9/13/12 - Revenge of the Inferior Man

"So," a voice says, rousting an old man from his unconsciousness: "You ever get the feeling that you trusted the wrong !@#$ing person?"

The man blinks his eyes, and tries to move. He's an old, Chinese man, skinny as !@#$. He has wispy, white hair that goes down past his navel, and an unkempt mustache that comes down to his nipples. His eyes are bright green, his chest is covered in swirling, colorful tattoos.

And his fingers are gnarled stumps -- seemingly chewed off at the knuckles.

His head pounds, and he remembers that he was working on something important. Then someone struck him on the back of the head, and everything went red and then black.

And then he realizes that the reason he can't move is because he's been tied to a chair. 

The bound man groans and twists against the miles of duct tape that have bound him to his chair, here in the middle of a darkened room filled with glorious, sparkling, high-tech treasures. He cries out but his voice is muffled by a heavy duct tape gag.

"Calling for those soldiers?" the voice asks: "Don't !@#$ing bother. I dealt with them first. And I'm sure you got something here that'll bring 'em back to life, but you ain't getting to it."

The man howls and hurls abuse, along with a few questions as to his captor's identity. There's a light shining down on his chair, making it very hard to see anything beyond it but the faintest suggestion of shapes.

"So let me guess, you got !@#$ing sloppy over time, huh?" the voice goes on, the shape it belongs to moving around the edge of vision: "Those guards out there, keeping your old !@#$ safe? Security is an illusion, old man. I think you told a friend of mine that, once, before you did something really !@#$ rude with his girlfriend and a ball of fire..."

The old man's eyes go wide at that. He knows what this is.

He knows.

"So, anyway," his captor goes on, walking around him in a circle, just outside the light: "Here we are. I'm supposed to be handing you the other half of the money I owe you for that excellent !@#$ing work you did on those bombs. And then we can not shake hands, because we know how well that works...."

(More mumbling and and cursing under duct tape, especially when his captor goes over to a certain pair of golden, ornate gauntlets and looks at them, in the process of grabbing a pack of the man's special, black heroin cigarettes.)

"... and then we could go our separate ways. And maybe I could give you more !@#$ing money for another job in the future? That's the plan, right?"

More mumbling.

"Well, !@#$ you and your assumptions," he says, lighting one of the cigarettes up: "I worked through a third party, just so you wouldn't !@#$ing sniff me out with one of your wickity-muckity alien hoodoo things, here. But that was me doing the buying and selling, in reality.

"And the using, too. And your work's as good as always, I gotta say."

Yet more mumbling, rather accusing this time.

"Oh come off it, Long Baoshan," the man who's tied him up says, taking much too long to smoke one of his "host's" special cigarettes: "You used to work for the Chinese government, back in the day, before and after your little transformational incident. You know how this game's played. You know how it goes when someone tells you one !@#$ing thing, but they really mean another. Right?"

More mumbling.

"Well, I'm sure you do. !@#$, some people like to say you guys actually invented that !@#$, but I think we both know that's just racist !@#$. Yellow peril and all that. You shifty little yellow bastards, you."

The man tries to say something else, but he can't bring himself to. He knows that this is it, now. He's dead, and there's nothing he can do about it.

He looks around his workshop, stocked from floor to ceiling with pulsing, alien equipment, strange weapons, and things that no one but he -- except maybe that Dr. Yesterday guielo -- would ever be able to identify in ten lifetimes. It's everything he would need to free himself, turn the tables, and turn this person from a threat to a smoking pile of cinders. But it won't do him any good, right now.

No good at all.

"Yeah, what you'd give for a soldering iron in your hands, huh? Or maybe one of those !@#$ing disintegration bombs you used? You always were way ahead of your time, Long... however much you had to cheat to get there."

Louder mumbling. Arguing, even.

"Oh, come off it, you bad-bearded !@#$. You stole this !@#$. You had custody of the People's Republic of China's Extra-Terrestrial Technology lockup, and you got ideas. Next thing they know, you're gone, and so's half their !@#$ stash.

"And then, next thing we know, you're dressing up like a dragon Emperor and threatening cities for ransom."

No mumbling now. Instead he narrows his green eyes to slits and gives his captor an angry stare.

"Of course, it's the 60's. Things are just starting to get really weird, so you just fit right in, don't you? All your crazy-!@#$ alien tech that you claimed was magic, and all your escape hatches and duck blinds to hide behind. That whole thing with the Triads, your own !@#$ army. Man, you were one busy little supervillain.

"But then you had to go and do it, didn't you? You had to go and decide you were gonna pick a !@#$ fight with an American superhero, and make him your big rival.

"You had to go be someone's arch-enemy...."

His captor drags long and deep off the cigarette, taking it almost all the way down to the tip. When he exhales, it's a series of concentric rings, which he blows into the light.

"You see, maybe you don't remember, anymore, but before then, we really didn't have them. In fact, I think one of the Legion's rules was that you couldn't concentrate on just one strategic talent, for fear of them finally getting sick of your !@#$, and going after you with all guns blazing.

