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Subject: Fevered Fall part 16 of 16 (NND)
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_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Andrew Roller Presents
NAUGHTY NAKED DREAMGIRLS
in
FEVERED FALL
_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/_/
Chapter Sixteen
They glided out onto the bay. The disruption of the waters
caused by the downed building was subsiding. Around them wavelets still
churned, silent testament to their destruction. But much of the
building, so mightily suspended in the air only minutes before, was now
lost under the calming waters of New Washington Bay. The silence of the
sea was returning after a passing thunderclap; the watery grave had
enveloped the once-living building, and flooded it and put it to eternal
rest.
Tongsun gazed at the chunks of dead lives, interrupted by his
will, as they sailed toward the Presidio. A paper box floated by,
stuffing from an armchair, a broken piece of plastic. As they moved
across the bay and through increasing amounts of flotsam and jetsam,
they began to see bodies.
On their left, suddenly, loomed the Coast Guard cutter.
Gunfire had resumed on the Golden Gate Bridge to their right. Tongsun
felt trapped, suddenly. Sheriffs on the bridge, Imperial Sailors on the
large ship, and the white lights on the veranda of the White House in
front of him. He wanted, for a moment, to return to Lime Point, to the
security of the cove. But it wasn’t possible, he told himself. If he
was to avenge his beloved’s death, he must press on. He must attack and
eliminate the linchpin of the regime that held everything together, and
had made it possible for the police to come to his home, seeking to put
his beloved in prison.
He must go forward!
Tongsun thought hard, watching the Coast Guard cutter that was
bearing down on them. Then he got an idea. He turned to his crew.
“We’re on a mission of mercy, for the next few minutes,”
Tongsun said. The cold, huddling boys looked up at him. “Get scarves,
shirts, anything. Cover your faces. We’re going to be pulling bodies
from the water as we make our way over to the Presidio side of the bay.
>From the point of view of the cutter, we’ll appear to be covering our
faces against contamination from the corpses. But really, we’ll be
covering our faces so that none of us, especially myself, am
recognized.”
“You mean we gotta pull those dead fucks from the water? The
ones we just killed?” a boy protested.
“That’s right,” Tongsun answered. “Expect that Coast Guard
cutter to shine searchlights on us. We must make ourselves look like
we’re on a mission of mercy, hunting for survivors amidst the wreckage
of the downed Sky Dwelling. And pulling out bodies, to help in the
policing of the corpses. In fact, though, we’ll be closing in on the
White House. We don’t want that cutter deciding to blow us out of the
water with its guns. So we’ll look like people trying to help out, not
a bunch of assassins on our way to kill the president.”
“Cool,” Harold murmured. He glanced over his shoulder. The
cutter was moving in on them and was quite close now. “Get a scarf over
your face, T,” Harold said. “You’re going to be on Candid Camera in a
minute.”
The boys covered their faces. Tongsun went back to the girl in
the wheelhouse and explained his plan to her. She altered the boats
course; instead of heading directly for their goal, the White House, she
circled amidst the wreckage of the Sky Dwelling. The Coast Guard cutter
lit up their boat with searchlights. The boys on deck waved. Then,
with muffled groans of distaste, they hauled their first corpse from the
water.
The small boat approached the Presidio side of the bay in a
widening arc of circles.
At last, with a dozen corpses on board, the boat scraped
against half-submerged weeds and rocks on the Presidio side of the bay.
To their right, the shoreline sloped upward to the back lawn of the
White House. Three of the stronger boys picked up the boat’s anchor and
tossed it into the shallows beside the shore.
“Good,” Tongsun said, watching. “Now, we must toss out the
bodies,” Tongsun said to his crew. “Throw them high. Don’t just dump
them over the side. We’ve got to make the bodies hit the shore as high
up as we can, so we can test the land for mines.”
They obeyed. With a “Heave Ho!” the boys threw the first body
onto the land. It hit. It rolled down the slope to bump and rest
against the side of their grounded boat. But there was no explosion.
“What happened? Did somebody up in the White House turn off
the mines?” Harold asked. He said this in reference to mines he
presumed were buried on shore. The dropped Sky Dwelling had blown up
the mines in the water.
“Yes,” Tongsun said. “That’s my best guess. Some poor deluded
soul thinks we’re here to help. He thinks we’ve just accidentally
pulled up next to the White House to offload our cargo of corpses. Now,
it’s time for you and me to go up to the White House and ring the
doorbell.”
“Good evening, Mr. President, mind if we stow some corpses on
your property?” Harold said with a low chuckle. “In fact, if you don’t
mind, we’d like you to join them.”
“You’ve got the idea,” Tongsun said. “Let’s go. Before
somebody comes out and asks to help.”
“What about our guns?” Harold asked. He gazed uneasily at the
Coast Guard cutter. It was now circling in the bay, moving through the
wreckage and lowering down lifeboats off its sides to search for
survivors. Unlike the people shot from Clinton bridge, the people who
lived in the Sky Dwellings mattered. They had money and power. They
weren’t ‘protected,’ as the kids on the bridges ostensibly were. They
were the ‘protectors.’ They made the laws, and enforced them, and even
killed human beings for the sake of their laws. Hence, when they
themselves met death, or stood the chance of possibly, barely surviving
it, the government raced to the rescue. The lifeboats from the Coast
Guard cutter moved into the bay, but Harold felt uneasy with the cutter
so close, and so watchful.
“We just take our guns along,” Tongsun said. He unwrapped a
Thermite Grenade and stuffed it in his trouser pocket. Then he set his
plastic-wrapped Laser Rifle up on the cowl of their boat’s side. He
could not unwrap it down on the deck because there was still water
sloshing around on the deck, from the waves that had splashed over the
boat when the Sky Dwelling dropped. He ripped off the plastic.
“So we go waltzing up to the White House with guns in our
hands, eh?” Harold asked.
