIA Director's voicemail: "Pick up the !@#$ing phone, okay? We're under attack, the whole world's gone to !@#$, and someone's coming into the White House basement. No flier, no COMPANY, no nothing. If you've got answers-"

The line goes dead, just then. He signs and puts Col. Richter's phone down on a nearby table: "Well, so much for that."

"Can we do anything else?" the First Lady asks.

"Wanna order pizza?" He'd asked, pointing back to the phone: "I bet it'll take more than thirty minutes. Might get it for free this time."

"Oh, that's what I love about you," the First Lady says, standing up and putting her hand on his shoulder: "All the world's falling apart, and you can still make jokes."

"Sorry, hon," he says, putting up his hands: "It's what I do."

"I know. I wasn't complaining. I was just telling you that it's a good thing."

"Well, I'd hope you'd think it was a good thing by now..." he smiles, putting a hand around her leg: "Still glad you married me?"

"Always," she says: "You are a good man, Mr. President. You will have a lot to offer the world in the days to come."

Something about how she says that bothers him, just a little. He's about to say something when the doors to the saferoom open, revealing Colonel Richter, a man in dark sunglasses who must be that Myron fellow, and a number of COMPANY Agents. There's a strong sense of urgency about them, but they seem to be somewhat relieved.

"Sir, we've got an escape plan for you and the First Lady-" Richter begins to say, but suddenly Myron shouts and draws a gun on the President.

A Secret Service Agent immediately hurls himself at the man, who starts shouting something that's hard to understand past the fists and feet launched at his face, knocking his dark sunglasses off.

More Secret Service Agents rush to either protect the President or pile on Myron.

The COMPANY Agents run into the melee to pull the other Agents off the man who saved them from the Specials back at the Heptagon.

And before Colonel Richter can tell his people to back the !@#$ off and let these men and women protect the President, he looks over at the First Couple and realizes that something is wrong.

The President looks bewildered, as usual, but the First Lady is smiling -- a smile he really does not like.

And then the air is filled with flashes of light and sudden motion, and the saferoom proves to no longer be safe at all.

Something terrible has been waiting for them, here, all along.

* * *

The insectile carrier that was once The Flier -- still changing its shape and configuration in mid-air -- hovers over a patch of the Pacific Ocean, not too far from the last battle that the COMPANY engaged in with GORGON.

There's nothing here to mark that momentous occasion, of course. The principal players both left the field not long thereafter, and their dead were swallowed up by the deep. Any lost weapons or wounded machines fell down to the punishing depths of the ocean floor, there to be crushed by the depths and picked over by what few scavengers can thrive in such extreme environments.

Hundreds of such rude cenotaphs litter the dark, hidden depths of the ocean -- cold and mute testament to the ferocious battles that happen on, above, or just under its surface. Down in the eternal, crushing black, they form the only memorials those lost to such conflagrations can ever have. 

But as the giant, metal butterfly that was the Flier hovers high above the water, a strange, circular perturbation on its surface would seem to indicate that something is being returned to the light.

The ocean surface roils and bubbles, and the circumference of the disturbance increases almost exponentially. Within minutes it is a full five miles across, and still growing. And from the vantage point of the Flier, it is possible to see the faintest hints of whatever is causing the phenomenon as it approaches the boiling surface.

Something vast and dark, and swiftly ascending. 

With the crashing of mighty waves, that something breaks through into the air. Something that has been under the surface of the Pacific for untold aeons. Something that has not been seen by unaided eyes before today.

Something alien, yet oddly familiar. 

A massive agglomeration of dark, stone towers -- built with giant, perfectly-cut bricks in the manner of the Mayan temples of old -- reaches for the heavens. It appears to be a city: one made for what may have been giants, or beings for whom cyclopean architecture was the norm. And as it rises and rises in what seems an unending train of black stone spires and platforms, the circumference widens out to ten miles, then twenty, then fifty...

At some point, its rate of ascent slows, and then stops -- just a scant ten feet from the keel of the Flier. Sea spray steams in the heat of the Sun, and strange, deep-sea creatures that had no business existing more than a single fathom beyond their normal habitat explode in the sudden change of pressure. 

For a moment or two, the city and the Flier are content to behold one another. And then something swift-moving and dangerous-looking all but erupts from the newly-risen metropolis, and hurtles towards the Flier with strange intent.

It is a Deros, clearly. And as it streaks towards the Flier, the bottom of the aircraft shudders twice, and then opens wide in order to accommodate it. Large, strange mechanisms unfold from the hole in its belly, clearly intending to provide a welcome mat for the creature.

At the sight of its landing pad, the metal beast curlicues and goes into a spiral, slowing its trajectory just enough to avoid crashing into the Flier. And then, just as it seems to have burned up all its forward momentum, it slides into the underside of the aircraft -- effectively docking with the devices that came out of it.