"Cause if you took one down, then others would have to jump in and avenge the death. And then it'd be an all out war, all for the want of some pride and a hurt !@#$hole.

"But you? You just had to be !@#$ing different. You decided you were going to rain on someone's parade, just to be a little !@#$ and get some cred with people on our side of the !@#$ing Pacific.

"And for reasons that, I'm sorry to say, even I don't even know, you decided to pick on poor Gold Standard."

More glaring. Another puff. More circles, followed by a careful flick of a spent cigarette tip that bounces right off the old man's nose, making him mumble some more.

"I mean, why the !@#$? Why him? Did he do something to you, back in Korea? Were you in the Chinese Army, then? Was your first taste of yankee might and power given to you by some !@#$er in a gold suit of armor that talked like an Army recruiter?"

The eyes glare more, and the interrogator shrugs: "Well, okay. You don't want to say, that's fine. It's not like it really !@#$ing matters, anyway. It's ancient history, now.

"Except that you changed things, you old !@#$. You made it okay to hate on one person in particular, and go out of your !@#$ way to make their lives a living !@#$.

"And that's exactly what you did, wasn't it? You made a total hash of that poor guy's life. You stole his money, crashed his car, burned his house. You !@#$ing killed every woman he was ever involved with, saw off his parents, arranged for him to meet the child he didn't know he had and then !@#$ing tore his head off, right in front of him..."

The old man smiles behind the duct tape. His captor knows this because of the way his eyes glint in the half-light.

"Yeah, you just choke on it, you !@#$" his captor hisses at the man as his eyes shine with pride: "You !@#$ed up his life just because you thought it needed !@#$ing. So you could leave stupid analects all over the crime scenes, boasting about inferior men and superior men.

"Did that really make you feel like you were the superior man, Long? Really?

"Because let me tell you something, you wrinkled !@#$. All that Gold Standard ever wanted to do was serve his !@#$ing country. He thought if he used his skills to protect it, he'd be doing right by the place of his birth.

"He didn't want fame or fortune or anything else. He just wanted to be able to say, at the end of a long !@#$ing day, that he made the world just that much safer. That much more just, and sane.

"And for that, you thought he was inferior."

The old man stops smiling into his gag. His eyes are closed, but not from contemplation or guilt. He's just wondering when it's going to happen.

When he's going to die.

"So yeah. You ruined his life. You made it a thing for super villains to fixate their bull!@#$ on one person and make their lives miserable. I got a binder full of !@#$ing arch-criminals, now, and it's all your !@#$ fault.

"So you can imagine I was really !@#$ glad when the word came through that the Chinese had enough of your !@#$, and busted you down. I guess it was that one time when you almost blew up the whole !@#$ing planet, just to get one over on Gold Standard. I guess they didn't appreciate the fact that you forgot they happened to be on the !@#$ing planet at the time?

"Hence your fingers?"

A finger comes into the light, and points to the chewed up hands, which earns him a slivered, angry look.

"Dogs, right? They smeared them with duck sauce, put you in stocks, and let the dogs loose? That was what I saw on that film they sent me as a professional courtesy, right?"

Another, even more angry look is his only reply.

"Yeah, that's what I !@#$ing thought. Of course, you can still use your gauntlets, once you earned them back from your new paymasters. But they ripped out all the !@#$ing good stuff and gave them to other, more controllable agents and talents.

"All you can do with those things, now, is have !@#$ing hands. Clawed hands, maybe, but it's enough for you to do your !@#$ job, and make some scratch on the side. Just keep making weapons for the Commies up in Beijing, and everyone's !@#$ing happy.

"But I bet you miss being on the mainland, instead of being stuck on this !@#$hole little island. I bet you miss doing what you want instead of being a prisoner, and having soldiers check in on you every !@#$ing five minutes. I bet you miss being able to spend your money in big cities, like the !@#$ing playboy you used to be.

"And I bet you really miss being able to !@#$ing wipe your !@#$, you superior man, you."

More mumbling, angrier than ever. Of course, this just makes his captor more amused.

"So yeah, Gold Standard is dead," he goes on, lighting up another cigarette: "Radiation poisoning from his own armor. After all the horrible, !@#$ed-up things you did to try and ruin his life, you didn't get to be the one who did him in. He wound up killing himself.

"Accidentally, of course. That's what happens when you invent your own !@#$ power source and don't test it before you strap it on and go fight crime. Hazard of the profession.

"But you know what I think? I think that after you killed his son a little light went out of his eyes. That little, fragile piece of humanity that makes all the difference between caring whether you live and die, and not giving a !@#$? I think it broke, that day.

"And I never saw it get fixed.

"But then I'm sure you heard all about that. In fact, I saw your collection of newspaper clippings and internet printouts, back in the bathroom, right on top of the western girlie mags. All those stories about his retirement, and his medical condition, and how he spent his last few days on Earth...

"Did you read them while you took a !@#$? Did you !@#$ing jerk off to them? Huh?"


No answer.

His captor screams and hurls the cigarette in such a way that the business end smacks the man right between his eyebrows. The old man screams in shock and pain, terrified that he almost lost an eye.