“Sometimes the obvious way is the best way, Harold,” Tongsun
answered. He examined his Laser Rifle to see that it was dry and
ready. It was. “We look like we’re helping. There’s riots going on
all over the place. They’ll wonder about the guns, out there on that
cutter, if they’re watching us. The same goes for anyone watching us
from the White House. They’ll wonder, but they won’t be sure. Maybe
we’re carrying guns to protect ourselves from rioters. Not being sure,
whoever’s watching us won’t open fire right away.”
“Okay then,” Harold said. He leaped over the side of their
boat. He landed on the solid ground of the slope. Tongsun turned to
his crew.
“Five of you stay here to cover us if anyone opens fire on us.
The rest of you follow me and Harold. Don’t shoot until someone fires
at us. With luck, we may get all the way in to the president before we
need to open fire. You all know what he looks like?”
“Who doesn’t? Anytime there’s something not worth talking
about, he interrupts Fuller House,” one of the boys replied.
“So we shoot him? What then?” someone asked.
Tongsun looked puzzled for a moment. Finally, he said: “Then
our mission’s accomplished. We, uh, exit the White House by the safest
way possible. Out the front, I guess. No... Wait. We’ve got to get
the covering force that we’re leaving down here in the boat up the
slope.” Tongsun paused, reflected, then said: “We’ll exit out the
back, or take up positions inside the White House, facing the cutter.”
“Yeah, yeah, fine,” Harold said. He looked at the five that
were to remain. “We’ll cover you, or you get your asses up the slope as
soon as we’ve disappeared. C’mon, Tongsun!”
Harold ran up the slope, with Tongsun following. The rest of
the boys, hustling along with their equipment, went running up the slope
after them. Meanwhile, back on the boat, two boys kept throwing corpses
over the side, to disguise the real purpose of their mission. Three
other boys gazed at the Coast Guard cutter. They kept their unwrapped
guns just out of sight; bending down and holding them below the side of
the boat. In the wheelhouse, the girl had remained behind. It was
foolish; there was no chance they would ever use the boat again, even if
everything went perfectly. Yet she remained, standing there, as if to
drive the boat off again, when ordered.
Tongsun and Harold had just cleared the top of the slope when
they heard a voice bellow at them from behind: “HALT! YOU THERE,
HALT!”
“Shit!” Harold cursed. He dashed for the White House. Without
turning, he knew where the voice was coming from. It was being spoken
at them from the deck of the Coast Guard cutter.
“KA-BOOM!” sounded suddenly, on the slope behind Harold, the
one he’d just climbed with Tongsun. The Samoan boy ran beside him,
panting. Together they dashed across the back lawn of the White House.
The windows of the large house peered down at them, and they both felt
as if they were being stared at by a thousand snipers.
“Damn! They’ve turned on the mines!” Tongsun said to Harold.
There were screams, of boys being blown to bits, followed by more
explosions on the slope behind them.
Gunfire erupted from the White House. Harold and Tongsun were
halfway across the lawn. They threw themselves into the grass. It was
wet, from the fog and perhaps, Harold guessed, from the waves tossed
inland by the downed Sky Dwelling. Harold and Tongsun returned fire.
With his nose in the grass, Harold wondered if he and Tongsun had
cleared the last of the mines. He hoped they had; he doubted the
President of the Imperium went walking around in a minefield when he
walked his dog on the back lawn, even if the mines could be switched on
and off.
A sound of gunfire erupted from behind them. Harold felt a
chill of fear run down his back as he lay in the wet grass on the back
lawn of the White House. The boys behind them, if they had survived the
minefield, were now being decimated by the Coast Guard cutter. He could
not see, but he could hear, with deafening certainty, the sound of the
cutter raking the sloping shoreline behind them.
Tongsun got up and ran.
“T!” Harold shouted. Harold leaped to his feet and ran after
Tongsun. Miraculously, they both made it to the veranda at the back of
the White House. They threw themselves onto its polished wood decking.
Harold felt a burst of laser fire pass over his head from somewhere
within the building. He aimed at the spot where he’d seen a green
flash, and fired. He heard a scream.
“I shot the sheriff,” Harold muttered to Tongsun, who was lying
to his left.
“No, you only shot the deputy,” Tongsun grinned. They began
crawling forward across the veranda.
Naked, her hair hardly in regulation order, Judy Dan walked up
to the Hoodoo. The sheriffs standing around it gaped at her.
“HALT!” one of the sheriffs said. He pointed his weapon at
her. Judy Dan had a creepy feeling that, if she weren’t a woman, and
attractive to boot, she would have already been shot dead by the man.
She looked at his glowering face in the half light of the street. The
street lamps were out, but a building, burning nearby, cast a wavering
light upon the figures standing before her.
“Hi, I’m Judy Dan, Sanramento Police,” Judy said in as
disarming a manner as she could. The sheriff’s gun wavered, then
lowered slightly.
“Show me some I.D.,” the sheriff groused.
“I just got shot out of the air,” Judy said. She walked up to
the sheriff and got right next to him. He lowered his pistol further.
“Where’s your clothes?” the sheriff asked in a gruff voice.
“Nudity is illegal!”
“Sanramento Police!” Judy said to the man, with as much of an
air of authority as a woman, half-drowned, and exhausted from swimming,
could muster. “Didn’t you see the Hoodoo that got shot down?”
“No,” the sheriff answered. “We just landed. Some fuck shot
our pilot.” Judy walked around to the front of the Hoodoo, past the
sheriff who wanted to arrest her for streaking, past the other sheriffs,
who seemed dazed by her presence. She looked over the aircraft with an
expert’s eye, despite being reduced to a shivering, wet, bone-white
human being, naked as Eve in Eden. She spotted the place where a single
laser blast had sliced through the windshield of the Hoodoo, hitting its
pilot.
