11/26/13
And then it was all over, except for the fine details.
I've been in Paris for the last two weeks, watching what can only be called the Trial of a Civilization -- both in terms of what it is, and its magnitude. Never in human history, recorded or otherwise, have we had the duty, or the right, to put an entire civilization on trial for its actions against us.
Hopefully, after this, we never will again.
I've been in the courtroom, watching it happen. I've been out in the streets, afterwards, talking with the people who couldn't be there, or really shouldn't have been allowed in. And I've been pouring over the testimony and depositions, the evidence and conclusions.
I was there the day we got to hear what is, without a doubt, the most horrifying testimony to come from from a defendant's mouth, ever. I was there when we heard just how small and inconsequential we are, in the galactic scheme of things, and how far we have yet to go.
I was there when the truth about what happened to the American President was told, and the existence of Alter-Earth -- and, by extension, the SPYGOD of Alter Earth -- made public for the first time ever. I was there when America's greatest and finest Superhero came clean about having been blackmailed into inaction for decades by that man, thinking he was actually SPYGOD.
And I was there when SPYGOD got on the witness stand, and admitted to authorizing a war plan that resulted in the deaths of billions of children, in order to deprive the Imago of their energy reserves.
(An admission that, it is said, may land him in that same courtroom at a later date.)
I was there. I saw. I listened. I made connections and looked them up. I went out and asked people what they thought, or what they knew.
And now here I sit, three days away from an ultimate reckoning, and I have to ask myself a very tough question: Do I think justice was served?
I'll have to wait three days for the sentencing to be certain, of course. But at this point, based on what I know, I'd like to say yes. I want there to have been a final, satisfying conclusion to everything that's happened. A way to say that we got through this terrible, truly-worldshattering event with at least our basic human dignity intact.
A way to say that everything we have suffered -- both as individuals, and as a species -- has at last been answered for.
A way to say that justice for what we have lost has been achieved.
But I know that I can't. I cannot say that justice has been served, here, today. Not by any standard we care to uphold, anyway.
I think we have only served the cause of revenge.
Why would I say such a thing? Well, that should be !@#$ing obvious to anyone who's ever been in court, much less read about it. And ayone who's sat through the process of jury duty, or actually gotten through to serve on one, should know where I'm going before I get there.
Because what's the one thing they always ask you, after your name and profession? What's the one sure way to get out of jury duty, if you really feel like being a shirk?
They ask you if you personally know anyone in the case, or are a party to it. They ask you if you have any kind of a personal stake in what's happening, in that court, and cannot render a fair verdict.
And if you answer "yes," then you're out of the pool right then and there. Do not pass go. Do not lose however much money and time because of someone else's problems.
Walk out the !@#$ Courtroom doors and be free, for now.
So consider the following statement: the Imago took over our planet.
Consider that they left no part of it untouched or untransformed. Consider that they changed our entire way of life and doing things, and saw to it that we either didn't notice, or no longer cared.
Consider that they warped our perceptions and our sensibilities, and told us that it was all for the best and that we should be happy -- grateful, even -- and just accept this new way of thinking and doing.
And consider that, all the while, as we were being happy little busy humans, they were using us as raw material and a slave labor force, the better to build them a rocket ship to get the !@#$ off this planet before a really nasty thing comes to destroy the world.
Consider all those things, and then ask yourself whether we could render any kind of a fair verdict on these Imago.
Yes, they plead Guilty. Yes, the outcome was never in doubt. Yes, everything we heard and learned just emphasized and underlined the reasons why it was right for them to plead guilty in the first place.
But there was no impartiality at work, in this trial. There was no detachment from the personal. There was no divorce from injury and suffering.
There was no fairness, and therefore no fair trial.
What else could we have done? I don't know. Apparently, just about every alien race that lives amongst us, here on Earth, left either before or during the Occupation. Some left of their own accord, and some were apparently forced out while we weren't looking.
(And many say that it was this approaching, cosmic doom that they fled, and not the Imago.)
But I can't help but think that there had to be some other body that could have adjudicated this. Some higher court or arbiter that could have looked down upon the facts and rendered a totally fair and impartial judgment.
Some force, beyond our petty concerns and injuries, who could have seen the whole thing from afar, and been moved to find a righteous verdict.
But none came forward. None appeared. And if anyone involved in this injurious farce of a trial sought them out, I have no idea, and may never.
All I know is that, in spite of the cheers and the jeers, and the cathartic "human scream" that was uttered in that courtroom when the sentence was read, we have only gained revenge, this day. I can only hope that, for the sake of posterity -- if not our souls -- the sentence they mete out in three days' time is much more real.
Those we lost deserve it. We deserve it.
And so do the Imago.
(SPYGOD is listening to I Will (The FIXX) and having a Kanterbrau Biere de Noel)
Showing posts with label collateral civilian damage. Show all posts
Showing posts with label collateral civilian damage. Show all posts
Sunday, November 3, 2013
Sunday, February 17, 2013
10/02/12 - Bodies in Motion - Pt. 5 - I Always Feel Myself Becoming Him
All around the world, and in a few places beyond it, the shadow people are moving.
They take time of from work, and let their friends and family know that something's come up. They tell their butlers and personal assistants to hold their calls for the next week or so. They disappear into the crowds, or the quiet, lonely places where anything could happen, and often does.
For the shadow people are coming home.
There, they open old trunks and high-tech closets, hidden bases and dimensional pockets. They put on old costumes and new armor. They change their illusions or reveal their true selves. Renew old bargains with the hidden powers or make new ones.
The shadow people are becoming something else.
They take up their tools and trappings of unseen office. Items of power and words of wisdom. Secret formulas and magic words. Puissant relics that shook the world, once, and subtle, sly things that escaped notice, but changed the course of nations.
Supercars and flying carpets. Capes and cowls. Guns and gauntlets. They summon them all into service, this day.
For the shadow people are here, again.
They have been silent too long -- absent from view. Watching from the darkness while conquerors strode the land, and made it theirs. Quiet in the shade as the invaders spoke their lies, and spread their poison. Seemingly serene as the world was remade into utopia, but all too aware that paradise was perched over a black and soul-destroying nightmare.
The shadow people have waited long enough.
Armed with new information, they stand tall once more. Given marching orders from the leaders of the revolution, they make themselves ready. Prepared to fight for the nation they call home, they leave their lives behind for battle.
Prepared to die for the world of their birth, they step from the shadows at last.
Bright heroes and dark vigilantes. Old soldiers and new supermen. Aged sidekicks and teenage subordinates.
Harsh gods and loveable monsters.
The shadow people have come, and they have brought the light with them.
LIBERTY BELLE: Oh !@#$ you.
They take time of from work, and let their friends and family know that something's come up. They tell their butlers and personal assistants to hold their calls for the next week or so. They disappear into the crowds, or the quiet, lonely places where anything could happen, and often does.
For the shadow people are coming home.
There, they open old trunks and high-tech closets, hidden bases and dimensional pockets. They put on old costumes and new armor. They change their illusions or reveal their true selves. Renew old bargains with the hidden powers or make new ones.
The shadow people are becoming something else.
They take up their tools and trappings of unseen office. Items of power and words of wisdom. Secret formulas and magic words. Puissant relics that shook the world, once, and subtle, sly things that escaped notice, but changed the course of nations.
Supercars and flying carpets. Capes and cowls. Guns and gauntlets. They summon them all into service, this day.
For the shadow people are here, again.
They have been silent too long -- absent from view. Watching from the darkness while conquerors strode the land, and made it theirs. Quiet in the shade as the invaders spoke their lies, and spread their poison. Seemingly serene as the world was remade into utopia, but all too aware that paradise was perched over a black and soul-destroying nightmare.
The shadow people have waited long enough.
Armed with new information, they stand tall once more. Given marching orders from the leaders of the revolution, they make themselves ready. Prepared to fight for the nation they call home, they leave their lives behind for battle.
Prepared to die for the world of their birth, they step from the shadows at last.
Bright heroes and dark vigilantes. Old soldiers and new supermen. Aged sidekicks and teenage subordinates.
Harsh gods and loveable monsters.
The shadow people have come, and they have brought the light with them.
* * *
MRS LIBERTY: So what exactly is the plan?
DOCTOR POWER: I'm not 100% certain. But I think it's going to require a couple different things going off at once.
AMERICAN SHIELD: We have to get Deep
Ten off the playing field first. If we start attacking and they start
firing, it's all over before it even starts.
DOCTOR POWER: That's not going to be a problem.
FREEDOM BELLE: Are you sure? I know what you said about Alpha Base Seven, but that's one !@#$ big thing to 'not going to be a problem.'
DOCTOR POWER: I agree. But he says he can deal with it. And given who he is, I trust him.
AMERICAN SHIELD: Fair enough. So that
leaves the Imago, the False Faces, that city in the Pacific, what used
to be The Flier, and God only knows what else to deal with.
RED ALCHEMIST: The DEROS, too. Don't forget them.
MR CHAOS: Not to mention every co-opted public servant, soldier, and police officer who thinks we're the criminals, courtesy of the mass media.
THE VISIONARY: I have it on good authority from Old Ben that he's got that in hand. They'll be confused at first, but I think they'll be on our side when it goes down.
MR CHAOS: You mean that creepy sex addict who claims to be a founding father? I'm surprised we have anything to do with him.
MRS LIBERTY: He is who he says
he is. And yes, he's a little eccentric. But when it comes to dealing
with things like this, he's the best man we have. Especially since we
don't have Dr. Yesterday on our side, anymore.
AMERICAN SHIELD: !@#$. I forgot all about him. What do we do about him?
DOCTOR POWER: Antarctica will be dealt with, and him along with it.
LIBERTY BELLE: What do you mean by 'dealt with.'
DOCTOR
POWER: I mean that I have been told that, when it starts, drastic
measures are going to be taken. I don't know the full scope of what that
means. But I think SPYGOD's cat is involved.
MRS LIBERTY: Oh my god. That's... I have no words.
MR CHAOS: I do. 'Awesome.' Best kind of work for that !@#$ thing.
LIBERTY BELLE: Do you have no soul, young man? Even an enemy does not deserve that.
MR CHAOS: My soul doesn't factor into
it. You all know how I see things. This is an example of putting the
right resources at the right problem. And I think we all know that cat's
best left off the field, or somewhere where it can do a lot of damage
and then go cough up a hairball or something, somewhere far from us.
RED ALCHEMIST: I can't disagree with
that. But what about the other part of the plan that's got the big
question mark on it? The white boxes?
AMERICAN SHIELD: The energy generators
SPYGOD was talking about? Apparently, we may have to destroy them all.
Without them, the Imago will lose a lot of their power.
RED ALCHEMIST: So why the question marks?