There's footsteps from the edge of the circle of light, heading away -- maybe to the door. There's metal sounds.

Slooshing. 

"You really are a sorry !@#$ piece of work, Long Baoshan," the voice says, coming closer with a clunky, metal, slooshing object: "I'm glad we had this little conversation, though. I'm glad we could finally clear the air, after all these years. Just so you know that I could have come here, anytime, and !@#$ing killed you for all that !@#$ you pulled on a good man.

"But instead, I used you."

More mumbling.

"Yes, that's right, Long. I used you like a two-dollar whore. All these years, I was one of your best !@#$ing customers. I had you build me things that I turned around and used on your !@#$ing friends. I had you examine technology and break it down for me, and then handed that over to other people to replicate and rejigger.

"I even defeated a doomsday device with your help, once. You had no idea the thing you were making was the thing we needed to break. So I just watched how you put it together, and then we !@#$ing took it apart the same way.

"And you never had any !@#$ing idea. That was the best part."

More angry mumbling.

"And you've been very !@#$ helpful since the Imago took over. And you're especially welcome for living this long, too. A couple years back I fixed it so that the part of the Chinese government that knew you were here lost all !@#$ing contact with the rest of the Chinese government. You've been a secret wrapped in a package stuffed in a big !@#$ black box for the last decade or so, Long.

"So when the invasion happened... no one knew to come looking for you. Neat trick, huh?"

No mumbling. Shock, even.

"And that's been a !@#$ good thing on my part, too, because without your genius, however stolen, I would never have been able to make the bombs that I used on that !@#$ing space elevator. Ordinary ordinance would have bounced the !@#$ off, and they'd just put it back together, anyway. You know how those !@#$ers are.

"But seeing as how you're one of the few experts on nanotech scramblers, well, good luck putting humpty dumpty's fat !@#$ back together again. Nice work, Long. A+

"But..."

The man comes closer, bringing the slooshing something with him, almost up to the light.

"... since you are one of the few experts on nanotech scramblers, and you've done work for other people, it's only a matter of time before they actually do track you back here. And then we could all be in the !@#$. Especially if they find you and connect you to me. And double if they find all your cool !@#$ here, and put it to work.

"So."

He lifts up the metal object, and holds it into the light so the old man can see it.

It's a gas can -- clearly full.

The old man starts screaming through the gag

"Now, see, normally I'd shoot your !@#$ eyes out, and then burn your body," SPYGOD says, stepping forward into the light: "But this time, I think I'm going to do it in reverse. Just for laughs.

"That and I think Gold Standard might appreciate the proxy revenge."

The old man screams. Gas coats him from head to toe. Spygod lights up a cigarette, puffs it gently --savoring the fat taste, and the near-lethal tang of heroin.

When he taps it out, he does so in such a way that a trail of dying embers floats over onto the supervillain's body. There's a whoosh as it ignites, followed by the terrible noise as the duct tape catches fire and collapses, allowing what's left of the old man to truly scream.

And SPYGOD watches, smokes deadly cigarettes, and smiles.

* * *

A short, well-dressed Chinese man stands some distance away from the nondescript structure on the highest peak of Xiaosanmen island. He watches as the building burns, wondering if the man who went in there will come out before it completely collapses.

Eventually, he does. In fact, he seems to have timed it perfectly -- waiting until the very last second, almost, and then strutting through the front door just as the central support finally crumbles, sending up a wave of fire and sparks.

"Is that an end to it, then?" he asks SPYGOD, who's walking towards him with a large, black suitcase in one hand: "The August Verdant Imperator no longer takes breath?"

"That'd be !@#$ right, Lee," he says: "Long Baoshan is !@#$ing dead. Thanks for sticking around."

"So what next?' the man asks: "If you like, I can introduce you to many other experts in similar technologies. I even have a man in Lantau who can-"

He never finishes the sentence. SPYGOD shoots him twice -- once in each eye socket -- and blows his brains out the back of his skull.

"Next, we leave you for the !@#$ing buzzards to find," he says, kneeling down and taking his money out of the man's pockets: "And then, in your next life, you find a better !@#$ing profession than weapons trafficking."

That done, he stands up, and looks out at the sea surrounding the otherwise-deserted island. He sees that a certain space elevator is not yet put back into place, and smiles.

"Inferior men," he chuckles, wondering if he should keep these nasty, black cigarettes or throw them away.

And then, after he makes his decision, he's gone.

(SPYGOD is listening to Zenstation (Depeche Mode) and having a cigarette you really shouldn't think about smoking)

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...."

* * *

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,

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 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,

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 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.

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?"

"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." 

"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."

"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. 

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.

"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."

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.)

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)

9/11/12 - Running Towards Nothing, Again and Again

So, son, I bet you've been wondering what the !@#$ your old pal SPYGOD has up to, lately?

"Been a bit !@#$ quiet, lately, there, sir. Do you have a rescue plan up and running, yet? The planet isn't going to !@#$ing save itself, now is it?"

And no, son, it isn't. But these things take time and finesse. Especially when you've got the kind of odds stacked against us that we do.