“Where’s your co-pilot?” Judy asked.
“Didn’t make the flight,” one of the sheriffs answered.
“What kind of condition is your pilot in?” Judy said.
“Not with us, anymore,” a sheriff said. He pointed to a body
lying on a stretcher on the ground.
“We’re lucky to have gotten down safely,” another sheriff said.
Judy looked at the dead pilot. Then she looked at the
sheriffs. “I can fly it,” she said. The sheriffs shook their heads.
It was not an affirmative shake.
“Trust me,” Judy said.
“It’d be easier to trust you if you got some goddam clothes
on,” one of the sheriffs answered.
“Then strip the corpse,” Judy said. She pointed to the dead
pilot, lying there on the stretcher, in his flightsuit. Sure, it was a
man, in a male’s flightsuit, but a flightsuit was rather like a rose,
which, by any other name, is still a rose.
“No way,” one of the sheriffs answered.
“Fine. I’ll fly it naked,” Judy said.
“Shit. Are you really a pilot?” one of the sheriffs asked.
“I think you guys are scared shitless from almost getting shot
out of the sky, and don’t want to take off,” Judy said. She eyed them
boldly.
“It’s not that we’re--” one of the sheriffs began.
“Then let’s go,” Judy said. She motioned for them to board the
Hoodoo. Naked, but with a graceful, self-assured step, she walked
toward the open hatch in the side of the craft. “Do we have somebody to
man the Gatling?”
“Here,” a sheriff said.
“Good,” Judy answered. And, still quite naked, and dripping
from the bay, she stepped aboard the Hoodoo.
Tongsun gazed around the Oval Office. Harold raised his gun
and pointed it at a picture on the wall, of President Nelson. Tongsun
reached over and pushed Harold’s gun toward the floor.
“Nobody’s home,” Harold whispered. His voice sounded
awe-struck.
“We killed whoever was here,” Tongsun replied.
Harold looked at the president’s desk. It had papers scattered
across it. “The bastard left before we ever arrived,” Harold said.
Tongsun nodded.
“Let me ask you something, Harold,” Tongsun said.
“Yeah?” Harold asked.
“If you were the President of the Imperium, and you felt forced
to flee the White House, what would you do?”
Harold thought for a moment. He gazed around them. He
listened, and heard only silence, punctuated by occasional gunfire. It
sounded distant, haphazard. With a chill he realized that none of the
other boys had made it up the slope They were all dead, plus both
girls, as far as he could tell. And he felt a sudden fear that he and
Tongsun were about to join them. Harold drew in his breath. Then he
said, in the encroaching silence of the Oval Office, “I’d booby-trap the
place, and blow it the minute I got wind of someone intruding into it.”
“Let’s go!” Tongsun shouted. Together, they ran toward the far
window at the back of the Oval Office, behind the president’s desk.
Dropping their guns, they crossed behind the desk and leapt through the
glass.
There was a roar, and for a minute they both thought the
explosion had enveloped them, and was inside them.
When they recovered, Harold and Tongsun found themselves lying
outside the Oval Office, amidst splintered glass and wood. A combustion
of smoke and flames billowed beyond their feet. They looked for the
White House and saw only wreckage.
“Are you okay, T?” Harold asked. He felt surprised, and
relieved, that he could still speak.
“I’m-- okay,” Tongsun answered. He moved an arm, then a leg,
then both legs. Gradually, with uncertainty, he moved into a crouch,
then stood up.
A Hoodoo circled overhead. It began to descend.
“Shit!” Harold swore. He looked up at the craft.
“Play it cool,” Tongsun said. To hide his face, he bent down.
He reached for Harold and slowly helped the boy stand.
“Man, they’ll arrest us!” Harold said.
“If they even know what’s going on,” Tongsun answered. When
Harold was steady on his feet, Tongsun, still keeping his head bowed,
yanked up his own shirt.
“What are you doing?” Harold asked.
“I’m going to pretend I’ve got a bloody nose, Harold, so they
don’t recognize me,” Tongsun said. “Oh, yeah. We’re now both White
House interns,” Tongsun said.
“What?” Harold asked.
“You know, we help out and stuff. The president left us behind
to look after things.”
“Nice work, if you can get it, except for the occasional blow
job,” Harold smirked.
“Be polite. Be a nerd,” Tongsun cautioned.
“Offer them oral sex,” Harold said. “You’ve got some kind of a
bruise on your forehead, T.”
“Good,” Tongsun said. “Now I know why it hurts so much.”
Together, they watched the Hoodoo land. When it was down, and
the roar of its engines had diminished, they began walking toward it.
KA-WHOOM!
A blast of sound, of hot air, and of flying earth and debris
threw them backwards. Both boys, so recently risen from the earth, were
both thrown back down onto it.
“Are you boys okay?” Harold heard, as if far off. Something
shook his shoulder.
“Shit! Not another explosion!” Harold’s mind said. When he
thought the blast had passed, he found himself staring into the eyes of
a D.C. Sheriff. There was a small American flag etched into the
six-pointed gold star on his chest. Above the flag were the words,
“Imperial States of America.” There were only 27 stars, not 50, but the
name of the united American states had grown more regal as their numbers
had diminished. Like the Janitor who becomes, over time, an
Environmental Services Engineer, whilst still cleaning toilets, the
American states had changed. America’s colonies had gone from states in
a confederation to states in a union to, finally, world guarantor of
peace, security, and order. When the Chinese, unshackled from
communism, proved more numerous, more intelligent, more vigorous, and
(most notably) more committed to freedom, America found itself the loser
in an overseas war and settled for security in a world policed by
China. Its nuclear bombs, its warplanes, its biological and chemical
weapons were all taken away. But it was left with its right to police
its buildings for smokers; to ‘protect’ its children, and to enforce its
Smog 2 regulations. Americans found they disliked nuclear weapons
anyway, disliked having overseas commitments, and didn’t mind terribly
much (as long as it was taken out, beforehand, from their wages) paying
10 percent of their taxes to Beijing.