DOCTOR POWER: According to the Leader
of the Resistance, SPYGOD is still looking into whether it's a good idea
or not. And if that sounds like it's not a lot of information, the
Leader of the Resistance agrees. But that's all he got from SPYGOD, and
until he finds out what he needs to find out, we're not touching them.
LIBERTY BELLE: What is it with the Leader of the Resistance, anyway? He seems to be deferring to SPYGOD an awful lot.
MRS LIBERTY: SPYGOD is the one
who's in charge, dear. And I know that sounds weak, but I've found it's
best to trust him in things like this. Besides, if the Leader of the
Resistance didn't trust him, he wouldn't be following his lead.
THE VISIONARY: Speaking as an
illusionist, that's silly. We don't know who we're following, here, and
that's part of what got us into this mess in the first place.
LIBERTY
BELLE: And speaking as someone who's dealt with SPYGOD's mess for too
long, I don't think we're going to be following his lead for too much
longer after this. The drunk idiot more or less bungled our planet's
security because he decided to attack things we'd had at bay. The
President died under his watch. These things invaded. He has a lot of
blood on his hands, and a lot of explaining to do.
DOCTOR POWER: Oh, stuff it. Please. I think we know why you're really angry at him, and it has nothing to do with this.
MR CHAOS: Woah! No flame wars, people. We have a world to save, here.
MRS LIBERTY: Agreed. We can puzzle out who the leader is later. What's important now is what we do once the shooting starts.
LIBERTY BELLE: Fine. But don't complain
when you're left holding the bomb, again. And I think we all know
that's going to happen. We should be solving mysteries, not serving
them.
RED ALCHEMIST: The mystery is the mystery itself, LB.
* * *
"My God," Martha Samuels says, putting her hands to her face as the man in front of her puts his mask and hood back on. They're all alone in the sick bay, but he clearly doesn't want to be uncovered for longer than necessary.
"Well, I wouldn't go that far," the masked leader of the resistance says, adjusting his cape: "But for the next few weeks, I'd appreciate it if you didn't let on that you've seen my face."
"I don't think they'd believe it," she says, sitting down on her hospital bed: "How... how long have you...?"
"Decades, more or less," he says.
"More or less?"
"Well, some of it's been linear, some of it's been jumping back and forth, and some of it's been backwards. I've just gone where I've needed to be."
"And you can... do that? Just like that?"
"Not me, no. Someone else has been helping me."
"Who?"
He holds up a hand: "I can't tell you that, Martha. I'm sorry, but that needs to be a secret, at least for now. But if it helps any-"
"I know him, and I've fought with him, and we answered the same call," she sighs: "Is this secrecy, again?"
"It's prudence," he says: "And actually, I don't think you ever met him. not really. He was on the way out when you were on the way in. But you have heard of him. And I think you heard good things."
"I haven't ever heard too many bad," she says: "I'm sorry. I know this must be difficult for you."
"More than you can imagine," he says, sadly: "I've been a prisoner to history, Martha. I've been working in secret in its corners and grey areas since just after World War II. I've seen friends grow old and die, all over again, and been unable to change much of anything.
"But I've done this because it needed doing. We're up against something truly terrible, here, Martha. The Imago aren't even the tip of the iceberg of what's coming. They're just a bad wave ahead of it.
"So I've done what I can, when I could. I've protected people from things they had no idea about, and threats no one else could see. I've pulled strings and woven threads, put people together and kept them apart. It's been a heck of a ride, at times, but it's always been done with sadness, because there's some things I could never change. And believe me, I wish I could."
"Like my father," she says, looking up at him.
"Your father. Your brother. Everyone we ever lost before their time. I've had to watch it happen all over again and do nothing. And that's been... terrible. I just wish there was some way I could prove this to you."
"It's okay" she says, taking his hand in hers: "I knew you. And I trusted you. My father looked up to you immensely, and so did I, even if we never worked together all that much. So I still trust you."
"Thank you," he says, extending his other hand to help her up off the bed: "And I think I can trust you with something in return."
"What's that?" she asks, standing up.
"With what's coming, I might not have time to explain everything. If something should happen to me, there's a letter I left in my quarters."
"Where?"
She thinks he's smiling behind the mask: "You'll know where to find it. Wait a month, just to be sure I'm really dead, and then read it."
"Is it the whole story?" Martha asks, a little amused.
"It's enough of it," the man says: "It'll explain everything you'd have a question for, anyway. Will you do that for me?"
"Anytime," she says, hugging him: "My god, you brave man. You brave, brave man."
"More lucky than brave," he says, hugging her back: "And I'd do it all over again, Martha. I hope you know that."
"I do," she says, and they stand there for some time, just holding each other.
In an hour, once the doctor gives her a clean bill of health, she will leave here. She will then get Kaitlyn, and talk to her about what's happened, and what's to be done. An oath will have to be made, along with a prayer, and then the cycle that has ruled her family for the better part of a century will repeat itself.
The battle that's coming will need heroes, and the Owl will need her Talon.
* * *
In a train station in Yekaterinburg, not far from what little remains of a train, a young girl hides next to a trash can and tries not to think of what's happened to her.
Her name is Katya,and she has just turned five. She was traveling from Moscow to Omsk on the express, to see her grandparents for her birthday. Her parents were cross with her, because she was so happy to be going to see grandpa and grandma that she was bouncing all over the place, and getting in the way.
When the train stopped in Yekaterinburg, she was told she had to stay in their room. She had been bad and was being punished, which made her cry all the more because it was the day before her birthday. Her father said if she was good and stopped crying he might relent, but she couldn't stop the tears, so in the room she stayed.
Was that what saved her? She doesn't know. All she knows is that as soon as the train stopped, there was a terrible noise, and the entire train went to pieces around her.
Her mother was sitting in front of her when it happened. She didn't have time to scream and then she was in pieces too small to see. Wood and metal and plaster and bone and flesh and blood flew everywhere, and the noise got louder and louder.
The last thing that Katya saw, she was looking at where the noise was coming from, and saw a line of metal men with large guns, firing them at her. Then one of the things they fired went right into her eyes, and everything went black.
When she woke up, it was a day later. She was lying on a pile of bodies, off to the side of what was left of the train. The men in metal suits were walking around, talking with each other, and then to the Imago who watched over Omsk (Orange and Gold). He seemed to be approving of what they'd done, though it was hard to understand exactly what they were talking about.
She thought to tell him that the bad men had destroyed the train, but realized that if she did, they'd shoot at her again. So she crept away from the pile of bodies, and hid until most of them were gone.
It wasn't until a few minutes ago that she realize that she'd been lying on top of her father. Her mother had come apart like a roast, right in front of her, but her father was still recognizable, even with half his head gone. But somehow she didn't realize it until just then.
And somehow she kept herself from weeping too loudly, because she knew they'd hear and come to hurt her.
She does not know how she is still alive. She does not know how she could have made it through what happened to the train and not even have a scratch. Her clothes are ripped and torn and full of holes, but she is just fine. She's not even hungry or thirsty, and hasn't had to pee since what happened.
This is strange, but she cannot bring herself to process it. All she can do is sit by the trash can and wonder what has happened, and hope somehow that her grandfather might come. He would know what to do.
She hears a strange noise, like what you hear when someone opens a door and it's a windy day outside. And then there is a young boy, standing next to her. He's just a little older than she is, and she remembers him from the train. He got on in Moscow, too.
"Are you alright?" he asks, looking around and then crouching behind the trash can, along with her.
"Yes," she says: "My mommy's dead. She fell apart in the train. Daddy, too."
"Mine too," he says. His eyes are still red from crying, but he seems to be moving past that, somehow.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Petr. What's yours?"
"Katya."
"Katya, we need to get out of here," the boy says: "I... I don't know how I can do this, but if I think about it, I can go somewhere that no one can see me, but I can see them. It's weird, but I can do it. It's how I lived through what happened."
"My grandpa and grandma are in Omsk," she announces: "He'll know what to do. We need to get there."
"I think we can do that," Petr says, holding out his hand: "We might have to walk there, though. You okay?"
"Yes," she says, getting up and taking his hand: "I'll walk with you."
He smiles and closes his eyes. So does she. And when they open them up, again, they're somewhere that none of the men who destroyed the train can find them.
Her name is Katya,and she has just turned five. She was traveling from Moscow to Omsk on the express, to see her grandparents for her birthday. Her parents were cross with her, because she was so happy to be going to see grandpa and grandma that she was bouncing all over the place, and getting in the way.
When the train stopped in Yekaterinburg, she was told she had to stay in their room. She had been bad and was being punished, which made her cry all the more because it was the day before her birthday. Her father said if she was good and stopped crying he might relent, but she couldn't stop the tears, so in the room she stayed.
Was that what saved her? She doesn't know. All she knows is that as soon as the train stopped, there was a terrible noise, and the entire train went to pieces around her.
Her mother was sitting in front of her when it happened. She didn't have time to scream and then she was in pieces too small to see. Wood and metal and plaster and bone and flesh and blood flew everywhere, and the noise got louder and louder.
The last thing that Katya saw, she was looking at where the noise was coming from, and saw a line of metal men with large guns, firing them at her. Then one of the things they fired went right into her eyes, and everything went black.
When she woke up, it was a day later. She was lying on a pile of bodies, off to the side of what was left of the train. The men in metal suits were walking around, talking with each other, and then to the Imago who watched over Omsk (Orange and Gold). He seemed to be approving of what they'd done, though it was hard to understand exactly what they were talking about.
She thought to tell him that the bad men had destroyed the train, but realized that if she did, they'd shoot at her again. So she crept away from the pile of bodies, and hid until most of them were gone.
It wasn't until a few minutes ago that she realize that she'd been lying on top of her father. Her mother had come apart like a roast, right in front of her, but her father was still recognizable, even with half his head gone. But somehow she didn't realize it until just then.
And somehow she kept herself from weeping too loudly, because she knew they'd hear and come to hurt her.
She does not know how she is still alive. She does not know how she could have made it through what happened to the train and not even have a scratch. Her clothes are ripped and torn and full of holes, but she is just fine. She's not even hungry or thirsty, and hasn't had to pee since what happened.
This is strange, but she cannot bring herself to process it. All she can do is sit by the trash can and wonder what has happened, and hope somehow that her grandfather might come. He would know what to do.
She hears a strange noise, like what you hear when someone opens a door and it's a windy day outside. And then there is a young boy, standing next to her. He's just a little older than she is, and she remembers him from the train. He got on in Moscow, too.
"Are you alright?" he asks, looking around and then crouching behind the trash can, along with her.
"Yes," she says: "My mommy's dead. She fell apart in the train. Daddy, too."
"Mine too," he says. His eyes are still red from crying, but he seems to be moving past that, somehow.
"What's your name?" she asks.
"Petr. What's yours?"
"Katya."