I mean, !@#$. They have Deep Ten, don't they? That's total coverage of the airspace of the entire !@#$ing world, right there. We so much as pop up our heads and they'll !@#$ing vape them from orbit, just to be sure.

And then there's those Falsefaces, and the Imago, themselves. And whatever the !@#$ they turned my beautiful Flier into. And that city that rose out of the waves.

Oh, yes, son -- I know about that, now. I know all about that !@#$, now. And while I may not know exactly what it means, I know enough to know that it's nothing good, and that we're going to have to be just a little more careful about certain things.

And I do not like it -- Not one !@#$ bit.

I do not like sitting on my hands with my thumbs up my !@#$. I do not like this waiting and watching instead of kicking and fighting. I do not like the fact that people around the world are being !@#$ed and enslaved and killed.

And I do not like not being in control at a time like this. 

So I've been making plans. Quiet and careful plans. Mostly with friends, sometimes with enemies, and sometimes with people who have no !@#$ idea who I am, or what I'm doing, or what I need them to do it for.

Like today, for example.

Today, I'm sitting in a sun chair on the deserted beach of the Samui Beach Resort, in sunny Koh Samui, off the coast of Thailand. I got here yesterday, after some quiet but necessary business in Bangkok, and I've been sneaking around ever since.

I'm drinking cold, local beer that I liberated from what's left of the resort's kitchen, since the island was evacuated and put to work by the Imago. No one's left here but crabs, birds, and the occasional escapee or thief, but I've got plenty of time before the metal men come looking.

I'm looking Southwest, towards Indonesia, as I drink my beer. On a clear day like today, you can almost see a certain orbital elevator the Imago put together, quite some time ago.

Yeah, son. Almost. It's tall enough to put something in near earth orbit, with a little help, but it's not too wide, or thick.

Or well armored, for that matter.

I'm checking my watch, every so often. It's a nice watch -- heavy, thick, and precise to the last nanosecond. It's also loaded with lots of neat spy tricks, but right now they don't matter as much as just knowing what !@#$ing time it is.

Especially given what's about to happen.

Now, I can hear you asking, son: "Gee, SPYGOD, what is about to happen? What the heck have you been up to since you taught the President how to kill people three times his size with three pennies, a shoe, and a wad of chewing gum?"

And that's a !@#$ good question. But let me answer it by asking you a question, for once. And it's a really simple one, so no cheating, okay?

Son, do you know what today is?

Yes, smart!@#$, it's September 11th. But do you know why that's important?

No? Oh for !@#$'s sake, kid. I know we talked about this last year. It's the day that America was almost attacked by a bunch of cave-dwelling religious zealots. You know, the four-plane hijacking that would have cost us the Pentagon, the Capitol, and the Twin Towers if we hadn't gotten !@#$ lucky?

Oh! Now you remember. Yeah, I did talk about that quite a bit, now didn't I? Something about getting lucky versus getting it right, and what you can only learn from failure. It's an old speech, but a good one.

Well, I'm sure you might remember that, for years afterward, we were always on high alert around that time of year. I may have gone into Afghanistan and turned those idiots' leader into a stain on the cave wall (and his head into a hallway decoration) but they still had lots of friends, and their friends had friends, and so on. And there was a good chance that, if they actually got the faculty together, they might !@#$ing try to attack us again on that day.

Did they? Well, they tried. And we caught them. And they paid for their !@#$ing stupidity.

But not completely.

Yes, we could have wiped them out. We had strategic talents who could hunt them to the ends of the Earth and beyond. We had weapons that could obliterate them from outer !@#$ing space, or from the ground up. We had the tools, the talent, and the intelligence.

We had mad skills, as they say.

But yet, in spite of what they did, and what they kept trying to do, we always let some of them live.

Why? Well, it goes back to the Outland mentality, I guess. That group might not have been the same kind of dangerous as HONEYCOMB or GORGON, but we were worried they might have some kind of doomsday plan, or an alliance we didn't know about. And if we wiped them all out, then maybe some big !@#$ domino would fall down, and we'd be butt!@#$ed before we even felt it going in the backdoor.

And we also wanted to follow them and see where they led. Maybe they'd show us their true masters, or lead us to other criminals and terrorists. Maybe we'd learn about new and emerging groups, or find out that they were splintering. Maybe they'd lead us to something we thought we'd lost, or never even knew we had.

All kinds of possibilities, there, son -- even if it meant being partially !@#$ing responsible every time they hijacked, kidnapped, tortured, oppressed, corrupted, or killed someone in the name of God. 

But then, we also wanted them around because they were superstitious, crafty, and easy to use.

Oh, does that bother you, son? Well, welcome to !@#$. This happens all the !@#$ time.

!@#$, son -- I told you before. You remember the talk about Harold, and how most of our spies actually operated? Well, sometimes Harold wears a cape and steals diamonds. Sometimes he spins genes for HONEYCOMB or goose-steps for ABWEHR. Sometimes he worked for SQUASH, or the People's Protectors.