“I call it a bargain, the best I ever had,” a line from a song
by the Who, from the soundtrack of Tommy, played briefly on radio
stations after the signing of the International Accords. (Though most
people did mutter “damn Chinese” under their breaths when they heard the
song.)
Harold, his face blackened now from two explosions, stared up
at the uniformed officer.
“I’m-- God, my office must be a complete mess!” Harold said.
“Your office?” the sheriff asked. He looked past Harold at the
wrecked White House. “Son, that place is a disaster,” the sheriff said.
Harold looked over at Tongsun. The Samoan boy’s face was
bruised, and streaked with soot. Tongsun looked up at the two sheriffs
standing over him. There were others, nearby, milling about. Harold
had briefly lost consciousness but Tongsun seemed to have a good grasp
of what was going on. Tongsun nodded at Harold, slightly, and Harold
understood that Tongsun was proud of him for what he’d said to the
sheriff. Harold had remembered their new M.O., despite losing himself
briefly in the explosion.
“God, the president is going to hate this,” Tongsun said,
rolling onto his side and looking back at the flaming debris of the
White House.
“Shit! What are we going to tell him?” Harold asked, himself
rolling also onto his side and glancing back at the White House.
“Do you work here?” a sheriff asked, taking the bait.
“God, yes! And I just got a shipment of those new skid-free
paperclips in this morning too,” Harold said. “Now I’ll have to
reorder!”
Tongsun frowned, just a little, as if to indicate that Harold
should not play his new identity too broadly.
“Do you know where the president is?” Tongsun asked one of the
sheriffs. He groped on the ground beside him. “Damn! Where’s my
briefcase? Oh shit, how am I going to get that urgent message to him
now?”
“If you boys need to see the president, we’ve got a Hoodoo,”
one of the sheriffs said helpfully. “But it’s been hit, as we tried to
come down and land.”
“Damn thing’s on fire, Butch! You can’t send them up in that,”
another sheriff said, speaking up.
Tongsun sat up. The two sheriffs standing over him crouched
down. Together, they stared at the Hoodoo. It sat on the front lawn of
the White House. Its body, in the rear section, burned with small,
crackling flames.
“We’ll take it,” Tongsun said, gazing at the craft.
“Well, I’m sure glad we decided to land, to see what was going
on,” a sheriff crouched next to him said. “God knows, though. I don’t
want to get back into that thing.”
“It’s fine,” Tongsun said. “We MUST reach the president. We
have no choice. Do you know where he is?”
“President Nelson? God no. We’re not cleared for that sort of
information,” a sheriff told Tongsun. Tongsun, a bit unsteadily, stood
up. He looked down at the crouching sheriffs. Another shell sailed
over the tops of the low-rise buildings across the street. The sheriffs
who were crouching flattened themselves to the grass. One of them
grabbed Tongsun’s ankle, but he deftly pulled his foot free.
The shell hit some distance away, and exploded. Harold
cringed, waited a moment, then jumped up beside Tongsun. The Samoan boy
caught him and kept him from toppling over as he nearly lost his footing
again.
“Ah!” Harold said.
“You okay?” Tongsun asked him.
“I think something’s wrong with my leg,” Harold said. He
limped forward toward the Hoodoo. To his great surprise, a nude woman
stepped out of the Hoodoo’s open hatch in the side of the craft.
Tongsun put one of Harold’s arms around his broad shoulders.
Then he walked forward, carrying the limping boy along with him.
Judy Dan found herself staring at one of the most attractive
boys she’d seen in a long while. He had a bruise on his forehead and
his face was blackened from explosions, but he was still quite handsome
to look upon. She noticed that his shirt was torn open, revealing his
muscled chest.
At the same time, Tongsun was struck by how closely Judy Dan
resembled his dead beloved. It wasn’t the same woman, but she was
blonde, attractive, and in her mid 30’s. She had a sprightly gait as
she walked toward him completely naked. For a moment he thought she was
some slightly altered apparition of his beloved, come to take him away
to Heaven with her. Then the nude woman extended her bare hand, her
breasts quivering nicely, and said,
“Hi. I’m Judy Dan. Do you young men need some help?”
“We’re White House interns,” Harold said, wincing as he drew
his sprained leg forward.
“We’ve got to get to the president,” Tongsun told the woman.
“Sure,” Judy Dan said. “I mean, this thing’s a wreck,” she
pointed with her thumb to the Hoodoo behind her. “But if you really
need to get someplace, guys--”
“We do,” Tongsun said. “Do you know where the president is?”
Dan looked at him. “Not officially,” she said.
“Never mind officially,” Harold said. He tossed back his
stringy, blackened blonde locks from his forehead and Judy Dan was
struck by how like River Phoenix, her favorite old-time movie star, he
looked. Perhaps, she wondered in an idle second, he was River Phoenix,
come to ride with her in a final flight to the very pinnacle of New
Washington society.
“Well, sure, I think I know where he is,” Judy Dan said.
“Let’s go!” Tongsun said. Still holding Harold, he drew the
stumbling boy forward to the open hatch on the Hoodoo.
“Shit. The fire’s spreading,” Harold said. He looked up at
the body of the Hoodoo. The flames had run farther along it, moving
toward the hatch door.
“We can make it. We have to,” Tongsun said.
“Wait!” Judy said. She turned. She ran after the boys. “Are
you sure you want to go back up in that?” Judy asked.
“Very sure,” Tongsun said. He pulled Harold into the hatch
with him.
“Damn!” Judy swore. She had misgivings now, about flying the
Hoodoo, seeing the craft from outside, and how it was sprouting small
flames along its back and its sides. Yet the two boys had just stepped
into it! She ran up to the hatch and jumped inside.