"Katya, we need to get out of here," the boy says: "I... I don't know how I can do this, but if I think about it, I can go somewhere that no one can see me, but I can see them. It's weird, but I can do it. It's how I lived through what happened."
"My grandpa and grandma are in Omsk," she announces: "He'll know what to do. We need to get there."
"I think we can do that," Petr says, holding out his hand: "We might have to walk there, though. You okay?"
"Yes," she says, getting up and taking his hand: "I'll walk with you."
He smiles and closes his eyes. So does she. And when they open them up, again, they're somewhere that none of the men who destroyed the train can find them.
They have entered the shadows, now. And it's a long walk to where they're going, but they're going to get there.
Somehow they just know.
Somehow they just know.
(SPYGOD is listening to Possession (The Cure) and having a Superhero IPA
Thursday, February 14, 2013
10/01/12 - Bodies In Motion - Pt. 4 - Imaginary World is Fading Fast
It's 8 in the PM, local time, and I've just found out that we're all !@#$ing dead.
Yes, son. Dead. As in deceased. Erased. Offed. Murdered. Put down. Killed in action.
Blown to holy living !@#$, right along with everyone else on this !@#$ train, as soon as it gets into the station in about fifty minutes or so.
Now, I bet you're wondering how I !@#$ing know this. And this would normally be the part where I look at you funny, smack you upside the !@#$ head, and announce "SPYGOD knows all," as if saying that !@#$ing thing over and over again actually makes it true.
But this time? Son, I think it's time we had a little chat about a few basic facts. And that's not because I want to !@#$ing bore you to death, or anything. But you've probably started wondering what the !@#$ is up with me, lately, given every !@#$ thing that's been going on.
And I wouldn't want you to think that I'm slacking off on the !@#$ job, now would I?
So, here's the basic !@#$ situation. It's me, the ex-President of Russia, and a couple fake IDs on the Trans-Siberian Express from Moscow to Yekaterinburg. We're going to Yekaterinburg because there's something there that might be able to help us when we do the big !@#$ final push on the Imago. And it's a "we" because he's the only one who can get me into the !@#$ing place, which is why I dragged him out of his cozy little hidey-hole in the first place. And boy has he done nothing but !@#$ing complain, since.
Not that I can blame him. Getting transpistoled every !@#$ing day with one of those old models is probably doing his !@#$ some damage. But it's not like I really give a !@#$ about whether he's ever going to have !@#$ing children, so !@$# him.
And as to whether anyone's going to have time to !@#$ing have any more children, well... that's what this whole thing's about, isn't it?
My plan was to take the !@#$ train, get out at our stop, and go find what we !@#$ing came here for. In a perfect !@#$ world, we'd continue to be !@#$ing undetected, at least right up until we got what we !@#$ing needed. And then, if !@#$ got unleashed on our !@#$es, at least it'd be in keeping with what Second would have called "the proper poetry of things."
Gods I miss him. It just about broke my heart when I found out he died on 3/15. I can't begin to tell you how !@#$ing poorer my world is without him in it...
...
Anyway, that would be the proper !@#$ing poetry of things. But instead, we're getting something else.
My satellite of love is just over the horizon, now, so I decided to look out the !@#$ window and talk to it. Lucky for me, it talked back, tonight. And what it has to say is really not good news.
First bit of bad news? The President's pretty !@#$ sure our man in Beijing has gone off the !@#$ing reservation. They had a dinner meetup last night, and it got broken with no reasons why. And now no one's seen the !@#$er, but he's not dead, and the Imago are just that more active around the !@#$ houses of government.
So of course I told him to get his !@#$ emergency bag and get the !@#$ out. And while I'm checking up on that, I see if I can get my people on the West Coast to tell me what's up on their end. And they're still buzzing from the nasty !@#$ revelation that poor SPYGOD SCOUT dropped on them the other day, but they think they can use some of what they learned to make a tracking device, somehow.
And boy is that good !@#$ing news, because it turns out their potential tracking device also covers Specials, since those False Faces are operating with similar energy signatures. They don't have any !@#$ tracking devices set up, yet, of course, but they tell me what those energy ranges are, and I'm able to look ahead a little bit, through the cameras at the station we're about to come into.
Which leads to the second bit of bad news, which is the !@#$ing doozy. The Yekaterinburg railway station is a giant sausage fest of Specials -- maybe a hundred of the !@#$ers. And they're armed for !@#$ing bear, tiger, and lion.
I caught a little of their chatter. The orders are !@#$ simple. As soon as the train's pulled in, they're going to aim their big mother!@#$ing guns at it, and not stop shooting until the whole length of it is one big bloody hole.
And that brings us to the third bit of bad news, son. This train's going to be at the station in less than an hour, and everyone on board is going to die, and I can't do a thing to save them.
No, son. Not a !@#$ing, !@#$ thing.
If I stop the train, the Specials will teleport over from there to here, and !@#$ing shoot it, anyway.
If I warn everyone, they'll want off, and they'll start leaping off the back, and someone will notice. And then the Specials will teleport in, anyway and !@#$ing shoot them all.
And if I get on top of the train, pull out my guns, and start !@#$ing shooting at the !@#$ers when they get into range? Not only will they !@#$ing teleport over and blow the !@#$ train out from under me, but they'll just send in more !@#$ers where they came from. Maybe even a few Imago, while they're at it.
And they will !@#$ing rip everyone on this train to !@#$ing pieces, just to get to me.
Now, I can get away, son. I know I can. There's a dozen ways I can get the !@#$ out of here without anyone seeing or knowing, and a handful of ways I can get me and the Ex-President of Russia off this !@#$ing train without being spotted, too.
But everyone else?
The nice old guy in the berth next to me who chatted me up about the circus? The cute kid in pigtails whose parents kept apologizing for her running all over the place? The young couple who were going out East for their !@#$ing honeymoon?
The !@#$hole who took our tickets? The cute boy who brought our meals and kept staring at my "wife" because she looked familiar? The porter who brought around a never-ending supply of vodka so me and the Missus didn't have to leave the !@#$ cabin?
The engineer? The technician? The !@#$ing guy who sits at the back and watches the landscape go by?
They're dead. They're all dead. Every one of them.
And there's nothing I can do to save them.
This is a ghost train, now, son. Just another !@#$ mass murder I've created because I've gotten too !@#$ close to normal people again.
I remember, back in the 70's, when some !@#$hole with more armor than sense tried to attack The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, just because he thought he owed me a punch in the face. Jack!@#$ launched a giant walking robot at New York City to try and get to me. !@#$er tore up about three blocks of the city fighting the automatic defenses, and one more fighting me, and then took one more out while it fell down to !@#$.
And when the shooting was all over, and I was standing there, triumphant on what was left of its head, some guy comes running at me, his hands all bloody, calling me every !@#$ name in the book. Lucky for him, the police tackle him before he touched me, and I just spit in his direction and tell him to !@#$ off home.
But then later, someone tells me that his wife had been stomped on by that armored idiot's deathmachine. Mashed her flat on the street while she was running away, and he saw the whole !@#$ thing.
And then when he realized what !@#$ing happened, and why, he came after me. Because if it hadn't been for me, that giant metal thing wouldn't have turned his wife into a red smear on the pavement.
If I didn't live in New York City, they'd be walking hand in hand down the street for home, right then.
No, son, it's not good to think of !@#$ things like that. It's not right to blame myself for things like that. And it's really not healthy to think of my !@#$ contribution to the world in terms of how many people wind up dead because I'm nearby, having a !@#$ing drink and trying to get my !@#$ sucked.
But I'd be !@#$ blind to not notice that it happens. And !@#$ sorry to not care about it.
That's part of who and what we are. That's why we dress up in !@#$ing costumes and hide away behind secret rooms and hidden fortresses. That's why we have secret identities and alibis, all that !@#$. It's not to keep us safe. It's to save the people we live next to.
It's to save the people we love.
These people are dead. There is nothing I can do to save them. But I will see them avenged. I will see to it that their deaths are taken out on the Imago in pain and punishment. I will see to it that their names are held up high as victims of this occupation, and their families told of the role they played in freeing the world.
I will see to it that they are not forgotten, and maybe that's the best I can do. But it seems a !@#$ poor tradeoff for seeing these people I've shared this !@#$ ride with come out alive on the other end.
Really !@#$ poor.
Less than an hour, now. I have to get that !@#$ing human monster up and running, and see to how we're going to sneak off this train before we get too close to the station. And he'll probably !@#$ing complain and I'll probably smack him around some more, and boy he had better not !@#$ me off, right now.
Because I am in a mood, son, and by now,you know what that !@#$ing means. It means payback, SPYGOD style.
Because I'm going to think about that little girl, and how she would have run off the train, happy and alive. And I am going to think about who I have to think about that not happening.
And I am going to !@#$ their !@#$ just that much higher up into the !@#$ing stratosphere because of it.
(SPYGOD is listening to Winter (The Cure) and drinking rage. Pure !@#$ing rage.)
Yes, son. Dead. As in deceased. Erased. Offed. Murdered. Put down. Killed in action.
Blown to holy living !@#$, right along with everyone else on this !@#$ train, as soon as it gets into the station in about fifty minutes or so.
Now, I bet you're wondering how I !@#$ing know this. And this would normally be the part where I look at you funny, smack you upside the !@#$ head, and announce "SPYGOD knows all," as if saying that !@#$ing thing over and over again actually makes it true.
But this time? Son, I think it's time we had a little chat about a few basic facts. And that's not because I want to !@#$ing bore you to death, or anything. But you've probably started wondering what the !@#$ is up with me, lately, given every !@#$ thing that's been going on.
And I wouldn't want you to think that I'm slacking off on the !@#$ job, now would I?
So, here's the basic !@#$ situation. It's me, the ex-President of Russia, and a couple fake IDs on the Trans-Siberian Express from Moscow to Yekaterinburg. We're going to Yekaterinburg because there's something there that might be able to help us when we do the big !@#$ final push on the Imago. And it's a "we" because he's the only one who can get me into the !@#$ing place, which is why I dragged him out of his cozy little hidey-hole in the first place. And boy has he done nothing but !@#$ing complain, since.
Not that I can blame him. Getting transpistoled every !@#$ing day with one of those old models is probably doing his !@#$ some damage. But it's not like I really give a !@#$ about whether he's ever going to have !@#$ing children, so !@$# him.
And as to whether anyone's going to have time to !@#$ing have any more children, well... that's what this whole thing's about, isn't it?
My plan was to take the !@#$ train, get out at our stop, and go find what we !@#$ing came here for. In a perfect !@#$ world, we'd continue to be !@#$ing undetected, at least right up until we got what we !@#$ing needed. And then, if !@#$ got unleashed on our !@#$es, at least it'd be in keeping with what Second would have called "the proper poetry of things."
Gods I miss him. It just about broke my heart when I found out he died on 3/15. I can't begin to tell you how !@#$ing poorer my world is without him in it...