The Deros tightens its curves, becoming a ball, and begins a spinning motion that creates light, heat, and energy seemingly powerful enough to rival the Sun. The surrounding area is bathed with a bright, radiant light -- one that burns off whatever moisture and damp remained outside the formerly-sunken city, and then vanishes as the Flier pulls the containing machines back into itself.

Then the Flier lights up -- a brilliant, shining butterfly just above the new, dark island.

 * * *

When Second comes to, moments after the conversion is over, he is aware of three things.

The first is that he's no longer in engineering, nor anywhere near it so far as he can tell. The bulkhead he grabbed onto clearly moved several areas away. That one, he was kind of expecting.

The second is that those few Agents who survived along with him have been surrounded by even more Specials, some of which are teleporting in. They seem content to simply guard their captives for the moment, but it's anyone's guess as to when they'll start shooting, instead.

In fact, one stands right by Second's head, pointing the business end of a gauss gun between his eyes. There's no look on his face, but if there were it'd be him all but daring Second to not to drop the pistol in his hand.

(Second does, ever so slowly, but not in such a way so as to not have it back in hand within a moment.)

The third is that something new has entered the equation.

Teleporting in along with the new Specials are beings in colorful, gleaming armor and long, flowing capes. They move gracefully, compared to their heavier brethren, and where the Specials are anonymous behind their armored, blank visages, these ones bare bright and smiling faces to the world around them.

In a way, these newcomers remind Second of the over-the-top sueprheroes of the 70's. The ones who rewrote the book on how strategic talents operated. The ones who built Deep Ten -- Wonderwall, back then -- along with numerous other astounding creations.

The ones who gradually disappeared in the decades afterwards, leaving only fading echoes of themselves and the occasional, re-purposed artifact in their wake. 

Something in their mix of bright color, and the exaggerated lines of their armor, tickles the more nostalgic parts of Second's mind. And for a moment -- however brief -- he could almost believe that those lost heroes have returned, somehow. He could find himself entertaining the fleeing notion that this has all been some massive mistake, and now they're going to help clear it all up.

For a moment, anyway.

But these newcomers are not them. They can't be.

The supergods of the 70's were otherworldly but comforting, somehow filling our need to believe in benevolent higher powers. They were the kind of august entities that might save the entire world with powers beyond imagining, and then take the time to gently rescue a small kitten from a tree. 

These new beings may be similarly dressed, but there's something sinister about them. Their gleaming, colored metal costumes seem so exaggerated as to be caricatures. And their smiles are so desperate for love that they seem broken -- predatory, even.

Indeed, those smiles remind him of a photo he saw of a career pedophile: a human monster who'd abused hundreds of children. His smile was wide and disarming, but somewhere between the lips and the eyes the illusion broke down, and it became not a sign of trust, but a hunter's leer.

And when one of the newcomers' leers is focused on him, he throws caution to the wind and picks his pistol back up, aiming it at the green and yellow, female thing that's languidly walking towards him.

(He doesn't seem to care that the Special beside him's cocked the gun that's aimed at his forehead.)

"Oh, you must be confused and scared," the thing says, walking closer in spite of the pistol aimed at her: "Your world has changed around you. Things are no longer what they were. You think you need to reassert control over it, but there's really no need. From this moment forward, we will take care of you."

"Who... what are you?" he asks, realizing that the pistol has only got a couple shots in it. Maybe just one.

"We are the Imago," she says as the Specials behind her start pulling Agents to their feet and roughly immobilizing them: "And we have come to save you."

"I can see that," he says: "Tell your friend to back off or I'll shoot."

She looks to the Special, who slowly takes the gun from Second's head and moves a few respectful steps back. Not fast enough for his liking, but it's a start.

"Are you in league with GORGON?" he says, figuring he knows the answer, anyway, but might as well get what intelligence he can.

"GORGON no longer exists," she says: "The caterpillar has emerged from the cocoon. A new day has dawned, (REDACTED). And you will be a part of it."

"I don't !@#$ing think so," he says, cocking his pistol at her: "Let my people go or I'll shoot."

"You misunderstand my role in things," she explains, holding her ground: "I am not in control, here. I am merely a part of the greater whole. If you shoot me, others will come in my place. And you only have so many shots in that gun."

He's about to ask her another question when he hears a cry for help from down the hall. An Agent who was badly wounded in the fight is crawling along the floor, trying to get away from the Special who's walking behind her.

(New Agent, just shuffled in from the FBI. He's admired her bright blue eyes, but hadn't caught her name, yet.)

Before he can say or do anything, a number of teleports occur in the hallway -- all of them False Faces. One appears just behind her, not far from the Special, and kneels down to take her around the head with its long, anonymous fingers.

As soon as it's touching both temples with either index finger, the Agent screams, and the two light up in a rush of strange, pulsing energy. The pulsing is equal between the two at first, but soon favors the False Face. And as Second watches the Agent's body withers, turns grey, and collapses into flakes, powder, and fragments of bone.