And sometimes, Harold carries a rocket launcher on his shoulders and a holy book in his pocket.

Like today.

I've been busy since I got back from that weird-!@#$ future I drank and ghost-screwed my way into, son. Part of it's been intelligence-gathering, and part of it's been making alliances and rebuilding organizations, but part of it's been getting certain loose assets and liabilities back under my thumb.

Hence Thailand, where, down in the South of the country, there are large numbers of militant religious zealots. And while they're mostly all about stomping on people who don't share their unique and cozy point of view, they are also loosely allied with the ultimate successor of the organization that tried to mess with America on September 11th of 2001.

Now, I'm sure you remember my saying that we dealt with that organization with extreme prejudice. We also dealt with its son, and its grandson, and its great grandson, and we did so with such ruthlessness and exacting standards that what's left of it's great great grandson is a shattered wreck of a terrorist outfit. It's got big plans but lousy follow-though, leaders who are corrupt as sin and competent as a braying jackass, and no real handle on what to do or how to do it.

I mean, !@#$, son. On 3/15 the CIA decided to !@#$ing use part of this group as their revolutionary patsies? They failed. The Imago showed up and found that the Thai Junta was still very much in charge, and their proxy army was in pieces on the floor.

(But lucky for everyone, the surviving Junta members were oh-so-willing to cooperate with the Imago because they had similar goals in mind. Hence some of the fun I just had, up North, in Bangkok. But enough on that today...)

So yeah, they're superstitious, easy to lead, not technically savvy, reliant on others for direction, and their communications network is so insecure a ten year old kid could prank-call his way into it. 

Which brings us here, to sunny Koh Samui, which is quite the tourist destination. So much so, in fact, that this island has its own, tiny airport -- an airport that the Imago didn't get around to blasting on 3/15 because everyone forgets its there, except for the tourists and travel agents.

Nice little airport. Bamboo huts with wi-fi. Covered golf carts to take you to and from the plane, and deliver your luggage right to the waiting area. Banana republic immigration shacks. And a runway that takes you right past the big Buddha at the North end of the island.

Not that the Southern Thai friends of the great-great-grandson took off that way, son. They went South, and then Southwest, in a cargo plane that was packed full of very sophisticated explosives, and tricked out with certain anti-radar, anti-visibility, and noise-baffling devices that will all but ensure that the Imago will not see, hear, or sense it coming.

At least, until it's right at its target.

September 11th, 2012. Four in the afternoon in South Sumatera, 150 or so miles Southeast of Pontianak. I don't know if they've got anything scheduled to go up, today, or not, but I think after this they'll be having a few problems with that next shipment.

And as soon as I see the explosion, I'm going to send out a statement of intent and responsibility on behalf of their organization, and "mine."

Yes, son. I used air quotes. Those !@#$ing idiots, whose communications network this grown up kid prank-called his way into, thought I was here to help them. They thought I was a fellow zealot, out to strike a blow for our great and terrible God against the evil Satan-worshiping tyrant idolators, Imago. Because we're all massively !@#$ing angry that those tin-suited !@#$s have ruined their chances of taking Thailand, Malaysia, the Pacific Rim, and maybe the whole world for their version of our religion.

And they're so !@#$ angry that they can't even bring themselves to ask questions when someone they can barely see or describe offers them a !@#$ing flying bomb that won't be seen until it gets there.

Oh? You think this is immoral, son? You think it's a bad thing for me to use a bunch of dumb !@#$s who want to die in a fire for their God?

Well, what do you think I should !@#$ing do with them, then? Shoot them? Put them in jail? Hand them over to the Imago?

No?

I didn't think so. As far as I'm concerned, they're weapons. I'm just the one who gets to aim them and pull their trigger, this time. And that's all this is.

3:58 in the afternoon. Two minutes from now, there will be a Boom. After that Boom, there will be a crash as however many !@#$ing miles of orbital elevator comes crashing back down to the Earth. After that crashing, there will be !@#$ to pay in South Thailand, as the Imago will be crash down here, scour the area, and root out every last bastion of these !@#$ers to find and cripple the ones responsible for blowing up their !@#$ing space elevator.

And while they're doing that... I will be somewhere else, doing something else, and not being seen by them. Because they will be looking here, right where I won't be.

It's an old trick, son. You make them run to get you, but you're not anywhere near there. Close by, maybe, but not here.

And boy do I have some some plans going in that regard...

Well, will you look at the time? 3:59, Son. Time for another beer before it all gets started. You pop, I'll pour...?

Oh? You sure you don't want one? Things are about to go !@#$ing crazy, son. Might be a while before we get to sit on a sunny, deserted beach, have a cold one, and watch fireworks from a long way away.

No? Well, suit yourself. I'll have one for you.

You're welcome.

(SPYGOD is listening to A Forest (The Cure) and having a Singha)

9/10/12 (ARACHNIDS) Listen to the Silence - pt 4

When Khalil was a young boy, growing up in the mega-slums of Addis Ababa, his mother would keep her children in their beds with terrible stories of the monsters that lurked in the night.