...
Anyway, that would be the proper !@#$ing poetry of things. But instead, we're getting something else.
My satellite of love is just over the horizon, now, so I decided to look out the !@#$ window and talk to it. Lucky for me, it talked back, tonight. And what it has to say is really not good news.
First bit of bad news? The President's pretty !@#$ sure our man in Beijing has gone off the !@#$ing reservation. They had a dinner meetup last night, and it got broken with no reasons why. And now no one's seen the !@#$er, but he's not dead, and the Imago are just that more active around the !@#$ houses of government.
So of course I told him to get his !@#$ emergency bag and get the !@#$ out. And while I'm checking up on that, I see if I can get my people on the West Coast to tell me what's up on their end. And they're still buzzing from the nasty !@#$ revelation that poor SPYGOD SCOUT dropped on them the other day, but they think they can use some of what they learned to make a tracking device, somehow.
And boy is that good !@#$ing news, because it turns out their potential tracking device also covers Specials, since those False Faces are operating with similar energy signatures. They don't have any !@#$ tracking devices set up, yet, of course, but they tell me what those energy ranges are, and I'm able to look ahead a little bit, through the cameras at the station we're about to come into.
Which leads to the second bit of bad news, which is the !@#$ing doozy. The Yekaterinburg railway station is a giant sausage fest of Specials -- maybe a hundred of the !@#$ers. And they're armed for !@#$ing bear, tiger, and lion.
I caught a little of their chatter. The orders are !@#$ simple. As soon as the train's pulled in, they're going to aim their big mother!@#$ing guns at it, and not stop shooting until the whole length of it is one big bloody hole.
And that brings us to the third bit of bad news, son. This train's going to be at the station in less than an hour, and everyone on board is going to die, and I can't do a thing to save them.
No, son. Not a !@#$ing, !@#$ thing.
If I stop the train, the Specials will teleport over from there to here, and !@#$ing shoot it, anyway.
If I warn everyone, they'll want off, and they'll start leaping off the back, and someone will notice. And then the Specials will teleport in, anyway and !@#$ing shoot them all.
And if I get on top of the train, pull out my guns, and start !@#$ing shooting at the !@#$ers when they get into range? Not only will they !@#$ing teleport over and blow the !@#$ train out from under me, but they'll just send in more !@#$ers where they came from. Maybe even a few Imago, while they're at it.
And they will !@#$ing rip everyone on this train to !@#$ing pieces, just to get to me.
Now, I can get away, son. I know I can. There's a dozen ways I can get the !@#$ out of here without anyone seeing or knowing, and a handful of ways I can get me and the Ex-President of Russia off this !@#$ing train without being spotted, too.
But everyone else?
The nice old guy in the berth next to me who chatted me up about the circus? The cute kid in pigtails whose parents kept apologizing for her running all over the place? The young couple who were going out East for their !@#$ing honeymoon?
The !@#$hole who took our tickets? The cute boy who brought our meals and kept staring at my "wife" because she looked familiar? The porter who brought around a never-ending supply of vodka so me and the Missus didn't have to leave the !@#$ cabin?
The engineer? The technician? The !@#$ing guy who sits at the back and watches the landscape go by?
They're dead. They're all dead. Every one of them.
And there's nothing I can do to save them.
This is a ghost train, now, son. Just another !@#$ mass murder I've created because I've gotten too !@#$ close to normal people again.
I remember, back in the 70's, when some !@#$hole with more armor than sense tried to attack The B.U.I.L.D.I.N.G, just because he thought he owed me a punch in the face. Jack!@#$ launched a giant walking robot at New York City to try and get to me. !@#$er tore up about three blocks of the city fighting the automatic defenses, and one more fighting me, and then took one more out while it fell down to !@#$.
And when the shooting was all over, and I was standing there, triumphant on what was left of its head, some guy comes running at me, his hands all bloody, calling me every !@#$ name in the book. Lucky for him, the police tackle him before he touched me, and I just spit in his direction and tell him to !@#$ off home.
But then later, someone tells me that his wife had been stomped on by that armored idiot's deathmachine. Mashed her flat on the street while she was running away, and he saw the whole !@#$ thing.
And then when he realized what !@#$ing happened, and why, he came after me. Because if it hadn't been for me, that giant metal thing wouldn't have turned his wife into a red smear on the pavement.
If I didn't live in New York City, they'd be walking hand in hand down the street for home, right then.
No, son, it's not good to think of !@#$ things like that. It's not right to blame myself for things like that. And it's really not healthy to think of my !@#$ contribution to the world in terms of how many people wind up dead because I'm nearby, having a !@#$ing drink and trying to get my !@#$ sucked.
But I'd be !@#$ blind to not notice that it happens. And !@#$ sorry to not care about it.
That's part of who and what we are. That's why we dress up in !@#$ing costumes and hide away behind secret rooms and hidden fortresses. That's why we have secret identities and alibis, all that !@#$. It's not to keep us safe. It's to save the people we live next to.
It's to save the people we love.
These people are dead. There is nothing I can do to save them. But I will see them avenged. I will see to it that their deaths are taken out on the Imago in pain and punishment. I will see to it that their names are held up high as victims of this occupation, and their families told of the role they played in freeing the world.
I will see to it that they are not forgotten, and maybe that's the best I can do. But it seems a !@#$ poor tradeoff for seeing these people I've shared this !@#$ ride with come out alive on the other end.
Really !@#$ poor.
Less than an hour, now. I have to get that !@#$ing human monster up and running, and see to how we're going to sneak off this train before we get too close to the station. And he'll probably !@#$ing complain and I'll probably smack him around some more, and boy he had better not !@#$ me off, right now.
Because I am in a mood, son, and by now,you know what that !@#$ing means. It means payback, SPYGOD style.
Because I'm going to think about that little girl, and how she would have run off the train, happy and alive. And I am going to think about who I have to think about that not happening.
And I am going to !@#$ their !@#$ just that much higher up into the !@#$ing stratosphere because of it.
(SPYGOD is listening to Winter (The Cure) and drinking rage. Pure !@#$ing rage.)
Friday, February 1, 2013
9/26/12 - Like Falling Angels the World Disappeared
You know, son, I was having a little think to myself, in-between smacking the ex-President of Russia around, in his own safehouse no less. And between punches to the face and appeals to reason, and the occasional trip out to the kitchen to have some more of that fine vodka I got at the museum, yesterday, I realized that it's almost hard to believe that it's been just a little under a !@#$ year since Colonel Khadaffy bit the !@#$ing dirt.
I mean, it's not like the people of Libya have really had a !@#$ing chance to enjoy their freedom, now has it? The Colonel gets his sorry !@#$ planted in late October, after one last, really !@#$ stupid attempt to save his regime, and then it isn't more than half a year later that the !@#$ing Imago take over.
So now, instead of rebuilding their !@#$ing lives, and putting their !@#$ country back together, again, they're having their lives and their nation rebuilt for them, and not exactly by the nicest !@#$ing people around, either.
Of course, if you didn't know any better, and believed everything you saw on the !@#$ing internet, you might think they got lucky, there. And that's because if there's anything that history tells us, and like I've told you at least once before, revolutions are a bloody, nasty !@#$ing business. Everyone who thinks they're oppressed wants one, and then when they get it, they get as !@#$ oppressive as the regime they just !@#$ing toppled.
Now, to be honest, we did see a little of that early on. Any stupid people who were pro-Khadaffy didn't really want to stick their !@#$ necks out and open their mouths after their beloved leader stopped !@#$ing breathing, or they'd have been following him pretty !@#$ quickly. No one likes a !@#$ing spoilsport, you know.
But then, they didn't really have to !@#$ing say anything, either. Most of their friends and neighbors knew who the loyalists were, and you can bet your !@#$ they were kicking in their doors !@#$ quick, not long thereafter. Wanted to have a little word with the people who'd been informing on them, all along, or else just making it harder for them to grumble.
And a few people who weren't loyalists probably got the same !@#$ treatment, because someone wanted revenge, or had a !@#$ score to settle, or just wanted dibs on their car. Which is !@#$ing sick and wrong, but is going to happen whenever people who are nasty as !@#$ and venal to the core see an opening and decide to !@#$ it for all it's worth.
And then the people who got !@#$ed will want to !@#$ the people who !@#$ed them. And then the people who got !@#$ed in return will want to !@#$ them right back. And the longer the !@#$ing Revolution's been overdue, the longer the cycles of revenge will be, and the bigger the ultimate bodycount.
...
So yeah, you might think the people of Libya escaped the whole !@#$ bloody cycle of revolution, provided you didn't know just what evil !@#$ers the Imago actually are. But every revolution's got its winners and losers, son.
And like anyone else, they're usually just standing around, minding their own business, when the world they knew just drops out from under them like the trapdoor under a hanged man.
I've had some cause to think about those folks, in the last couple of days. Mostly thanks to Randolph Scott, you know, my little reporter pal?
Well, since I saved his !@#$, right before everything went right down the !@#$ing toilet, he's been coming quite into his own. Finally learned to use a !@#$ing gun, for one thing, and he and our kids are actually going out and making some news for a change, rather than just reporting it.
I'm pretty !@#$ proud of him, actually, but I'm not telling him. And neither are you, son.
(Not if you know what's !@#$ing good for you, anyway.)
So one of the things that Randolph's been doing is running something of an atrocity archive. Essentially, he's making sure that the stories of ordinary folks who got ground the !@#$ up in the revolution's bloody gears aren't forgotten, or paved over by the brave !@#$ new world the Imago say they're trying to build.
And the other night, when I finally got a reason to report in, I mentally downloaded what he's got going so far. I read a few on the way from Thailand over to St. Petersburg, and I have to tell you, son, they sobered my !@#$ up better than tjbang sticks.
I mean, I like to think I'm a hard man, but when it comes right down to it...
...
Oh, you want a few? Well, I don't have Randolph's way with words, but I guess can tell a story. That and it gives me an excuse to hang out here and pull on this extra tasty vodka while my friend Vladimir tries to figure out his next move.
(!@#$ing idiot still thinks he can talk his way out of this one. Poor him.)
So let's talk about poor George Smith for a while. That's a good !@#$ place to start. It'll get us on the ground floor, anyway.
George is what you might call the God of traveling salesmen. His company's one of the few big electronic parts suppliers that's survived the budget cuts of the last couple decades, and he's been with them for ten years.
He lives in Chicago, or at least that's where he calls home, and where his wife and kids reside most of the year. But if you called home, any old night, chances would be good that he was out of town, somewhere. Maybe selling electrical connectors in California, or resistors and capacitors in Maine.
And if that sounds funny? Well, son, like I said, he's the God of traveling salesmen. If his company needs something closed, or the local reps aren't getting the numbers, they put his !@#$ on a plane and he's out there, making the deal.