The False Face stands up again, its body changing to match that of the Agent it just absorbed. The horrible, exposed skull is the last to change: flickering like a television set, and then resolving with her face.

It -- now she -- looks over at Second and smiles, and the baleful, metal eyes behind the projected skin change to a beautiful blue.

"My name is Leila Winters," she says: "COMPANY Agent, tactical section. I am ready to soar."

"Are you ready to soar, (REDACTED)?" The Imago asks Second -- her smile is the genius of languid evil.

"!@#$ you," he mutters, twisting around to shoot the Special guarding him in the crotch -- blowing him into three pieces --  and then pivoting to shoot her dead-bang in the face.

The blast hits her right in the nose, but to no avail. The energy simply slides around her like water, and doesn't so much as alter her complexion, much less her expression.

"Oh, that's excellent," she says as the last wisps of what should have just taken her head off dissipate around her: "We are looking forward to adding your passion and dedication to our new world."

"Like !@#$," he shouts, scrambling to his feet and dodging around the twitching remnants of the Special. He can hear Agents screaming behind him -- absorbed into waiting False Faces -- but there's nothing he can do for them, now. His options are as slim as his gun is empty, and as he flings it behind him he hopes the !@#$ chokes on it.

However, he doesn't get five strides into his headlong flight before the Imago teleports right in front of him. He only has a moment to realize what's happened -- and be amazed by this -- before she slaps him across the face.

It would seem to any onlooker that she gave him a gentle, effortless blow. But it hits like a sledgehammer to the skull -- all but caving in the left side of his face and knocking him up against the wall.

His head lolling on a broken neck, face shattered, eyes half-popped out of their sockets, Second collapses to the floor, gasping for breath in a mouth full of blood and broken teeth.

"I am so sorry to hear how reluctant you are to join in this effort, (REDACTED)," she says, slowly advancing on him: "But you will join us. Sooner or later, one way or the other."

It's to Second's eternal credit that, even blind and broken, he still tries to get up and run. That he fails -- unable to move anything below his navel -- is no blemish upon his effort. And when a False Face teleports in beside him, and starts to kneel down to do what it came here for, he could be excused for simply giving in.

But he still has control of his arms and hands. And he still has one last weapon to use.

"No surrender," he gurgles through blood as the sexless, skull-faced creature takes his crushed, bloody head in its hands: "Not to you."

He pulls at his belt buckle and pushes it up and to the side. A light comes on in the exposed circuitry behind it. A high, shrill beeping begins.

The Imago realizes what this means, and teleports right on top of him, knocking the False Face roughly across the room to try and stop what's about to happen.

Too late.

The white phosphorous explosion rocks that section of what used to be the Flier. The quadrant is all but obliterated, killing both False Faces and Agents in mid-Embrace with a rushing wave of white heat. Stress fractures begin to appear all over the stricken aircraft as bulkheads go molten and collapse in on themselves.

Within seconds of the explosion, it seems almost assured that the insectile aircraft will burst open and fall into the city that just erupted from the Ocean. But just then, the nanostreams that reworked the ship from top to bottom kick into action, and before too long the ship is being repaired on the molecular level. Burn damage is reversed, systems are put back together again, and whatever was put out of shape is quickly molded back into place.

Before long, all that's left to mark the passing of Second is the Imago who oversaw his last moments -- clearly undamaged by the blast -- standing right by where he detonated himself. There isn't even burned smell in the air, much less a single scorch mark on the wall.

"We have failed, leader," she says: "(REDACTED) is lost to us."

No matter, says a wet, feminine voice in her head: We have the entirety of their knowledge within us, now. What we have lost with him, we will regain with others. You have done well. Carry on.

"Thank you," she says, and teleports somewhere else, hoping to make up for what she still sees as a failure somewhere along the line.

And knowing she'll have many chances to to do so in the brilliant days to come.

* * *

"I applaud your passion, Daniel Richter," the red and blue armored man is saying as the Colonel tries to get to his feet and protect the President: "You are a good man. You have done good things for your country."

"I'll show you good..." he hisses, but can't get up. The armored hands holding him down are too strong, and come just within an ounce of breaking his shoulderblades like pretzel sticks.

"You struggle for no purpose," one of the ones holding him down says: "I assure you we have no plans to harm this man."

"Tell that to his wife, you !@#$er," Myron, also held down, retorts through a smashed-up face: "How long? Huh? How long has she been dead?"

The skull-faced abomination wearing the body of the First Lady looks at him with what might be pity or regret: "I am not dead, Myron. I have been Embraced."

"You'll pardon me if I can't see the !@#$ing difference," Myron spits, his mouth and nose dribbling blood.

"I am one with Imago in flesh, spirit, and purpose. This is not death. This is something entirely different."

The President, meanwhile, doesn't know what to say. Surrounded by smiling men and women in brightly-colored armor, all of whom have made it clear that he's free to do everything but leave this saferoom, he's realized -- all too late -- that this is the end of everything he's ever known.