Tongsun had just seated Harold in one of the sling seats. He
turned, and gazed at Judy. She stared at him.
“If you really want to,” Judy said.
“Yes!” Tongsun said. “Take me to the president. I have an
urgent message for him.”
“This will never work,” Harold, stretched out in a sling seat,
muttered.
An explosion shook the craft, as whoever was shelling the White
House lobbed in another round. When it diminished, and the Hoodoo was
still again, Judy walked forward into the cockpit. Naked, a bit dazed,
she sat back down in the pilot’s seat that she knew so well. She
strapped herself in. She revved the craft’s engine. The dials on the
console in front of her still had passable readings. It was crazy to
take off, but it did seem the right thing to do. Judy Dan had always
loved the heroic parts of action films, where the hero (always a male)
had defied the odds to accomplish an important mission.
“Well,” Judy told herself. “Today the hero is going to be a
woman!” She threw the Hoodoo’s controls into ‘takeoff’ mode and the
craft lifted up.
It was an unsteady takeoff, as unsteady as its landing had
been. But it did rise, it did glide up, and it did (rather narrowly)
clear the top of a building across the street from the White House.
Tongsun walked forward, into the cockpit. He gazed down at
Judy from behind. He admired the certain grip of her hands on the
Hoodoo’s controls. He gazed at the dials, but had no idea what they
meant.
“You doing okay?” Tongsun asked.
“Sure,” Judy said. She reached over to flick on the Comm
screen.
“No!” Tongsun caught her hand.
“Don’t you want me to try to contact them?” Judy asked. She
looked up at Tongsun. She noticed, with feminine delight, how close his
sweaty, half-naked chest was to her.
“Maintain Comm silence,” Tongsun said. “If you think you know
where he is, just fly there. I don’t want us getting hit by
groundfire. The rioters could be monitoring the comm network.”
“Good idea,” Judy said, though she probably would have said it
even if it were a bad idea, so pleased was she to be in the presence of
the handsome Samoan boy. He was a rare one, she admitted to herself.
Strong, good-looking, yet with a surprisingly youthful aspect, while at
the same time having a maturity to his gaze that she found slightly
unsettling.
“Oh, by the way,” Tongsun said. “Do you have a wrench?”
“Sure,” Judy said. She pointed to a tool box strapped to the
base of the empty co-pilot’s seat. “In there. Did something in back
come loose?”
“Yeah,” Tongsun said. “But don’t worry. I’ll take care of
it.” He looked at the dials again. “Will we make it?”
“I-I hope so,” Judy said. The temperature gauge was now
troublesomely high. “If we don’t blow up in mid-air,” she added.
“Fly as fast as you can,” Tongsun said.
“Roger,” Judy answered.
The city of New Washington slipped by underneath them. The
Hoodoo became balky in Judy’s hands. But she was an expert flier, and
did her best, with her skills, to compensate for the increasing
instability of the craft’s flight. It darted out over the bay and she
looked down on the bay with a kind of God-like stare in her eyes.
Strangely, instead of fearing the bay, which had so recently almost
taken her life, she now felt like a victor, gazing upon a defeated
opponent.
“Face your fear, and you will overcome it,” a voice said
quietly in Judy’s head. She nodded. She’d already been dumped into the
bay once this evening. The prospect of going down a second time
troubled her not in the least. She was, suddenly, like a man being
re-arrested, perhaps for the fifth or sixth time. She was like a ghetto
child, who took no umbrage at prison time, seeing it simply as an
opportunity to socialize with his father, his brother, and his uncle.
Tossing her blonde hair back over her naked shoulder, she flew with a
sureness to her grip that she’d never felt before.
“Perhaps,” she reflected. “I never made it out of the bay, the
first time. I died there, and now I’m flying naked to Heaven, with a
God-like young man to guide me.” Then she shook her head, told herself
she was, despite her nudity, quite alive (though she half-disbelieved
it), and she headed for the Sky Dwelling where she guessed the president
was.
President Nelson gazed into the T.V. screen.
“And so, my fellow citizens of the Imperium, let me apologize
once again for interrupting your late night viewing. I am continuing to
monitor the situation here at the White House. The reports, as I’ve
said, are now good. We have things under control. There is no need to
leave your home. Please take this time to be with your loved ones, and
enjoy the fellowship of your friends and family. I shall speak to you
again as soon as there are new developments to report. Until then, I
remain your faithful servant, maintaining our Imperial security for the
safety of every family.”
“Very good, President Nelson,” an aide said, as the T.V.
cameras ceased filming him.
“Thank you,” President Nelson said.
“Would you like to go to the party sir?” another aide asked.
“Of course!” President Nelson said. “That’s some of the best
legislation I’ve signed in years!”
In the cabin of the Hoodoo, Tongsun worked with the wrench. He
was without any weapon. There appeared to be none aboard the Hoodoo,
except one very large, and very heavy one. He hoped he was strong
enough to carry it. With another turn of his wrench, he continued to
loosen the bolts holding the Gatling gun to its housing.
Harold, sprawled in a sling seat, stared at him from behind.
“We’ll make it, T,” he murmured.
“Harold?” T said.
“Yeah?” Harold asked. Tongsun noticed, as he worked, that the
craft was vibrating with a nerve-wracking intensity. He looked up,
briefly, at the ceiling, then toward the back. The flames were not
inside the cabin but he guessed they soon would be.
“Yeah?” Harold asked again.
“She’s quite nice-looking, Harold,” Tongsun said. “But you
know what I may have to do.”
“Her?” Harold asked. He guessed Tongsun meant the pilot.
“Yeah. Her,” Tongsun said. He felt the Gatling come loose
from its housing.
“God,” Harold said. “Try not to, Tongsun. I rather like her.”
“I do too, Harold,” Tongsun said.