So it isn't unusual that, at a certain time on Thursday, March 15th, George is driving his car from the northern suburbs of Chi-town down to O'Hare, ready to catch a flight and go show the local boys why he makes the big bucks. He's got his e-book reader full of the latest magazines, just had a great cup of coffee from the fancy maker he and his wife bought themselves as an anniversary gift, and is looking forward to a couple hours in the air in first class.
And he's driving and smiling, and thinking "this is !@#$ing awesome," and turning off the tollway onto the road that takes you into the airport, and wondering who the !@#$ the idiot is in front of him who really wants to vote for the President a second time...
And that's the last thing he ever sees again with his own eyes, son. A !@#$ing election bumper sticker for a man he really doesn't want in the White House.
The particle beam strikes the main tower at O'Hare, first. A few other ones go off, here and there, but that's the only one he sees. The glare blinds him instantly, and he thinks maybe a nuke went off, and it was the end of the world, because he can hear the booms and screaming and feel the heat.
Yeah, he !@#$ing panics, son. But at least he survives the !@#$ impact when his car runs off the road and into the concrete wall. And then the only reason he stays alive is because the guy who'd been in front of him, and had been lucky enough to be changing his !@#$ hippie Democrat idiot CDs when the flash hit, sees that George is in trouble, and gets him out before his car gets plowed into by even more blind drivers.
So George Smith's one of the lucky unlucky ones of that day, thanks to someone he'd have been !@#$ing sneering at come election night. He actually gets into a !@#$ing hospital, instead of one of the makeshift morgues.
The doctors look in on him, between all the other !@#$ and human wreckage they have to deal with that day. And they determine that, yes, his eyes are gone, and they aren't !@#$ing coming back. But at least he's !@#$ing alive, right?
(And yes, son, at least he has really !@#$ good medical insurance.)
So they get him back with his wife, and yeah, it sucks, and maybe his job's over, now. But at least she's !@#$ing alive too, right? They have money saved up. They have health insurance and life insurance. And even if all else fails, and everything goes down the !@#$ing toilet, they still have each other.
Of course, a while later, it turns out that the Imago are actually repairing anyone who was blinded in the !@#$ attacks. They say they can give you a new pair of eyes for free! Who could !@#$ing say no? That and, as the god of electronics salesmen, he's really !@#$ing curious to see how they work from a users' perspective.
So of course he's first in the !@#$ing line to get himself some new peepers. They wheel the Imago-wagon right up to the nearest hospital, guide their patients in one by one, put them under with soft music in the background, and BOOM, he can see again. All over in ten minutes.
How's life with prosthetic eyes? Not perfect, really. It's kind of like when you look into the sights for an old digital camera, and what you see on the screen and what's really going on is disconnected and slow. You can't really drive with them, reading causes headaches, and watching TV is a !@#$ing pain.
(They do, however, have a plug-in adapter in one temple so you can get electronic impulses right into your !@#$ing brain, so you can watch tv, read off your e-book, and all that stuff. It's just weird is all. And kind of creepy.)
But George can see again. He can walk around and look at things. He can know what he's wearing when he gets dressed. He can watch the sun rise and set, and see the moon, and watch the clouds blow across the sky.
He can see the look on his wife's face when she says she loves him.
That and, a week after he gets his eyes back, his job calls up and wants to know if he'd like his position back, too. Things will have to be a little different, but they're willing to pay him for time lost, and maybe get him some more perks to make up for things.
And of course he says !@#$ yes because he's sick of sitting around the house and pretending he's got a purpose, when he should be out there making deals and shaking hands. And while his old bosses seem a little stand-offish, George just puts it down to how !@#$ing weird his new eyes look, and goes back to work to prove that he's just as good a salesman now as he was before.
So he's got his wife, his life, his job, and his eyes. All things are as they were, minus his old, fried peepers. Things are now well again.
And all would have been well, too, except that George Smith has a brother named Fred, and if George is the god of the traveling salesmen, then Fred is the god of !@#$ing conspiracy nuts.
Now, as you might have guessed, George is conservative. So while he isn't sure he buys the whole thing about been going on in Washington, he's smart enough to know that if any President was going to !@#$ things up that badly, it'd probably be a !@#$ing Democrat. But Fred, he's got all kinds of other ideas.
And, unlike George and his wife, Fred does not watch TV on the internet, and as a result he has not had his brainmeats scrambled into submission by the constant "relax" commands the Imago are sending out over the screens. So he can still think, and he can still question, and he can still ask those questions because no one's !@#$ing turned that part of his brain off.
Of course, you can imagine the time around the !@#$ dinner table gets a little heated and strained, what with George thinking the Imago eat problems and !@#$ gold. But Fred's convinced there's something !@#$ stinky in the kingdom of Denmark, and keeps promising to find proof.
This goes on for a few weeks, and then Fred just up and !@#$ing disappears.
At first, George things Fred's being a !@#$ing !@#$, again, and expect he'll call when he's feeling more social and less frazzled. But the !@#$ call never comes, and George's calls to Fred go unanswered. And when, after a week of not hearing a !@#$ thing, Fred finally has his wife drive them up to Fred's place in Wisconsin, out in the !@#$ing boonies, he finds that the doors are locked, the house is empty, and the car is still in the garage.
His neighbors haven't seen Fred in about a week. They have no !@#$ idea where he could be. But they confirm that the old boy's been a little fired up, lately. Something about how the Imago aren't to be trusted.
And who would !@#$ing think something like that?
So George calls the cops, puts out a missing persons report, and does everything you'd expect someone who's !@#$ing worried about their sibling to do. And he goes back to work because there's really nothing else he can do, and does his usual !@#$ magic with sales. His bosses are happy, people are happy, all good.
But while he's out and about, he realizes that some of his clients are of the same mind about certain things that Fred was. I guess a lot of electronics folks tend to be !@#$ paranoid conservatives, too? And they drink and they smoke and they talk about certain interesting irregularities they've run into, especially on the internet, what with speeds being weird and emails sounding off and the like.
Now George, he drinks and smokes and listens politely, and all the while he's thinking "Aw, !@#$, not more paranoid bull!@#$." But he's a professional, and part of being a professional salesman is that you don't !@#$ing argue with your clients, but pretend to agree with them even if they're !@#$ing Nazi scumbags.
So he smiles, and nods, and laughs at the appropriate moments. And the deals get made and everything's !@#$ing cool and everyone's !@#$ing happy. Tra-la-la.
But then, after a while, his !@#$ clients go missing, too. He gets told by his bosses that he's going to be meeting new contact people for some of the companies he helped handle, and that some of the smaller companies just !@#$ing went under all of a sudden.
They were fine, and then they weren't fine, and then they weren't. At all.
Now, by this point, George is realizing that something is !@#$ing weird. The cops are being really strange about his brother's disappearance, and telling him it's not his concern, and to just back off and let them do their !@#$ job. And when he looks into the vanishing of the people he was making deals with, he's essentially told to back off, again, only this time by his own company.
But how the !@#$ do they know?
So one night, after taking a long weekend at his employers' insistence, he gets an idea. He hooks up some of his testing gear together, sticks a lead into the port of his eye that you normally put a TV plug into, and see what all's going on in there.
And while what he's got in his eyesockets are pretty !@#$ advanced, and more than a little beyond what he's used to dealing with, it's not to hard for him to realize that some of the circuits he's got in there are eerily similar to signal transmitters.
At which point, George Smith !@#$ing realizes that the eyes he's had in his head for the last few months have been acting as surveillance devices for the Imago. Every sight and sound has been recorded and sent off to them. And that's probably why his brother and his mouthy clients have just up and vanished.
And no sooner does he realize that than he gets a phone call. It's from his wife's employer, and they tell him that one of the Imago that lurks around Chi-town just showed up and teleported his wife away. Apparently, she was involved in terrorist activities or something...?
Randolph found George in the hospital of a homeless shelter, down in the city. He'd ripped his eyes out and left them on the table, tossed out everything that could be used to identify him, and wandered out in the hopes of being splattered by traffic. Some kind soul found him, instead, and brought him there, and that's how his story's known to us.
"You tell them the truth," George demanded: "I heard the truth and didn't want to believe it. I had eyes and I was blind to the truth. But now I can see everything, and all it cost me was my life. Don't let this happen to others."
And the next time Randolph went back to check on him, the shelter was deserted. The Imago had been by, looking for terrorists.
Apparently they'd found them.
And that's the sad life of George Smith for you. He didn't have it all, but he was happy and going places, and then the world just got pulled out from under him.
And I could tell you about the man who was Army special forces, and was then retrained to do something so banal and beneath him that he snapped. They say he went berserk, and was brain-fried by an Imago for supposedly holding his own wife hostage, but the truth's a little stranger.
They just needed an example, is all. Another reason why we shouldn't have handguns. Gosh, how nice of them to point that out.
And I could also tell you about the guy who had his chain of gas stations go under because all cars run on water, now, and no one's going to pull over and spend three bucks for a gallon you could get right out of the tap.
He's working at a !@#$ing fast food joint, now. Broke as !@#$ and miserable as !@#$. Maybe they'll use him as an example, too, someday. Or maybe he's not really important enough to !@#$ with. Just another guy who lost out when the economy was remade around him.
!@#$, son, I could tell you about America's favorite conservative radio host, who was essentially neutered and turned into a mouthpiece for Green and Yellow, herself. And when he finally broke down on the air and told the whole story, and told everyone that the Imago had been using him as a !@#$ing sock puppet, he found out that they'd been running a fake show right beside him the entire time, and just let him keep going to see when he'd crack. And now that he had...
...
Never liked that fat bag of !@#$, especially after he called me SPYFAG "by accident," that one time. But what they did to him, son.
What they did to him...
...
I could tell you about those people, and a !@#$ of a lot more. But the truth is that the story of poor George Smith just keeps coming back to me.
He didn't do anything wrong, and wound up killing a whole !@#$ of a lot of people just because they "fixed" him.
And meanwhile, in the other room, Vladimir's insisting that he's the victim, here.
Speaking of which, I'm going to go show him what being a victim means, for a little while. And then, hopefully, I'll be able to get a little more cooperation out of the !@#$er. Maybe enough to be able to get him to realize my aim, as the song says.
Because I've got a world to save, and I've got a plan, but that plan just !@#$ing sucks. And the only person I can really get to help me find a better plan is in that room, wondering how many of his teeth he's going to get to keep today.
So if you'll excuse me? Cause this is really going to get !@#$ing messy, son.
Thanks. Here, have some vodka while you wait. It's good stuff, and you're free to enjoy it, which is more than I can say for far too many people, tonight.
Far, far too !@#$ many.