"You too?" he finally says to what he thought was his wife. The way she looks back at him makes him look away. 

The Red and Blue Imago kneels down and picks up the broken sunglasses that Myron had been wearing when he came into the room: "A very ingenious design," he says.

"The specs are already going out all over the internet," Myron lies: "I hope you know that. You aren't going to take us over without a fight."

"There will be no fight," the First Lady says: "You were given no opportunity. Nothing was left to chance."

"We have taken the world in our hands," another Imago says: "From this moment onward, you will be ruled."

"Like !@#$," the President says: "You're underestimating America. You're underestimating the whole !@#$ing world. We will fight you. You will you lose."

"And how will you do that?" the Red and Blue Imago asks, crushing the glasses in his gauntlet: "We control Deep Ten. Your ability to make war on us is nonexistent. Your Strategic Talents have been neutralized. Your leaders will soon sing our praises and convince their citizens that ours is the greater good."

"They will be well fed and cared for," the First Lady insists: "Occupied and content. Safe from petty tyrannies and their accompanying tortures, protected from the worst things life could offer."

"They will have the illusion of liberty," Red and Blue says: "And with just enough freedom and enfranchisement to feel as though nothing is missing, and everything is in order."

"And within one generation, they will know nothing else but what we tell them," the First Lady says: "We have won."

"Humanity is never as magnificent as when they've got an enemy to fight," the President declares, rising to his feet and looking the Red and Blue man square in the face: "And you just elected to put yourselves in the crosshairs, you stupid son of a !@#$. Good luck holding onto it-"

"Oh, we agree," the Imago says, putting his hands on the President's shoulders: "And we have given them that enemy. You."

"What?" the President stammers.

"You, Mr. President, will be the enemy of the world," he says: "Ambition's debt shall be repaid."

"I don't.... I..." the President stammers, and then winces as Red and Blue 'gently' puts him back down in his chair -- all but breaking his clavicle as he does.

"You will soon learn what we mean," Red and Blue says, looking around the room at any non-GORGON personnel that remain. 

Myron and Richter look at one another. Now would be a great moment for one or the other to pull out some kind of last-minute save, or at least find a way to take a number of them out with them. But a look in each others' eyes reveals the sad truth.

They have !@#$ing nothing. 

"I really hated working with you," Richter says to Myron: "You talk too much."

"Likewise," Myron says to Richter: "You are suck a !@#$ing dick."

And they both half-smile, expecting to be executed at any moment. But that moment never quite comes.

They just wish, later, that it had. 

(SPYGOD is listening to The Eternal (Joy Division) and having a Shakespeare Stout)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 9

When the walls of the President's sub-level saferoom start to vibrate, Colonel Richter's first thought is that the enemy has started another wave of particle cannon strikes. But when it isn't accompanied by the sound of people screaming in panic, upstairs, and the vibration turns to shaking, he realizes that this is something entirely new.

"Sir, something's coming through the East access tunnel!" he hears a Secret Service agent shout. He immediately draws his weapon, orders that the door to the saferoom be sealed behind him, and charges out into the main area and towards the tunnel in question. Before long, he's got a large group of Agents behind him, toting submachine guns and everything they had left in the armory towards what is doubtlessly -- at least in his mind -- a beachhead of some kind.

"What do we know?" he asks the Agent who shouted.

"Just that it's big and metal and is going through the tunnel like it's construction paper, sir."

"That's never any !@#$ing good," he remarks: "Get ready to move the President and First Lady to the second fallback position. Have the football..."

He stops himself. No reason to bring the football, anymore, is there? It's a whole new game, now.

And, god!@#$ him, he's the one who gets to figure out the rules.

Once they get to the tunnel, he can see that the Agent wasn't kidding. The reinforced concrete structure has begun to collapse in on itself as something large and mechanical, which clearly finished rumbling out of one wall, goes right into the other. It gets as far as it needs to in order to have its rear sticking out into the tunnel, and then quakes to a halt, hydraulics hissing and gears winding down.

"No firing until I give the word!" he orders, hoping he knows what this is, but all too ready to commit to action if he's wrong.

A large, rear hatch opens up. All the Agents cock their weapons and take aim.

A long metal probe with a white sock attached to it comes out the hatch and waves a few times. 

"Sir?' an Agent says, and Richter scowls, putting his weapon down.

"Hold your fire," he says, stepping forward past the firing line and heading for the machine: "I think I know who the !@#$ this is."

A COMPANY Agent pokes his head out and waves the flag some more: "Please, please do not shoot me," he begs.

"Is Myron with you?" Richter asks.

"Yes, Myron is with them," Myron answers, walking past the agent with the white flag and easing himself off the back of the drill tank and onto the floor: "Sorry about the mess, Colonel. I couldn't risk coming up the front lawn. I might have been seen."

"What the !@#$ is going on out there?"

"Hang on a moment," Myron says, taking his They Live sunglasses out and putting them on.