She knew them all, that woman: the millions of horrifying creatures that Allah had created for reasons of his own; the scrabbling, ravenous things that lurked just outside of His purview; the beasts of a hundred different lands and religions, all eager to clamber into a young child's bed at night and slurp up their sweetmeats -- or worse.

Khalil loved a good scare, of course -- all children do, in their own way. But one of the stories really bothered him.

It was the legend of the most gruesome of the many, terrifying hungry ghosts of Malaysia. A terrifying being that had a different name in every country, but was essentially the same. A disgusting she-vampire that detached her head at night and flew, pulling her guts behind her as she went, and lapped the blood of pregnant women and young children who didn't mind their parents.

And while it had many names in many lands, the one that always stuck with him was Penanggalan.

Such was the fearful power of this thing that it not only made him nervous to go out at night, but also had him jumpy during the day. It even made him wet his pants at loud, sudden noises in the dark, and continued to disturb him all the way into manhood. In fact, every time he met a new young woman who seemed just a little "off" he would keep tabs on her, just to make sure her nighttime activities were legitimate, and that her head was always on her neck at the right angle from day to day.

One could say that this heightened sense of awareness served him well when he went into the NGUVU. And one could only imagine his reaction when he learned from its strategic talents handlers that the !@#$ things were actually real.

And one can only imagine his reaction, now, as one of those creatures is less than five feet away from him, floating in the air and drinking the life from his MI-6 contact.

It's nothing like what he imagined, though. He'd imagined something like what he'd seen in the movies or supernatural television shows, but this is much more terrifying. And as Mikhail bellows and throws his bottle of vodka at her, and Dosha pulls out a gun that he's not supposed to have in this bar,  Khalil leaps back to ready some kind of defense and get a better look.

The woman's head is at least three times the size of a normal head, all puffed up like an obscene basketball. Her black and red eyes seem about to burst from her blood-filled sockets, and her mouth is a roiling playground of teeth the size and random shapes of jagged, broken dinner plates. A long, red, and barbed tongue anchors her to Sir George, who's about as pale as a sheet after just five seconds of being drained.

As for the train of guts, the legends do not do this creature justice. They're not being pulled behind her like the manacles on a stately English ghost, but are actually part of her overall motion. The lungs have dissipated into millions of fibers and webs, forming sinister, batlike wings that keep her aloft. Her distended stomach and liver seem able to reach out and clutch objects, perhaps the better to perch with.

And her long, looped intestines purl and curl behind her as she goes, coiling and roiling like the tail of some magnificently long dragon. As Mikhail's vodka bottle arcs towards her, a quick, meaty flick of that tail sends it bouncing away -- off to land on the deaf waiter, who tried his best to run past the evil and down the stairs along with the rest of the guests.

(Crash goes the bottle. Thump goes the waiter. Stomp stomp go the frightened patrons' feet on the waiter.)

Khalil's mind reels with possibilities, and fear. He tries to remember what his mother told him to do if he saw one, and what defenses NGUVU's supernatural handlers advised him to take, but nothing that either of these wise fonts of information ever gave him is making itself evident, today.

"!@#$ me," Dosha spits, finally just shooting at the thing. Of course, the bullets just go through the ghostly head; it seems that she can hurt them, but they cannot hurt her -- not without magic, which he doesn't have on him, right now.

But then, there is something else...

"I can protect us, I think," Khalil offers, and crosses his arms just before his chest, willing there to be something between the monster and the rest of them. The effort makes his nose bleed, and his eyes turn red with burst vessels, but in seconds there is a strange opacity in the air between the creature -- and its victim -- and the other three.

But how long it can last is unknown.

"I am thinking strategic withdrawal, my comrades!" Mikhail says: "The window! Quickly!"

"It's no good!" Dosha shouts: "Internal Security's got snipers outside, by now."

"Who?" Mikhail shouts.

"Internal Security! ISOC! They know we're here!"

"How in the !@#$ are they !@#$ing knowing this? And how in the !@#$ are you knowing this?"

"I just do! And I know the only reason they haven't shot in is-"

A window blows out. The floor rips up and splinters. The sharp, echoing crack of a rifle comes a split second later. 

"You were saying?" Mikhail says, trying to find someplace that isn't accessible by a window.

"!@#$!" Dosha spits, looking at his watch scowling: "They should have been here by now..."

"Who should have?" Khalil asks, but then another bullet takes out another window, and he's showered with flying glass. A cut springs up on his cheek and he loses concentration, and the sudden, angry migraine that comes with using his new power smacks his brains into the back of his skull.

He winces and falls down, holding his head. St. George falls through the now-absent shield and hits the floor, pale and whispering. The Penanggalan laughs, twirls in the air, and lashes out with her tongue, ready to take on the next victim...

... and then recoils violently from something that's just entered the room, and hisses like a snake run over by a wagon wheel.

That something is an eight-sided medallion, made from strange, dark metal, and embossed with gold writing that looks like ancient Thai script.

It's being held up at eye-level by an old man, clearly not dressed for this climate. He wears a thick, heavy coat, a dignified European hat, and old-style "horse blinder" sunglasses. He also carries a silver-chased cane that seems heavier than it should be.