“We’re coming in for a landing,” the interior loudspeaker
suddenly blurted. It was a female’s voice. Judy’s. “Brace yourself,”
she announced. Tongsun grabbed onto the housing of the Gatling. Harold
gripped the sides of his seat.
The Hoodoo, aflame, burst through a mesh of netting covering a
Service Entrance on the back of the Abraham Lincoln Sky Dwelling. As it
broke through the netting, alarms were triggered. Security cameras
pivoted to catch the Hoodoo on film. It bulked large in their fisheye
lenses. The room into which the Hoodoo had thrown itself filled with
smoke as the burning craft skidded across its floor and struck the far
wall.
Downstairs, in the lowest floor of the building, security
guards and two Secret Service officers monitored the arrival of the
craft.
“Damn. It came crashing right through. It didn’t answer any
of our calls to it,” one of the guards, seated before a television
monitor, said. He watched as the Service Entrance landing bay caught on
fire, the flames leaping up from the Hoodoo to ignite the ceiling.
“Probably lost its Comm,” one of the Secret Service officers
said.
“Damn construction workers! I’ll bet it’s one of their fucking
ships!” a security guard said.
“When the president pays a visit, everything’s got to be
spruced up,” a security guard said. He looked at the guard sitting in
front of a television monitor next to him. “I hear we’re even getting
new carpeting down here.”
“That’ll be the day,” the other man laughed.
“Mayday! Mayday!” came suddenly from a speaker next to one of
the T.V. screens.
“There. It’s got Comm now!” one of the security guards said.
He amplified the transmission from the craft as a nude woman appeared on
one of the T.V. screens.
“Hello, I’m Judy Dan,” the woman said. “My Hoodoo’s on fire
and I’ve got two White House interns on board who say they have an
urgent message for the President of the Imperium.” The guards and the
Secret Service officers found themselves staring at the way her naked
breasts rose and fell as she spoke quickly into her onboard T.V. camera,
next to her Comm screen. “Sorry about my clothes,” Judy Dan added.
“It’s a mess down there.”
Tongsun emerged from the Hoodoo into the Landing Bay. He
coughed as his lungs inhaled the smoke that was rapidly filling the
room.
“Hey! You can’t land here!” a man said. The security cameras
pivoted, but the smoke filling the room obscured their view. The man
stepped into the Service Entrance Landing Bay from an open doorway.
Tongsun approached him. With a quick burst from the Gatling, Tongsun
silenced him. Then he stepped over the man and walked quickly into the
myriad of hallways beyond the Landing Bay. The guards downstairs,
mesmerized by the image of Judy Dan, failed to see him pass out of the
Landing Bay, despite cameras perched in the hall that filmed Tongsun.
Judy Dan looked to her right. What was that noise? She looked
startled. She did not know that Tongsun had left her craft, or that
he’d stolen her Gatling. She looked into her onboard T.V. camera
again. “Mayday,” she repeated.
A Secret Service officer, staring at Judy’s image, frowned.
“Damn. I don’t like the looks of this,” he muttered.
“Let’s go,” the other officer said. Quickly they hurried from
the room, with five security guards leaping up to follow them.
Judy Dan unstrapped herself in the Hoodoo. She stood up. The
two guards remaining stationed before the T.V. cameras in the lowest
floor of the Sky Dwelling got an excellent view of her bush.
“Nice,” one of them said to the other.
Upstairs, the party was underway. The bunting was up and the
purpose of the party (for, in Washington, no party was held without a
purpose) was written in large letters on a banner overhanging the
speaker’s podium.
“PROTECT THE CHILDREN,” the banner read. President Nelson
stood under the banner, before a microphone on the speaker’s podium. He
lifted a glass of wine in toast to the crowd.
“Here’s to our new legislation, raising the voting age and the
age of consent to 21,” President Nelson told the assembled crowd with a
grin. There was applause.
“Twenty-five next year!” a person, wearing a fine tuxedo,
shouted from the crowd.
“Thirty!” a woman in a shimmering cocktail gown yelled, her
glass of wine uplifted.
“Thirty-five!” someone else said, and there was genial
laughter.
They drank to their new law, and assured themselves that they
would write more, in the coming days and weeks. After all, though the
Imperial code now stretched to two billion volumes, all of them filled
with laws which it was no excuse to be ignorant of, the rioting on the
streets below was clear evidence that yet more laws needed to be
written.
“In our modern age, there is increasing stress on the families
of the Imperium,” President Nelson said, as the applause dwindled away.
“But our Imperial government stands ready to help the hard-working
mothers and fathers of our great nation to raise their children in
safety and peace.” A new round of applause broke out. There were
politely voiced cheers, and more toasts.
“To President Nelson!” someone cried.
“To the Imperium!” someone else said. And, with a toast most
appropriate to the moment, some else shouted, “To the safety of our
children!”
Judy Dan stood in the cabin of the Hoodoo. She gazed at Harold
through the smoke. She looked again at the place where the Gatling had
been wrenched from its housing.
“You lied to me,” Judy said to Harold. She wished she had her
laser pistol with her but it was drowned, like her flightsuit, her
boots, her helmet and her gloves, in the bay. It was foolish not to
have grabbed a weapon from someone along the way; the dead pilot who’s
place she’d taken, perhaps, but in the rush of events she’d not bothered
to. Now, as she stared at Harold, she realized that was a mistake.
“For every time, there is a season,” Harold said, and felt
rather proud of himself, in his crippled condition, for coming up with
such a fine, cryptic phrase, just as Tongsun would have.
“I can’t belive that’s-- that’s him--” Judy replied.
“It’s... the real McCoy,” Harold said. He grinned. “No use
chasing after him. He’s already gone. And he’ll kill you if you try to
stop him. Help me up. We’re going to roast in here.”
“Damn you,” Judy swore.