"This is not the time to relive the 80's, Mr. Prison Warden," Richter says.

"Sorry, just have to be sure," Myron says, looking at Richter and then back down the hallway, at the Secret Service Agents. Once he's sure, he puts them back up onto his head.

"Sure of what?"

"Colonel, we have big problems. We've been infiltrated."

"By whom?" Richter asks, leaning in close so they won't be overheard.

"GORGON," Myron whispers.

"You have to be !@#$ing me-"

"I wish I were," Myron shushes him: "Those Specials that have popped up everywhere since New Man took control of the COMPANY? They're all False Faces, sir. And they're not the only ones. They got Dr. Yesterday, too, and who knows what all he's gotten his hands on."

"You're certain?"

"I wish I wasn't. I made him the other day when he was installing the anti-SPYGOD field in the Heptagon. Now I found a way to disable them and used it after they started zapping us from orbit. I think it's Deep Ten, and-"

"Every air base, every airport, every nuclear silo and submarine," Richter says, putting a hand on Myron's shoulder: "We think they got Kennedy Space Center, too. And I'm getting reports that any armed birds we had in the air got picked off."

Myron scowls, twists up his lips, then looks askance: "So we couldn't fight back. Nothing to launch."

"Yeah, but why the fighter planes? It's not like they can fly into !@#$ing outer space and shoot it out with them, and even if they could, they'd be toast before they got to the Moon."

"Where's the Flier?" Myron asks: "And who's in charge of it?"

"I haven't had any contact with them since this all went down. And I think it might be worldwide, too. There were reports of coups and revolutions around the planet, but there's an intelligence blackout, and we have no !@#$ing idea what's happened."

"'Beware the Ides of March,'" Myron quotes.

"What's that?"

"Nothing, sir. How's Congress?"

"No word of an attack."

"And the President's safe?"

"For now."

"Well, how's this for a plan?" Myron says: "We get you, me, and some Agents we can trust into the drill tank, put the President in there, and get him the !@#$ out of here before they show up."

"I think that's a good plan," he says: "What about Congress?"

"Oh, !@#$ them," Myron says with a dismissive wave of his hand: "Let them obstruct their way out of this one."

"Okay," Richter says, watching the last of the COMPANY Agents clown-car their way out of the drill tank: "Has this thing got a bathroom?"

"No, and the coffee maker isn't even working. But I can get us to Dallas in about ten hours."

"Why Dallas?"

"Last place they'd look for the President...?"

Richter nods, claps Myron on the shoulder, and quickly leads him back to where they left the President. It might not be the best plan in the world, but !@#$ it -- it's a plan, and it's better than the one he had just five minutes ago.

Hopefully they've got the time to make this work.

* * *

In the Flier's secondary control room, in front of the shifting, floating arrays of 3-D controls, The Dragon unfolds. 

His head splits in half from the neck up, and both halves of his skull move a full six inches away from each other.

Numeral small, long, metal tentacles telescope out of that space, extending in all directions like a strange, punk rock hairstyle made of steel snakes.

Some of the snakes extend towards the open ports on the control projectors, and link up with the Fliers' computer systems. Others form a strange antenna of sorts, sending and receiving information from an as-yet-unseen source.

His eyes sink into their sockets and are replaced by even more tentacles -- smaller, lit-up ones that squirm and writhe in the air like aquatic creatures in an unseen current. They project images in the air: the secret leaders of GORGON, now entered into mental communication as the final moments of their plan come together at last.

 Love is all you need, The Dragon intones, so joyful to be able to reveal his true self at last.

Love is all you need, says Dr. Yesterday from deep within the Ice Palace, as his part of the plan goes like clockwork

Love is all you need, says the Director of the CIA, observing the final movements in what he's been tasked to do, and hoping the barricade on his office door holds.

Love is all you need, says Director Straffer, holding steady with no further targets at this time.

Love is all you need, their hidden leader finishes, her voice strangely wet and hollow: You have all done very well. The cocoon is emptying, the butterfly emerges, and the new world we have worked towards for so long is almost upon us.

We live to serve, they all say in unison.

And you have served well. This would never have happened without all your efforts. I thank you all for your service, sacrifice, and hard work. 

We live to serve, they repeat, proud of what they have done.

Now comes the true transformation, she says: You know what you each must do. Are you all ready for what comes next? Are you prepared for further work towards the goal? Are you ready to sacrifice?

We live to serve, they repeat (some more readily than others).


Then we can begin, she says: I love you all so very much. I wish there was not the need for pain, now. But remember that what you do, you do for tomorrow. The caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar.

We are ready to sleep, some of them say. 

We are prepared to soar, others respond. 

Then be on your way, my loves, their leader says: Dragon, the next step is yours.

I am prepared to soar, he says, crying in joy once again.

And then he executes the program he just finished uploading. 