And on his tanned face is a commanding scowl -- the sort of look that says "you came here to die."

The black-clad, young Indian man who brought Dosha here, earlier, stands beside him, holding onto his shoulder. He steps back and takes a few deep breaths, and then assumes a place by Dosha, who's covering the old man with his gun.

"What took you so long, old man?" Dosha asks.

"I took a wrong turn in Turkey," the younger Indian says: "He squirms too much-"

"Be quiet, both of you," the old man commands, his voice thick and Polish: "And you, creature. These men are under my protection. You will leave, now. And consider yourself lucky I didn't have time to find your body."

"You will not leave here alive," she hisses, flapping away and becoming insubstantial: "The streets are lined with my people. You will be killed."

"Oh, do be quiet, you stupid !@#$," Sir George mutters from the floor: "At least let me die with an absence of bad dialogue. I'm owed that much, surely..."

"Away with you!" the old man shouts, and the metal suddenly seems more there, somehow. More solid. More real.

The Penanggalan shrieks and ripples, as though they were seeing her on the surface of a pond that's just had stones thrown into it. She turns even more ghostly, and within seconds she's vanished.

"Well, that was being anticlimactic, yes?" Mikhail asks from his spot between windows.

"We need to leave," Dosha says, extending a hand to the Russian: "Now."

And by the time the ISOC kill team runs up Poke's staircase to finish the job their pet vampire obviously bungled, they have.

* * *

"So, please to be explaining all this, again?" Mikhail asks, having another bottle of Dosha's emergency vodka as the old man tends to Sir George's wounds, over on the ratty couch. Every so often the fellow looks up and scowls, but he hasn't ventured a prognosis, yet. 

"We were bait, were we not?" Khalil asks from where he sits, up against the wall, holding a cold glass of water up to his left temple and checking to see if his nose really has stopped bleeding.

"Yes," Dosha admits, standing close to where Anil sits -- tired and dejected: "We were."

The apartment's small, with just a few pieces of furniture and minimal supplies. It used to belong to the Central Intelligence Agency, but the DIA took it over a few years back, when Thailand's most recent junta shifted numerous intelligence "understandings" around the board. So far as the DIA knows, it's been abandoned and decommissioned, but ISOC would probably think it to be the first place a former Indian Intelligence agency would go, which means it'll be the last place they search.

(A trick Dosha's used before, with some success.)

"A risky game, Dosha," Khalil accuses.

"Not really, no," Dosha explains: "We needed to know if we could trust what's left of Thailand's intelligence, right now, given their access to certain unique assets. We made an overture, and in reply they decided to turn on us, no doubt to curry favor with the Imago. I suppose they like having the illusion that they're still in charge of something."

"What about your sister, Anil?" Khalil asks, looking at the young man, who's still out of breath.

"I don't know," he says: "They say they have her, and they'd hand her over when this was all done, and you were all dead. But I think..."

He doesn't say it. He wipes away a tear, instead, and ventures nothing more. Dosha puts a sympathetic hand on his shoulder, but the young man brushes it away.

That's the last thing he needs right now.

"So you see why I couldn't tip you all off," Dosha says, trying to recover.

"No, comrade, I am not seeing that," Mikhail says: "Do you think they had me under surveillance? You could have told us we were walking into trap."

"That would have been nice to know, yes," Khalil says.

"I don't even know how they found Anil's sister," Dosha protests: "For all I know they have us all under some kind of observation. The best I could do was bring in Dr. Krwi to deal with their Penanggalan, and even that required me to be a lot more subtle than usual-"

"Krasue," the old man corrects him, standing up from his patient: "That was unmistakably a Krasue. The Penanggalan lives further south, and rarely ventures this far up the Malay Peninsula. It is an issue of territory and feeding styles, but nothing to be so concerned about... unless you wish to banish or kill them."

"Or be bitten by one," Sir George says, opening his eyes as much as he can: "How bad is it?"

"I can do nothing more," Krwi says, sadly: "I advise you to pray. It is all that is left."

"Well, then that's that," the Englishman says.

"George, I'm so sorry-" Dosha tries to apologize, but the dying man holds up a hand.

"Someone get me a brandy. If I'm going to die, I will have a brandy."

"I don't think we have any, here?" Dosha says, looking at his liquor cabinet. 

"There is being liquor store outside, and down the stairs," Mikhail says: "I will go and get you best brandy yankee dollar can buy-"

"You're not to leave this apartment until we're clear to teleport out," Dosha insists: "We've lost too much to risk more over a !@#$ing glass of alcohol-"

He doesn't see the Russian's fist flying for his face until it's knocked him across the room. Then Anil's up and at Mikhail's throat with a knife faster than the burly man can react, but there's a sword at his own before he can drive the blade home.

"Killing each other will not fix things," the old man says, adjusting his grip on his swordcane ever so slightly.

"You do not hit him, ever," Anil hisses.

"This man's stupid sister and idiot handler got good man killed!" Mikhail shouts at Krwi. 