(SPYGOD is listening to Siamese Twins (The Cure) and having some more Rusky Standart Platinum )
I mean, it's not like the people of Libya have really had a !@#$ing chance to enjoy their freedom, now has it? The Colonel gets his sorry !@#$ planted in late October, after one last, really !@#$ stupid attempt to save his regime, and then it isn't more than half a year later that the !@#$ing Imago take over.
So now, instead of rebuilding their !@#$ing lives, and putting their !@#$ country back together, again, they're having their lives and their nation rebuilt for them, and not exactly by the nicest !@#$ing people around, either.
Of course, if you didn't know any better, and believed everything you saw on the !@#$ing internet, you might think they got lucky, there. And that's because if there's anything that history tells us, and like I've told you at least once before, revolutions are a bloody, nasty !@#$ing business. Everyone who thinks they're oppressed wants one, and then when they get it, they get as !@#$ oppressive as the regime they just !@#$ing toppled.
Now, to be honest, we did see a little of that early on. Any stupid people who were pro-Khadaffy didn't really want to stick their !@#$ necks out and open their mouths after their beloved leader stopped !@#$ing breathing, or they'd have been following him pretty !@#$ quickly. No one likes a !@#$ing spoilsport, you know.
But then, they didn't really have to !@#$ing say anything, either. Most of their friends and neighbors knew who the loyalists were, and you can bet your !@#$ they were kicking in their doors !@#$ quick, not long thereafter. Wanted to have a little word with the people who'd been informing on them, all along, or else just making it harder for them to grumble.
And a few people who weren't loyalists probably got the same !@#$ treatment, because someone wanted revenge, or had a !@#$ score to settle, or just wanted dibs on their car. Which is !@#$ing sick and wrong, but is going to happen whenever people who are nasty as !@#$ and venal to the core see an opening and decide to !@#$ it for all it's worth.
And then the people who got !@#$ed will want to !@#$ the people who !@#$ed them. And then the people who got !@#$ed in return will want to !@#$ them right back. And the longer the !@#$ing Revolution's been overdue, the longer the cycles of revenge will be, and the bigger the ultimate bodycount.
...
So yeah, you might think the people of Libya escaped the whole !@#$ bloody cycle of revolution, provided you didn't know just what evil !@#$ers the Imago actually are. But every revolution's got its winners and losers, son.
And like anyone else, they're usually just standing around, minding their own business, when the world they knew just drops out from under them like the trapdoor under a hanged man.
I've had some cause to think about those folks, in the last couple of days. Mostly thanks to Randolph Scott, you know, my little reporter pal?
Well, since I saved his !@#$, right before everything went right down the !@#$ing toilet, he's been coming quite into his own. Finally learned to use a !@#$ing gun, for one thing, and he and our kids are actually going out and making some news for a change, rather than just reporting it.
I'm pretty !@#$ proud of him, actually, but I'm not telling him. And neither are you, son.
(Not if you know what's !@#$ing good for you, anyway.)
So one of the things that Randolph's been doing is running something of an atrocity archive. Essentially, he's making sure that the stories of ordinary folks who got ground the !@#$ up in the revolution's bloody gears aren't forgotten, or paved over by the brave !@#$ new world the Imago say they're trying to build.
And the other night, when I finally got a reason to report in, I mentally downloaded what he's got going so far. I read a few on the way from Thailand over to St. Petersburg, and I have to tell you, son, they sobered my !@#$ up better than tjbang sticks.
I mean, I like to think I'm a hard man, but when it comes right down to it...
...
Oh, you want a few? Well, I don't have Randolph's way with words, but I guess can tell a story. That and it gives me an excuse to hang out here and pull on this extra tasty vodka while my friend Vladimir tries to figure out his next move.
(!@#$ing idiot still thinks he can talk his way out of this one. Poor him.)
So let's talk about poor George Smith for a while. That's a good !@#$ place to start. It'll get us on the ground floor, anyway.
George is what you might call the God of traveling salesmen. His company's one of the few big electronic parts suppliers that's survived the budget cuts of the last couple decades, and he's been with them for ten years.
He lives in Chicago, or at least that's where he calls home, and where his wife and kids reside most of the year. But if you called home, any old night, chances would be good that he was out of town, somewhere. Maybe selling electrical connectors in California, or resistors and capacitors in Maine.
And if that sounds funny? Well, son, like I said, he's the God of traveling salesmen. If his company needs something closed, or the local reps aren't getting the numbers, they put his !@#$ on a plane and he's out there, making the deal.
So it isn't unusual that, at a certain time on Thursday, March 15th, George is driving his car from the northern suburbs of Chi-town down to O'Hare, ready to catch a flight and go show the local boys why he makes the big bucks. He's got his e-book reader full of the latest magazines, just had a great cup of coffee from the fancy maker he and his wife bought themselves as an anniversary gift, and is looking forward to a couple hours in the air in first class.
And he's driving and smiling, and thinking "this is !@#$ing awesome," and turning off the tollway onto the road that takes you into the airport, and wondering who the !@#$ the idiot is in front of him who really wants to vote for the President a second time...
And that's the last thing he ever sees again with his own eyes, son. A !@#$ing election bumper sticker for a man he really doesn't want in the White House.
The particle beam strikes the main tower at O'Hare, first. A few other ones go off, here and there, but that's the only one he sees. The glare blinds him instantly, and he thinks maybe a nuke went off, and it was the end of the world, because he can hear the booms and screaming and feel the heat.
Yeah, he !@#$ing panics, son. But at least he survives the !@#$ impact when his car runs off the road and into the concrete wall. And then the only reason he stays alive is because the guy who'd been in front of him, and had been lucky enough to be changing his !@#$ hippie Democrat idiot CDs when the flash hit, sees that George is in trouble, and gets him out before his car gets plowed into by even more blind drivers.
So George Smith's one of the lucky unlucky ones of that day, thanks to someone he'd have been !@#$ing sneering at come election night. He actually gets into a !@#$ing hospital, instead of one of the makeshift morgues.
The doctors look in on him, between all the other !@#$ and human wreckage they have to deal with that day. And they determine that, yes, his eyes are gone, and they aren't !@#$ing coming back. But at least he's !@#$ing alive, right?
(And yes, son, at least he has really !@#$ good medical insurance.)
So they get him back with his wife, and yeah, it sucks, and maybe his job's over, now. But at least she's !@#$ing alive too, right? They have money saved up. They have health insurance and life insurance. And even if all else fails, and everything goes down the !@#$ing toilet, they still have each other.
Of course, a while later, it turns out that the Imago are actually repairing anyone who was blinded in the !@#$ attacks. They say they can give you a new pair of eyes for free! Who could !@#$ing say no? That and, as the god of electronics salesmen, he's really !@#$ing curious to see how they work from a users' perspective.
So of course he's first in the !@#$ing line to get himself some new peepers. They wheel the Imago-wagon right up to the nearest hospital, guide their patients in one by one, put them under with soft music in the background, and BOOM, he can see again. All over in ten minutes.
How's life with prosthetic eyes? Not perfect, really. It's kind of like when you look into the sights for an old digital camera, and what you see on the screen and what's really going on is disconnected and slow. You can't really drive with them, reading causes headaches, and watching TV is a !@#$ing pain.
(They do, however, have a plug-in adapter in one temple so you can get electronic impulses right into your !@#$ing brain, so you can watch tv, read off your e-book, and all that stuff. It's just weird is all. And kind of creepy.)
But George can see again. He can walk around and look at things. He can know what he's wearing when he gets dressed. He can watch the sun rise and set, and see the moon, and watch the clouds blow across the sky.
He can see the look on his wife's face when she says she loves him.
That and, a week after he gets his eyes back, his job calls up and wants to know if he'd like his position back, too. Things will have to be a little different, but they're willing to pay him for time lost, and maybe get him some more perks to make up for things.
And of course he says !@#$ yes because he's sick of sitting around the house and pretending he's got a purpose, when he should be out there making deals and shaking hands. And while his old bosses seem a little stand-offish, George just puts it down to how !@#$ing weird his new eyes look, and goes back to work to prove that he's just as good a salesman now as he was before.
So he's got his wife, his life, his job, and his eyes. All things are as they were, minus his old, fried peepers. Things are now well again.
And all would have been well, too, except that George Smith has a brother named Fred, and if George is the god of the traveling salesmen, then Fred is the god of !@#$ing conspiracy nuts.
Now, as you might have guessed, George is conservative. So while he isn't sure he buys the whole thing about been going on in Washington, he's smart enough to know that if any President was going to !@#$ things up that badly, it'd probably be a !@#$ing Democrat. But Fred, he's got all kinds of other ideas.
And, unlike George and his wife, Fred does not watch TV on the internet, and as a result he has not had his brainmeats scrambled into submission by the constant "relax" commands the Imago are sending out over the screens. So he can still think, and he can still question, and he can still ask those questions because no one's !@#$ing turned that part of his brain off.
Of course, you can imagine the time around the !@#$ dinner table gets a little heated and strained, what with George thinking the Imago eat problems and !@#$ gold. But Fred's convinced there's something !@#$ stinky in the kingdom of Denmark, and keeps promising to find proof.
This goes on for a few weeks, and then Fred just up and !@#$ing disappears.
At first, George things Fred's being a !@#$ing !@#$, again, and expect he'll call when he's feeling more social and less frazzled. But the !@#$ call never comes, and George's calls to Fred go unanswered. And when, after a week of not hearing a !@#$ thing, Fred finally has his wife drive them up to Fred's place in Wisconsin, out in the !@#$ing boonies, he finds that the doors are locked, the house is empty, and the car is still in the garage.
His neighbors haven't seen Fred in about a week. They have no !@#$ idea where he could be. But they confirm that the old boy's been a little fired up, lately. Something about how the Imago aren't to be trusted.
And who would !@#$ing think something like that?
So George calls the cops, puts out a missing persons report, and does everything you'd expect someone who's !@#$ing worried about their sibling to do. And he goes back to work because there's really nothing else he can do, and does his usual !@#$ magic with sales. His bosses are happy, people are happy, all good.
But while he's out and about, he realizes that some of his clients are of the same mind about certain things that Fred was. I guess a lot of electronics folks tend to be !@#$ paranoid conservatives, too? And they drink and they smoke and they talk about certain interesting irregularities they've run into, especially on the internet, what with speeds being weird and emails sounding off and the like.
Now George, he drinks and smokes and listens politely, and all the while he's thinking "Aw, !@#$, not more paranoid bull!@#$." But he's a professional, and part of being a professional salesman is that you don't !@#$ing argue with your clients, but pretend to agree with them even if they're !@#$ing Nazi scumbags.
So he smiles, and nods, and laughs at the appropriate moments. And the deals get made and everything's !@#$ing cool and everyone's !@#$ing happy. Tra-la-la.
But then, after a while, his !@#$ clients go missing, too. He gets told by his bosses that he's going to be meeting new contact people for some of the companies he helped handle, and that some of the smaller companies just !@#$ing went under all of a sudden.