* * * 

The first intimation that Second gets concerning the doomed nature of the plan is how the Specials they're advancing on, in the Engineering deck, suddenly stop firing and grab onto well-secured bulkheads. For a moment he wonders if maybe they're going to open the exterior hatches and try to flush them out in midair, but then he feels a strange, static charge building on the floor plates, and he realizes what's about to happen.

"Grab onto something!" he screams: "The Flier's about to shift!"

Every long-time Agent in the room knows exactly what that means, and immediately run to mirror their opponents' actions. The ones who were just shuffled in aren't quite so quick on the uptake, though, and that's why they die horribly after the next three and a half seconds.

The last time this happened, the Flier was fixed -- or so they thought -- in midair. The nanite swarms that rebuilt the Flier after its apocalyptic battle with the Legion's Skull were reactivated and put to work making the great machine work perfectly again, only to come back to life partway through the battle and jam up almost all systems. Since then they've been asleep, and all repairs have been handled manually, so as to not rouse the potentially dangerous mini-machines.

This time, the Flier is not so much fixed or rebuilt as recreated. The decks melt and coalesce into one another. Rooms are picked up and moved elsewhere. Weapon platforms are switched around, engines are repositioned, and the control deck is slid up to the very top of what is becoming a very insectile war machine.

Anyone who was hanging onto a bulkhead for dear life was lucky enough to spend up to ten nightmarish seconds of having their well-regulated world turned upside down, sideways, and inside out as everything around it shifted in position and molecular structure. Anyone who failed to heed the warning was most likely swallowed up by suddenly-porous metal and plastic, and ultimately !@#$ out the bottom or sides of the Flier like so much garbage.

And as for those who were lucky enough to grab onto something solid, there's still the issue of having all the air sucked out of the ship, and dealing with the sudden drop in temperature. Second tries to hold his breath for as long as he can, but when he starts blacking out and the ship hasn't stopped moving yet, it's all he can do to hook his feet into the bulkhead's emergency bars and hope he doesn't slip away.

He looks back down the hall and realizes he can't see New Man, anymore. Is he alive or dead? He can't be sure.

"Not like this..." he grunts, realizing that he's seeing more black than light, right now: "Not like this..."

But then he's closed his eyes for longer than he wanted, and the blackness welcomes him in.

(SPYGOD is listening to No Love Lost (Joy Division) and having The Love)

3/15/12 - The Day of The Gorgon - pt. 8

At the White House, everything is bedlam.

The entire West Wing is a wall of noise. Every secretary and intern that wasn't blinded or severely burned by the lights from the sky is either tending to the stricken, or trying to find out what the !@#$ just happened. But the switchboards are jammed and the internet is down, rendering their cellphones and smartphones as useful as doorstops.

The Secret Service agents are alternating between getting the President and First Family to safety, in the basement, and taping cardboard to the windows to stop anyone from being flash-fried, again. They're also trying to plan the next few moves, but unable to get confirmation on what they need to know.

In the middle of it all, Colonel Richter strides down the hallways, talking on one of the few phones that actually works. What he's hearing doesn't make him very happy.

"Well, as soon as you get word from The Flier, get back to me, alright?" he says: "I want a sit-rep on the Heptagon. I want word from NORAD. I want Cheyenne Mountain telling me their condition... yes, son. Everyone. !@#$, if you can find !@#$ing Santa Claus, I want you to tell me if he's got his sleigh ready. Alright?"

He hangs up and runs down to the basement, where the Secret Service has just secured the President and his wife. For a moment it looks like the Agents aren't even going to let him through, but one look from him and they skitter to either side.

"How bad is it, Colonel?" the President asks, sitting in a chair, holding his wife's hand, and wishing he had a really large beer, right about now. 

"It's pretty bad, sir," Richter says, kneeling down so he can look the man in the eye: "As near as we can tell, every single air force base, airport, and nuclear missile silo in America has been destroyed."

The First Lady gasps, and the President blinks: "How?"

"That... we're not 100% sure, yet, but from the looks of things we were hit by particle cannons. So either we're being invaded, again, or Deep Ten's been compromised."

"Every air base?"

"Yes, sir. The two large flashes were Andrews and Langley. They were wholly obliterated. They attacked Ronald Reagan, too, but all they did there was destroy the control tower and zap enough of the runways to make landing or taking off an impossibility. We're thinking they've done that to every major civilian airport. They may also have gotten Kennedy Space Center, but we're still getting word."

"How do we retaliate?" the President asks: "Can we launch the missiles on the submarines? I mean, I guess you'd have to reprogram them, but-"

"We have negative contact on the subs, sir. There's reports that beams were seen entering the Pacific and Atlantic close to their last known location. We may have lost the entire fleet."

The President looks askance, and then puts his head in his hand.

"How's everyone else doing?" he asks: "Have we heard from the Russians? England?"

"No sir. But there's no reason to believe that this attack was confined to America. In fact, some of my contacts inform me that there was something of an intelligence blackout today, and there's spotty word coming in that some of our allies were attacked in their houses of government. Some of our frenemies, too."