"Neither will recriminations," Krwi insists, calm as winter snow: "Mistakes have been made. War is full of such things. Either we pull together and learn from them, or we lose."

"I am not going to war with a !@#$ing idiot who uses us like toys to save his boyfriend's family," the Russian spits, walking away from the knife: "Drop me where you like, but I am being done with this."

"Is that how we are to honor the dead?" Khalil asks, getting to his feet: "All those people in Israel and Palestine? Do they die for nothing, then?"

"Look at us, my friend," the Russian says: "We are nothing. Whole point of us was to get together and share information. To tell truth between lies and help each other.

"And now, what do we have, eh? Dosha uses us as bait for trap, and brings in outsider we know nothing of. Khalil, you do not tell us about your power. And God !@#$ only knows what Sir George is !@#$ing hiding-"

"That I know that Khalil wasn't... wasn't just hiding the fact that he's recently developed a strategic talent," the Englishman says, trying to avoid sounding as weak as he actually is: "In fact, I was going to bring that up before... we were so rudely interrupted."

"What do you mean?" Khalil sighs.

"The Object, Khalil. They should... know about the Object. They should know what a bad thing NGUVU did... handing it over to GORGON."

"We did not hand it over to them," Khalil protests: "If you think we would hand it over to anyone-"

"Then you don't know, do you?" the Englishman says: "Well, I guess that's that, then. I wasn't sure whether you were dangerous or clueless, Khalil. I suppose.... I suppose..."

"Oh, do be quiet, both of you," the old man sighs, putting his swordcane down, and reaching into his coat pocket to pull out a flask. He kneels down to the dying man and hands it to him. 

"Is this...?" Sir George asks, taking a good whiff of it.

"It is," Dr. Krwi says: "Honey vodka. It is the best thing in the world."

The Englishman smiles, takes a good swig, and hands over the flask: "Then I die content."

"Is there anything else we can do?" Dosha asks, finally getting up off the floor.

"Other than make sure my dead letter gets sent?" George asks: "Don't let my death be for nothing. I hated you all, each and every one of you. But we did good in our time. Do more good, gentlemen. Be better than this."

He takes a last breath, exhales, and is gone. 

Mikhail's face gets so red it's a wonder blood doesn't explode from his pores, and punches the nearest wall. His fist goes through the plaster right to the wood.

"NGUVU gave the Object to GORGON?" Dosha asks, looking at Khalil. 

"We didn't..." Khalil sighs, putting his head in his hands and wondering whether the others in the room are going to listen to what he has to say, or kill him.

"Will someone please tell me what this Object is?" Anil asks, finally putting his knife away, but still keeping himself between Dosha and the Russian. 

"This can wait for another time, surely," Dr. Krwi offers, having a slug of his own drink: "This room is burned. You must leave it. You must leave this country now and not look back.

"But as soon as we can reconvene, gentlemen, I think a number of things need to be said?"

Dosha nods, looking to Mikhail and then Khalil: "We'll leave here as soon as we can. Then-"

"I am being done with you," Mikhail says: "We have many supers left. I have rolodex full of names. I will !@#$ing go door-to-door if I have to."

"It would be quicker if I teleported you," Anil says, holding out a hand.

"I don't think-" Dosha starts to say, but one look from Anil shuts him up.

"I may not know everything there is to know about this world I've been brought into," the young man says: "And I may not have been 100% honest about certain things with you. But I do know that if we don't work together, we are !@#$ed. And we know who's going to be wearing the condom, don't we?" 

Dosha takes a moment, and then nods. Mikhail takes Anil's hand, and also nods. Khalil doesn't feel like moving, but nods as well.

"No more !@#$ing secrets, then?" Mikhail asks, looking around the room: "Not from each other?"

"No more secrets," Dosha says.

"No more secrets," Khalil adds. 

"No more secrets," Dr. Krwi says.

"And who are you being, anyway?" Mikhail asks.

"Doctor Krwi, of occupied Poland," the fellow says, passing around the Barenjager: "I kill vampires, primarily. But I also worked with the Polish resistance during the War, became far too familiar with Soviet Bloc intelligence after it, and have recently been moonlighting for several people. Most notably SPYGOD."

"I didn't think you wanted to be a party to that, old man?" Dosha asks: "I believe the phrase was 'one favor, since you know him, but that's it'?"

"Well, what can I say? I fear I may have gotten a reluctant taste for it, recently. And we are all that stands against whatever the Imago have planned."

"Oh, very well," Mikhail mutters, nearly downing the rest of the flask with one gulp: "But if any of you play me again, I will be !@#$ing you with my leg."

And on that -- and the need to toast their dead ally one more time before they all leave -- they can all agree.

(SPYGOD is listening to At Night (The Cure) and having a Barenjager)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

"The entire leadership?" Khalil asks.

"All of them?" Dosha tries to clarify.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Well, if you have to mangle Churchill-"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Not even !@#$ing scratched."

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

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

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

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

"No one."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shudders, and takes another swig.

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She has them there, and they know it. 

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

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

"Are they special?"

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

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

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

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

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

* * *

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Russian finally has that swig.

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

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

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