They were fine, and then they weren't fine, and then they weren't. At all.
Now, by this point, George is realizing that something is !@#$ing weird. The cops are being really strange about his brother's disappearance, and telling him it's not his concern, and to just back off and let them do their !@#$ job. And when he looks into the vanishing of the people he was making deals with, he's essentially told to back off, again, only this time by his own company.
But how the !@#$ do they know?
So one night, after taking a long weekend at his employers' insistence, he gets an idea. He hooks up some of his testing gear together, sticks a lead into the port of his eye that you normally put a TV plug into, and see what all's going on in there.
And while what he's got in his eyesockets are pretty !@#$ advanced, and more than a little beyond what he's used to dealing with, it's not to hard for him to realize that some of the circuits he's got in there are eerily similar to signal transmitters.
At which point, George Smith !@#$ing realizes that the eyes he's had in his head for the last few months have been acting as surveillance devices for the Imago. Every sight and sound has been recorded and sent off to them. And that's probably why his brother and his mouthy clients have just up and vanished.
And no sooner does he realize that than he gets a phone call. It's from his wife's employer, and they tell him that one of the Imago that lurks around Chi-town just showed up and teleported his wife away. Apparently, she was involved in terrorist activities or something...?
Randolph found George in the hospital of a homeless shelter, down in the city. He'd ripped his eyes out and left them on the table, tossed out everything that could be used to identify him, and wandered out in the hopes of being splattered by traffic. Some kind soul found him, instead, and brought him there, and that's how his story's known to us.
"You tell them the truth," George demanded: "I heard the truth and didn't want to believe it. I had eyes and I was blind to the truth. But now I can see everything, and all it cost me was my life. Don't let this happen to others."
And the next time Randolph went back to check on him, the shelter was deserted. The Imago had been by, looking for terrorists.
Apparently they'd found them.
And that's the sad life of George Smith for you. He didn't have it all, but he was happy and going places, and then the world just got pulled out from under him.
And I could tell you about the man who was Army special forces, and was then retrained to do something so banal and beneath him that he snapped. They say he went berserk, and was brain-fried by an Imago for supposedly holding his own wife hostage, but the truth's a little stranger.
They just needed an example, is all. Another reason why we shouldn't have handguns. Gosh, how nice of them to point that out.
And I could also tell you about the guy who had his chain of gas stations go under because all cars run on water, now, and no one's going to pull over and spend three bucks for a gallon you could get right out of the tap.
He's working at a !@#$ing fast food joint, now. Broke as !@#$ and miserable as !@#$. Maybe they'll use him as an example, too, someday. Or maybe he's not really important enough to !@#$ with. Just another guy who lost out when the economy was remade around him.
!@#$, son, I could tell you about America's favorite conservative radio host, who was essentially neutered and turned into a mouthpiece for Green and Yellow, herself. And when he finally broke down on the air and told the whole story, and told everyone that the Imago had been using him as a !@#$ing sock puppet, he found out that they'd been running a fake show right beside him the entire time, and just let him keep going to see when he'd crack. And now that he had...
...
Never liked that fat bag of !@#$, especially after he called me SPYFAG "by accident," that one time. But what they did to him, son.
What they did to him...
...
I could tell you about those people, and a !@#$ of a lot more. But the truth is that the story of poor George Smith just keeps coming back to me.
He didn't do anything wrong, and wound up killing a whole !@#$ of a lot of people just because they "fixed" him.
And meanwhile, in the other room, Vladimir's insisting that he's the victim, here.
Speaking of which, I'm going to go show him what being a victim means, for a little while. And then, hopefully, I'll be able to get a little more cooperation out of the !@#$er. Maybe enough to be able to get him to realize my aim, as the song says.
Because I've got a world to save, and I've got a plan, but that plan just !@#$ing sucks. And the only person I can really get to help me find a better plan is in that room, wondering how many of his teeth he's going to get to keep today.
So if you'll excuse me? Cause this is really going to get !@#$ing messy, son.
Thanks. Here, have some vodka while you wait. It's good stuff, and you're free to enjoy it, which is more than I can say for far too many people, tonight.
Far, far too !@#$ many.
(SPYGOD is listening to Siamese Twins (The Cure) and having some more Rusky Standart Platinum )
Sunday, November 11, 2012
9/12/12 - Commit the Sin, Commit Yourself
" ... was the scene from Pontianak, yesterday, at 4 PM local time. Residents were stunned by a loud explosion, followed by a sound that witnesses described as screaming metal.
"They came out of their homes and businesses in time to see a seemingly-small portion of the Space Elevator wrapped in flames, and then ran for cover as it began to crumble and break at that point, and slowly fall down.
"The tower fell in keeping with the Earth's Eastward rotation, so that its staggering, 100 mile length came crashing down to the West.
"The tower was made from a special, transparent, heat resistant metal, so it did not burn up in the atmosphere as it fell, nor did it crumble under its own weight as it came down.
"As one giant, super-steel tube, it fell to the Earth, striking down on the fields, hills, and rivers of that part of Indonesia.
"And the roar it created as it fell, and as it hit, could be seen for hundreds of miles around, and heard for even wider distances -- at least as far away as Hong Kong, by some accounts.
"Fortunately, loss of life was minimal, as there was nothing in that area except for the Imago's mostly-automated receiving station, which takes, sorts, and transports the many things that a unified humanity makes in order to safeguard Earth against the threat we all face.
"Responsibility for the attack was claimed by the New Pattani United Liberation Organization, a group of Islamic radicals primarily operating in Southern Thailand, who were thought to have been mostly wiped out by a government crackdown in 2006.
"So far, the Imago have only broadcast a single message in response to this terrifying incident: DO NOT BE AFRAID OR ALARMED. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL.
"Already, witnesses claim they have seen 'legions' of Imago floating about the ruins of the space elevator, seemingly preparing to fix the massive damage done to it, and raise it up above the clouds once more...."
"I will see to that," Black and Dark Green says, rising up to do just that.
"And I will sync with the Leader. Perhaps others in other work camps are having better luck."
Five million people dead, just like that.
On his way out of the office-turned-abattoir, the Imago turned to the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the assistant, who hadn't been in the room because he'd been in the bathroom, and then wisely decided to wait outside. The little man stumbles before the metal being who whirls on him, about to plead for his life, but halts in mid-prayer as the stern face smiles upon him.
"I have good news for you, O friend," Blue and Vermillion says: "You are now the acting head of Internal Security Operations Command. We shall inform your leaders of this change. And your first duty is to make the finding of the New Pattani United Liberation Organization your primary objective.
"You will see to this?"
"Yes, yes," the small man stammers, trying not to !@#$ himself: "At once, sir. You can count on me."
"Good, O man," the Imago says, patting him on the head with a hand still sticky with blood and filth: "They could not. I feel you will."
And then he's teleported away, leaving the small man to collapse to his knees, suddenly very grateful for his touchy digestive system.
"They came out of their homes and businesses in time to see a seemingly-small portion of the Space Elevator wrapped in flames, and then ran for cover as it began to crumble and break at that point, and slowly fall down.
"The tower fell in keeping with the Earth's Eastward rotation, so that its staggering, 100 mile length came crashing down to the West.
"The tower was made from a special, transparent, heat resistant metal, so it did not burn up in the atmosphere as it fell, nor did it crumble under its own weight as it came down.
"As one giant, super-steel tube, it fell to the Earth, striking down on the fields, hills, and rivers of that part of Indonesia.
"And the roar it created as it fell, and as it hit, could be seen for hundreds of miles around, and heard for even wider distances -- at least as far away as Hong Kong, by some accounts.
"Fortunately, loss of life was minimal, as there was nothing in that area except for the Imago's mostly-automated receiving station, which takes, sorts, and transports the many things that a unified humanity makes in order to safeguard Earth against the threat we all face.
"Responsibility for the attack was claimed by the New Pattani United Liberation Organization, a group of Islamic radicals primarily operating in Southern Thailand, who were thought to have been mostly wiped out by a government crackdown in 2006.
"So far, the Imago have only broadcast a single message in response to this terrifying incident: DO NOT BE AFRAID OR ALARMED. EVERYTHING IS UNDER CONTROL.
"Already, witnesses claim they have seen 'legions' of Imago floating about the ruins of the space elevator, seemingly preparing to fix the massive damage done to it, and raise it up above the clouds once more...."
* * *
Applause and cheering erupts at B.A.S.E.C.A.M.P. 4. as they watch the pirated -- and non-brainwashing -- video for the first time. There's dancing and hugging, laughing and tears of joy.
(Winifred surprises Myron with a big hug and a kiss, and after a second or two he doesn't seem to surprised or worried about it.)
"How did this happen?" Mark asks the people back "up top," in Toonland, once the cheering dies down a bit: "Does anyone have any idea?"
"We don't, no," Fred replies through the communicator: "We checked in with Freedom Force, but they're at a loss, too."
"Well, I can tell you it wasn't New Pattani," the Green Man snorts, shaking his head as the announcer repeats the story: "Not without a lot of help, anyway. I worked a bit with Thai Intelligence before the coup. Those fools couldn't blow up a schoolbus, much less a thing like that."
"And you'd know all about blowing up schoolbuses, wouldn't you?" Mark replies, to which the pale fellow says nothing -- wheeling on his heel and leaving the room in a huff. On the way out he almost bumps into Myron, who's left the room in quite a hurry, his face red as a beet.
"He does have a point, my dear," the Fist says, leaning in to speak quietly: "I did work with Egyptian intelligence, and their data on that group was quite extensive. They were a fourth-rate outfit at best. So either something has changed, or someone helped them, or..."
"Or someone used them?" Mark completes the sentence, finally able to decipher her mostly-hidden facial expressions through voice alone, given that she covers.
"It would be his style," she offers: "I think I heard him say 'I use the enemy' on more than one occasion. And it is not bad strategy, to kill two targets with one bullet."
"Fred? Did you catch that?" Mark asks: "Do you think it's SPYGOD, come back at last?"
"Could very well be," Fred says: "I don't know if he's back yet or not, but we've seen how his plans work."
"Well... what does he say?" Mark asks, not willing to say too much about the mysterious figure in their lives.
"He's not saying anything, actually. He smiled and took off. So either he knew, or this wasn't very surprising."
"And that's not very surprising at all, is it," Mark sighs: "Any news of what's happening now?"
"No, they just keep repeating this. I guess the Imago couldn't just sweep this one under the rug, so we're getting it looped."
"It's !@#$ darn to hide when a 100 mile space elevator falls down and goes boom," Myron adds, running back into the room with a big bottle of champagne: "I was saving this for something, but..."
He looks around the room, realizes how many people there are Muslim, and smiles sheepishly. The Lion just laughs and waves him to come in. "We will be happy with some juice, my friend. On this day, all drinks are in celebration."