"Why the !@#$ are we just hearing about this now?" the President thunders: "Where the !@#$ is the CIA, Colonel? I want the Director over here right the !@#$ now-"

"We can't get through, sir," one of the Agents says: "We're trying the FBI, NSA, FEMA. Everybody's offline. Even the backup communications are fried."

"You can use my phone if you'd like, sir," Richter says, handing it over: "But I did try him, earlier this morning. They said he was in a very important meeting and not to be disturbed."

"And what about our strategic talents?" the President asks, taking the phone and finding the CIA Director's office number: "Don't we have a few people who can throw stars at each other, or something? Can we rely on them to save us?"

"The Flier's not responding to calls, sir," Richter answers: "Word from Havana is that it rocketed West not long after the shooting started. Hopefully that means a response is being coordinated, but I haven't heard anything from them to confirm that."

"This is very troubling," the First Lady says: "I can't believe you're not more on top of this."

"Honey, it's alright," the President says, holding her hand tighter and giving her a kiss on the forehead as he waits to hear from someone at Langley: "Just let me take care of this. We'll get through it. You'll see."

Richter looks at her and tries to smile re-assuredly. It comes across as stiff and patronizing, and he quickly abandons it, knowing in his heart that the whole world probably just got !@#$ed.

That and wondering if there are any heroes, out there.

* * *

"Sir, where the !@#$ are we going?" one of the fifty Agents packed in the back of the drill tank asks Myron as he tries to drive them out of the Heptagon's parking garage's south wall.

"Agent, if I told you, you'd have to shoot me," Myron replies, adjusting the drill's angle: "Now, are we all comfortable back there?"

"Not really, no," a female Agent says: "How many people is this thing rated for?"

"Ten," Myron replies, firing up the drill and getting ready to downshift: "And the coffee machine's broken. But if you'd rather try to get the garage doors open, and risk the power coming back on-"

Just then, the lights flicker back on in the garage. Myron blinks, and sees that the fallen Specials they strode over on their way to the drill tank might be stirring, just a little.

Oh, yes. They are. And !@#$ing quickly, too...

"Uh, on second !@#$ing thought, hang on..."

The drill engages, the tank treads fire up, and in seconds the drill tank is rolling forward -- boring through steel plate, concrete, rock, and earth, and throwing a massive and wide spray of pulverized matter behind it. The Specials who were up first and about to fire on them are almost instantly buried under the storm of dirt as the drill tank thunders through the wall.

In seconds, they're out and through -- the tunnel the vehicle makes closing up almost instantly due to the shower of debris. But the Agents in the back don't stop screaming until Myron's about a hundred feet away from the Heptagon. And he doesn't dare throttle back until he's sure no one's coming after them, which takes another 300 feet beyond that. 

"Sir, is there a bathroom on this drill tank?" someone whimpers.

"Yeah, it's out back," Myron sighs: "I'll stop so you can get out and go pee."

"Really...?"

"No, of course not. Are you that !@#$ing stupid, Agent? Please tell me you're not going to !@#$ yourself in my !@#$ing drill tank."

No one answers that.

"Alright," he says, looking at the map and his instruments, and hoping this goes better than he thinks it should: "I promised you guys a memorable trip. Here we go."

* * *

The Dragon watches on a viewscreen in the Secondary Control Room as New Man, Second, and all the un-Embraced Agents they could find come rampaging down towards engineering, shooting Specials as they go. He recognizes the look on their faces as that of excitement mixed with trepidation: they are clearly elated to have gotten this far, but worried about what comes next.

Surely they know it's not going to be that easy.

Not that anything's taught them otherwise, so far. The heavily-armored soldiers they're mowing down are employing their best tactics, but are falling much too easily. It would seem that their heavy armor and bulky weapons are putting them at an extreme disadvantage when compared to well-armed and quickly-moving opponents. 

The Dragon stores this information for later reference, knowing that it will be useful later -- once he's won.

"Sir, I am unable to overcome the security protocols," the current "Second" tells him. The man has shrunk into a skeletal parody of what he was, just a half hour ago, and is barely able to stand and perform his duties -- the consequences of Embracing a corpse.

"Who can?" The Dragon asks.

"Only the current Director of the COMPANY."

"And I am about to kill him," The Dragon says: "This could be problematic..."

He's about to think of altering his plan, but one of the Specials shows him -- via his faceplate -- that the Specials he sent to find the medical equipment he suspected of existing are reporting success.

They have just found two large, man-sized, clear plastic tanks, connected to one another. Both tanks were empty, but one was recently full of life support fluid, and the other had once held the same substance, perhaps up to a week ago. And the one that had been empty the longest was hooked up to sophisticated broadcast equipment.

The kind you might use to transmit consciousness through.

Not far from those two tanks is yet another one. It is a much older, metal cylinder covered with smaller, fluid-filled tanks, and inscribed with German writing. They report that it stinks of blood and lightning, and seems to have been activated a week ago, too.