“Whatever,” Harold said. “Are you just going to leave me here,
to burn alive, or will you see that I get justice?”
“Burning would be good justice for you,” Judy said.
“Then leave me, bitch,” Harold said. And, inside his head, he
thought: “I don’t really care what you do, honey. All I care is that I
stall you long enough for Tongsun to get as far up into the building as
he can.”
“Alright,” Judy said. “I’ll help you. But God, will I testify
against you at trial. You two have probably broken all two billion laws
in the Imperium!”
“We’re doing our best,” Harold answered.
Tongsun found an elevator. Its panel offered service to the
top floor, but when the elevator had risen and stopped, he found he was
a floor below the top floor. He could not get it to go any higher. He
pressed the top button repeatedly, but it wouldn’t budge. However, when
its doors began closing and it offered to take him to the basement,
Tongsun quickly stepped out. He found a stairway. It had a police
cordon across it, plus a desk. There was a magazine open on the desk.
It was Sports Illustrated. But nobody was manning the desk, at the
moment, and Tongsun stepped past it, ripped away the police cordon, and
quickly mounted the stairs leading to the top floor.
He emerged into a hallway. There was no desk in this hallway,
but he could hear voices coming from around a corner in the hall
nearby. He walked quickly toward the corner, his Gatling held in a
ready-to-fire position at his waist.
“Hey, you! This is a secured area!” a group of guards said to
Tongsun as he rounded the corner, on the top floor of the building. He
didn’t wait to argue. He opened fire with the Gatling. He strained as
he held the big gun. It was heavy, and it possessed a significant
recoil. Nonetheless, he was strong enough to manage it, and before the
Secret Service officers could draw their guns, the powerful weapon from
the Hoodoo tore their bodies to shreds.
Tongsun ceased swinging the gun back and forth and advanced
down the hall. He heard sounds of a party. He rounded another corner.
He met another cluster of guards. He opened fire again. The Secret
Service officers were blown to bits.
The noise of the revelry in the party room was so loud,
accompanied by the band, that the brief burst of gunfire out in the hall
failed to catch the notice of all but a few partiers at the back of the
room. Worse, from their standpoint, a sliding glass door, communicating
with the hallway, decorated with gold lettering that read “Abraham
Lincoln Party Room,” had been closed.
From within the room, celebrating its new statutory triumph, a
shadow loomed on the other side of the door. The glass slid back.
Heads turned. Tongsun stepped into the room. His head was bruised.
His face, brown-skinned, was smeared with soot. His black hair was
uncombed. He smelled of sweat. His clothes were torn, and grimy. His
shirt was ripped open to reveal his deep-breathing chest. There was a
look of anxious alarm on his face.
A woman, dressed in sequined gown, noticed how her 40-something
friend stared with wonder at the figure in the doorway. He was quite
handsome, she admitted to herself, but surely, from his youthful visage,
he must be underage? She saw the gun at his waist but did not
immediately recognize it as such, for there was construction going on
elsewhere in the building, and, having passed workmen on her way up to
the party, she assumed he was part of a construction crew.
“Well,” she told herself. “He might be old enough to work, but
he surely wasn’t old enough for what her friend found him so appealing
for.” With a light touch on her friend’s gown, she reminded her,
politely but firmly, speaking it aloud, “Remember, Justina, sex with a
minor is a major crime.”
Intending to share more of her legalistic wisdom, derived from
many viewings of afternoon television, Gloria Selvine was interrupted.
A rude burst of laser fire shot from the barrel of the Gatling and,
instead of sharing additional cautionary phrases with her friend, Mrs.
Selvine instead splattered her with her own body fat and body tissue,
and a substantial quantity of bodily fluid. The contents of her wine
cup also went splashing across her friend. Justina had no time to
react, however, for a slight movement of the Gatling brought its laser
fire into contact with her own body. She burst apart, splattering other
guests with her blood, who, themselves, had no time to contemplate her
effect on them, for they too were torn apart by the Gatling as Tongsun
sprayed the room.
There were screams. Shots were fired. Tongsun felt a laser
blast nip his head. He stepped to one side, out of the silhouetting
doorway behind him, and kept firing. He reaped through the crowd with
his Gatling like Death itself, felling the bodies easily and quickly.
“Mr. President, this way!” a voice shouted. President Nelson
felt himself yanked down from the podium at the far end of the room. He
was dragged through a doorway. Secret Service officers carried him
quickly up a flight of stairs to the roof of the building.
Down in the Service Entrance Landing Bay, two Secret Service
officers and five security guards were busy arresting both Judy Dan and
Harold.
“Dammit! I’m a pilot! Sanramento Police!” Judy Dan protested,
as her hands were bound behind her back by two security guards. She
coughed at the smoke billowing from her burning Hoodoo.
“And I’m a White House intern!” Harold said, mustering as much
indignity as he could. Then he coughed also.
“No he’s not!” Judy Dan gasped.
“Let’s get out of here,” one of the security guards said to a
Secret Service agent. They turned, dragging Judy Dan and Harold with
them. Two maintenance men rushed into the room, holding fire
extinguishers. They stared at the burning Hoodoo. They looked
ill-equipped for their job. Perhaps, hearing the alarms, they had
suspected a usual, run of the mill emergency. Like men with buckets
staring at a burning skyscraper, they gaped up at the Hoodoo.
“Holy shit!” one of the maintenance men yelled. The entire
room was a billowing mass of smoke.
“Where’s the fire detail?” the other maintenance man asked.
“God if I know. Probably at that damn party!” a security guard
yelled.
The building quivered.
“What the Hell?” a Secret Service agent, holding Harold by his
hands, which were cuffed behind his back, blurted out.
Up on the roof, the Hoodoo began to rise. President Nelson,
slightly rumpled but otherwise unhurt, sat with a wine glass in his
hand. It was empty, but an onboard servant, quick to notice the lack of
liquor in the president’s glass, rushed to fill it with a bottle of the
president’s favorite vintage.