Everyone laughs, the drinks get passed, toasts are made and thanks are given. Strategy is discussed and amended. New plans are made, new timetables proposed. Hope doubles in size.
And, by the end of the evening, no one has any better idea who may have actually done this, though they all hope it's who they think it is.
Some remark, later, that Myron and Winifred are quite inseparable throughout the celebration, and leave earlier than the others.
A few also remark that Green Man stayed quite clear of everyone for some time thereafter, though, given his sour disposition -- and the bad news he got, the day he arrived here -- that's not so surprising.
And a few remember that the otherwise-convivial Man Of Steel was not anywhere to be seen throughout the entire thing -- almost as if he'd been in hiding for some weird reason.
* * *
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.
O peoples of the Earth, we bring sad news,
O peoples of the Earth, we bring sad news,
For as you have seen with your eyes, we have been attacked.
Our space elevator has been cut down by dangerous persons,
interrupting our shared efforts to protect the Earth.
Protect you.
We regret having to show these things to you.
We regret having to show these things to you.
We know that these things must shock you, and scare you
and make you wonder if we, the Imago, can protect you at all.
We realize this must erode your confidence in us.
We are sorry.
But you can rest ensured, O peoples of the Earth,
But you can rest ensured, O peoples of the Earth,
for we Imago are not so easily harmed or destroyed.
These terrorists may have brought down a single tower,
but they cannot touch us in our entirety.
They cannot.
Do these misguided and sad people know what they do?
Do these misguided and sad people know what they do?
Do they believe this is the right thing, to condemn Earth to death?
Do they feel we are evil, or that they know more than we do?
Or are they in league with the threat, ever-oncoming?
We don't know.
But you can be assured that we will find out their reasons.
We will hunt them down and bring their leaders to justice.
They will see the error of their ways, and work to fix that mistake.
No one group will be allowed to harm the whole.
Not by us.
And you can rest assured that the tower will soar, again.
And you can rest assured that the tower will soar, again.
Even now, as we speak, we Imago work to put it back up.
It will rise as high as before, and be twice as strong.
This moment of darkness will soon be eclipsed by bright light.
You will see.
So do not fear, O Peoples of the Earth.
You still need fear no evil or darkness, for we are here.
The trials of the present will bring the joys of the future,
And all you truly need is love.
Let us soar.
* * *
The Asian Imam screams as his brains boil inside his skull. The metal thumbs in his eyesockets record all the details, big and small, of his life, until there's simply nothing left to remove. And then -- his mind an empty, ashen slate -- he's dropped to the white, plastic floor of the small, tent Mosque, twitching as his nervous system collapses upon itself.
The Imago that killed him -- Light Green and Purple -- stands upright and regards his gauntlets, slick and red with dark blood and other bodily fluids. He also regards the many bodies on the white, plastic floor he's floating above, all with their eyes pushed in, their sockets smoking, and their brains turned to smoldering powder.
He floats out of the room, over the corpses he created. Already, the floor is lapping up the liquid and solid waste products their deaths have generated; given time, they'll break the bodies down, too, though he suspects the workers here will see to their burial long before then.
Provided the Imago leave any alive, today.
Outside, in the main thoroughfare of the tent city that houses the population of Thepha, in southern Thailand, he can see that his fellow Imago are not being very gentle. Black and Dark Green has just finished interrogating a dormitory for young, single men, and his hands are even bloodier than Light Green and Purple.
"No one knew anything of consequence," Black and Dark Green reports: "The names of the men who died in the plane are unknown to them. Many of them were sympathetic towards, or knew members of, that organization, but none of them knew anything about this attack, nor anything that could help us in the search."
"None of these men knew anything useful, either," Light Green and Purple says, gesturing to the mosque: "The Imam was morally opposed to sectarian violence, and told his people not to get involved in it."
"Apparently, his reading of their Holy Book is at extreme variance with the interpretation that this organization seems to follow."
"Not surprising, given Human history. Would we achieve better results by threatening the children?"
"Apparently, his reading of their Holy Book is at extreme variance with the interpretation that this organization seems to follow."
"Not surprising, given Human history. Would we achieve better results by threatening the children?"
"No," Black and Dark Green says: "They would merely consider them to be martyrs as well. And when we failed to carry through on the threat, they would see too much."
"True, on both counts," Light Green and Purple says: "Proof of how truly wretched humanity is."
"True, on both counts," Light Green and Purple says: "Proof of how truly wretched humanity is."
"It is nothing we do not know by now," Black and Dark Green says "I look forward to The Day."
"The Day," Light Green and Purple repeats, sharing in the reverence: "We should erradicate the rest of these people. They will not serve us, now."
"The Day," Light Green and Purple repeats, sharing in the reverence: "We should erradicate the rest of these people. They will not serve us, now."
"I will see to that," Black and Dark Green says, rising up to do just that.
"And I will sync with the Leader. Perhaps others in other work camps are having better luck."
* * *
They weren't.
In every tent city, and every non-resettled population center in Southern Thailand, the Imago were asking questions, and no one could give them any answers. All their victims could "say" for certain was that while they may have had their own feelings or sympathies towards that group, or any other such group, they did not know anyone involved in the attack. Which was sad, seeing as how, in the end, the Imago had to exterminate every work camp they interrogated, and they interrogated many work camps.
In every tent city, and every non-resettled population center in Southern Thailand, the Imago were asking questions, and no one could give them any answers. All their victims could "say" for certain was that while they may have had their own feelings or sympathies towards that group, or any other such group, they did not know anyone involved in the attack. Which was sad, seeing as how, in the end, the Imago had to exterminate every work camp they interrogated, and they interrogated many work camps.
Five million people dead, just like that.
* * *
Their quest for the truth took them to Bangkok, and the headquarters of the Internal Security Operations Command. Their contacts there were a little more forthcoming, especially after the first thing that Blue and Vermillion did was to crush the skull of their leader while he was trying to introduce his new assistant, and then demand that assistant give an exact accounting for the whereabouts, activities, and technical expertise of the New Pattani United Liberation Organization.
But in the end, all they could say is what was already known. The group was a splinter group of another splinter group, and had proven themselves to have much more bark than bite. After their leader had been shot and killed in 2006, and many of his lieutenants captured, tried, and executed for their crimes against the state after then, the remainder went underground. And they did nothing more dangerous than pray, plan, and trip over their own ammunition and shoelaces.
"So you mean to say they have been out there, all this time, and you have done nothing to them?" Blue and Vermillion asked the assistant to the assistant to the assistant, who was the only person still alive in the room by that point.
But in the end, all they could say is what was already known. The group was a splinter group of another splinter group, and had proven themselves to have much more bark than bite. After their leader had been shot and killed in 2006, and many of his lieutenants captured, tried, and executed for their crimes against the state after then, the remainder went underground. And they did nothing more dangerous than pray, plan, and trip over their own ammunition and shoelaces.
"So you mean to say they have been out there, all this time, and you have done nothing to them?" Blue and Vermillion asked the assistant to the assistant to the assistant, who was the only person still alive in the room by that point.
"Sir, you must understand," the man said, trying not to show his fear: "Such a group is useful from an intelligence standpoint. They can be used to watch overall movements within a larger terrorist network. By observing them, and gently working to counteract their major goals, we can keep tabs on other, more dangerous groups. We can even infiltrate them, if necessary, and set up crossfires and accidents."
"So you mean to say that you had them under surveillance this entire time?"
"Yes," the man says: "But so far as we knew, they were planning nothing of this caliber. I think they were going to assassinate an Imam who tried to get his flock away from violence, but that was it. And it was so badly-constructed a plan I do not think we were even going to intervene."
"Then you have been fooled," Blue and Vermillion said: "And your foolishness will cost you."
"Then you have been fooled," Blue and Vermillion said: "And your foolishness will cost you."
On his way out of the office-turned-abattoir, the Imago turned to the assistant to the assistant to the assistant to the assistant, who hadn't been in the room because he'd been in the bathroom, and then wisely decided to wait outside. The little man stumbles before the metal being who whirls on him, about to plead for his life, but halts in mid-prayer as the stern face smiles upon him.
"I have good news for you, O friend," Blue and Vermillion says: "You are now the acting head of Internal Security Operations Command. We shall inform your leaders of this change. And your first duty is to make the finding of the New Pattani United Liberation Organization your primary objective.
"You will see to this?"
"Yes, yes," the small man stammers, trying not to !@#$ himself: "At once, sir. You can count on me."
"Good, O man," the Imago says, patting him on the head with a hand still sticky with blood and filth: "They could not. I feel you will."
And then he's teleported away, leaving the small man to collapse to his knees, suddenly very grateful for his touchy digestive system.
* * *
Later that night, in a dim sum restaurant in Hong Kong, there's something of an odd disturbance.
People would tell the police that a white man entered and had a few courses. He spoke decent Chinese, with an American accident (New York, someone thought) but people could not quite place him, visually. It was as though no one who saw him could accurately describe any feature of his that could make him stand out from their general idea of what a white man looked like.
He'd been there an hour, and had several course, and more than a few beers. It was odd that he didn't return the flirting of the young ladies who served his table, much less the friendly conversation from the old ladies who trundled the food carts across the floor. He was not drunk or sullen, but seemed preoccupied, as though he was waiting for news.
He received a message on his pad, and when he looked at what it said, he went rigid, and then began to shake. He got up and walked to the men's room, and locked the door behind him. And for the next ten minutes, every person in the entire building was scared utterly !@#$less by the rapid-fire barrage of curses and screaming that erupted from there.
("You dirty !@#$holes," "How could you?" "Five million people!" and "I didn't know!" seemed to be the four key phrases, but "I am going to !@#$ you to death! All of you!" stuck in one waitress' head.)
("You dirty !@#$holes," "How could you?" "Five million people!" and "I didn't know!" seemed to be the four key phrases, but "I am going to !@#$ you to death! All of you!" stuck in one waitress' head.)
The police arrived after it had been quiet for a few minutes. They kicked down the door, but the man was already gone; he'd apparently shimmed out a window that he shouldn't have been able to fit through. On the sink was how much he owed for dinner, plus a sizable tip, and another pile of money that was clearly meant for damages.
(The mirror over the sink was smashed, doubtlessly punched in. There was no blood.)
What could the police do? They told the owners of the establishment to be grateful he'd paid his bill, and said they'd get back with them. Past that, all they could do was put out an APB for a white man with no description, and chalk it up to another strange night in Kowloon.
And when the surveillance camera logs were checked, and they found out that the video could not focus on the man's face and eyes -- so that their computers could not identify him at all -- they kicked it upstairs, like they were supposed to, and went back to rousting easier crimes.
When you have to police eight million people, sometimes living with desertion is all you can do.
(SPYGOD is listening to Other Voices (The Cure) and having a Sinkiang Black Beer)
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