The Dragon smiles, all too aware of what this means. He knows that secondary tank will have the entire genetic sequence for Second in it. And all they will need to do is activate it, grow another Second, and Embrace it after it's brought to life in order to continue controlling The Flier.

Operation Whack-a-Mole, indeed. 

"I have good news" he tells the false face, getting up whispering in his decaying ear: "We no longer need you to perform this task. Set the final coordinates for the Island, and have us hover at cruising altitude. Then you may sleep."
"Thank you sir," the false face says, a look of pure joy on his withering face: "I hope to serve you when I become the butterfly."

"I hope to see you emerge from the cocoon," The Dragon says, gently patting his shoulder. When he takes his hand away, wet, collapsing tissue comes with it.

His final task done, the man gets a look of pure joy on his stolen face, and all but collapses to the floor. His knees splinter into patches of skin, fragments of bone, and slivers of dry, ropy muscle as he strikes the deck, and he flops forward a dead man. 

* * *

Engineering is locked down tight, which is exactly what Second expected, and New Man feared. So far this has been far too easy, but once they knew where they were heading, it stood to reason they'd turn the deck into a virtual fortress. 

Large, heavy metal crates have been pushed out into the hallway, and placed right ahead of the bulkhead doors. A large group of specials is behind the crates, their guns poked between them, and firing mercilessly on any targets that come into their narrow kill zones. Occasionally a few rise up above the crates and lay suppression fire, but they've stopped trying that after losing just about every group that does to the Agents' counter-fire. 

"We're just about out of our guns," Second shouts over the firing, watching sadly as a group of Agents are perforated and set afire by flechettes: "I've got some Agents heading for the armory, but we'll need heavy ordinance to take them out."

"And the last thing we want is a blowback into the engines," New Man says, tossing his last pistol down as he ducks for cover behind a bulkhead.

"Do you have a better idea where they're taking us?"

"Middle of the Pacific," New Man says: "If we slow down in the right spot, we won't be too far from that last battle we had with GORGON."

"You don't think...?"

New Man just looks at him, and then their cover is half-obliterated by a wave of gauss-gun fire: "Can't we use their weapons?"

"Not without some massive tinkering. They don't work in our hands, apparently."

"Well !@#$," he says: "That means we don't have a lot of options."

"What are you going to do?"

"I'm partially recharged," he says, holding up his hands, which crackle with seething, purple energy: "I can take them out by the door, but once I do I'm going to be useless for about fifteen minutes."

"And if there's more..." Second says, nodding.

"Sir, we're having problems at the armory," one of his Agents comes up to tell him: "They've got it locked down, too. They must have known we'd go there."

"Alright then," Second says, looking at New Man: "Get us in."

The Director nods, and, bravely stepping out into the field of fire, holds up both hands towards the Specials. They respond by shooting at him, but the streams of white hot metal darts are melted into metal steam by a larger, more powerful wave of throbbing, purple energy that emanates from the man's outstretched fingers.

The wave gains power and focus as it travels, becoming faster and more solid. By the time it reaches the crates it's sizzling the deck plates and bulkheads. Everything in its path -- crate, special, or gun -- is evaporated within seconds once the wave passes over. And then the wave shifts its shape to match the doorway exactly, and eats through that as well.

The purple wave dissipates. New Man sighs and falls down, weak and unresponsive. The Agents cry in joy and creep forward, going bulkhead to bulkhead and laying a curtain of small arms fire at the Specials who were just beyond the wave of destruction. 

Second takes charge of his fallen Director and gets him back into cover. He orders an Agents to stay by him and let no one harm him, or interfere with his recuperation. And then he joins the others in the assault on the engineering deck, hoping that they've turned the corner on this.

But knowing that this has still been way too easy, up until now.

* * *

In the Secondary control room, the 3-D images indicate that The Flier is a few hours from its destination. But others show that the Engineering deck has been breached, which means it's only a matter of time before the Agents get too close for comfort. 

The Dragon stands and gestures to the Specials in the room, indicating that they should leave the room and guard it. They do.

"My lady," he says: "We are on the final approach. The moment is at hand. The future is prepared for. May I execute the fourth phase?"

You may, an eerie, wet, and feminine voice in his head tells him: Are you prepared to become our voice?

"I have been prepared for this honor for years," he says, breathless in rapture.

Be certain. There is no turning back from this point.

"'The Caterpillar must bury itself alive and sleep before the butterfly can come out and soar,'" he quotes: "I am ready to soar."

Then you may begin, she says: Do what you have been instructed. All you need is love.

"Love is all you need," he replies, tears of joy rolling down his face.

From inside his uniform he pulls out a flashdrive. He inserts it into a port near the chair, and begins uploading a new program into The Flier. A floating green bar shows its progress.

And as it grows longer, he stretches out his arms, as if to receive something. 

And begins to change...

(SPYGOD is listening to I Remember Nothing (Joy Division) and having a Mephistopheles)