President Nelson gazed at a T.V. screen next to his seat, which
was a large, plump, well-stuffed chair. He saw the ruined ballroom on
his screen. A producer, in a small room off to one side of the large
Hoodoo’s main cabin, selected another view for the president’s eyes.
The camera feeds were arriving from the security office in the bottom
floor of the Abraham Lincoln building, and the producer chose from them
with the deftness and grace of a programmer selecting an evening’s
viewing. He found a live shot of Judy Dan, quite naked, her arms bound
behind her back, and of Harold, looking sooty and disheveled, also with
his hands imprisoned behind him. Secret Service agents and guards
surrounded the two. They were coming through a doorway labelled
“Service Entrance Landing Bay” into an interior hall.
The president laughed. The wine sloshed in his glass as he
laughed. He studied the screen as the roar of the Hoodoo’s engines grew
louder.
“HA! HA! HA! Damn kids!” President Nelson said. Unlike the
women in the party room, he was under no illusions about what he was
seeing. “Damn kids!” he said again. “They’re hippies, that’s what they
are. Well, well. I have two words for you,” President Nelson said,
gazing at the captured figures on the T.V. screen. He had no idea how
many other rioters had penetrated the building, and he wasn’t going to
take any chances. Grinning, he asked the two handcuffed figures on the
T.V., who could not, of course, see him, and no idea he was talking
them, a simple question: “Going down?” He laughed again, and drank
from his wine glass.
“Do you want to do a full drop, Mr. President?” a Secret
Service officer asked.
“Yep. Full drop,” President Nelson said.
“Overriding,” a man stated. He sat at a console with two
T.V.s, which showed a view of internal computer screens in the building
below. He’d already switched the Abraham Lincoln Building’s Main Lift
Engine from automatic to manual, causing the building to tremble at the
sudden, if brief, loss of power. Now, very precisely and deliberately,
he shut the Main Lift Engine off. Then he prevented, with several taps
on his keyboard, and a click of his mouse, the Backup Lift Engine from
switching on and taking the load.
The Hoodoo’s landing gear rose off the cement of the building’s
roof. Just as it did, a metal hatch, used for maintenance work, was
flung open. Standing on a ladder within the hole over which the metal
hatch had been closed, was Tongsun. He had been unable to climb the
ladder with his Gatling, and it lay at the bottom of the ladder in the
maintenance shaft. Seeing the Hoodoo, guessing the president might be
aboard, he didn’t pause to think. He jumped. It was a lucky decision,
for as he did the building beneath him fell away. He gasped as his arms
caught onto the Hoodoo’s landing gear. His knee had bumped the
hatchway’s metal opening as he leapt, shooting pain up through his
thigh. But he did not gasp at the pain caused by his knee. Instead, he
stared disbelievingly as the building in which he had so recently stood
fell away from him toward the earth.
Inside the Hoodoo, the producer found a view of Tongsun on one
of his screens, clutching the right-side aft landing gear of the
Hoodoo. It was broadcast to him by a special camera on the underside of
the Hoodoo. He clicked on a button. The shot was transmitted to the
president’s screen in the main cabin.
“Shit! There’s some kid on our landing gear!” a Secret Service
agent yelled. He stared at the president’s T.V. screen.
“Damn kids!” the president shouted. A Secret Service agent
unholstered his laser pistol and began firing into the floor of the
Hoodoo, at the place where he guessed the right-side aft landing gear
was.
“No! You’ll hit a fuel line!” another Secret Service agent
yelled to the one who was firing.
Tongsun heard the explosion as the Abraham Lincoln Sky Dwelling
smashed into the ground below. With terrified eyes he stared down at a
view of New Washington, so far below him, his feet dangling above it,
his arms straining as he struggled to keep his hold on the Hoodoo’s
landing gear.
The Hoodoo rose higher. A shot penetrated the bottom of the
craft and hit Tongsun in the shoulder. He lost his grip on the landing
gear. He fell.
“It’s a long way to Tipperary,” Tongsun said to himself,
cryptically, as he fell through the fog. Then, as he gazed upward,
trying to spot the Hoodoo which had now disappeared in the clouds above
him, the ground below rushing up to capture him forever, he remembered a
question, posed on a record his grandfather owned. It was a record by
the Kinks. It had asked a simple question, but one that held profound
implications for Tongsun. It was: “Should I stay, or should I go?”
Much to his regret, Tongsun, while still gripping the landing
gear, had decided that his odds of clinging successfully to the landing
gear for the Hoodoo’s entire flight were impossible. He was dog tired
and he’d worn out his arms completely carrying the Gatling around. The
wind whipped coldly at his body, urging him to let go. His arms
screamed for mercy. Tightening his grip with one hand, he’d let go with
the other. Fighting the onrushing wind, he’d reached into his pocket.
>From it he’d pulled the Thermite grenade, only remembering it now,
desperately, looking for some way to finish his mission. He hadn’t been
sure the president of the Imperium was aboard the Hoodoo, but he’d felt
an eerie certainty that he was. On the underside of the Hoodoo Tongsun
had placed a Thermite grenade. It was attached by magnetism to the
underside of the Hoodoo. He’d pulled its pin, despite the fact that it
would blow him apart as surely as it blew apart the Hoodoo. Then he’d
been shot.
Tongsun gaped upward, into the clouds. He continued to fall.
Somewhere, up there, was a Hoodoo. Tongsun didn’t know how many seconds
had passed since he’d pulled the pin from the Thermite grenade, but he
prayed he had more seconds left to him than the Hoodoo did.
Tongsun watched the sky, attentively, paying no mind whatever
to the ground rushing up to break his bones and smash his skull.
Just before he hit the ground, through the fog, he saw a bright
explosion far overhead.
THE END
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