Chapter 42

Crowds milled around the tracks as the train came to an abrupt halt next to a small wooden platform. Men and women jumped from the passenger cars with their belongings firmly in one hand, their children in the other. A small table was being set up on the wooden stage by several men in similarly-styled blue suits. A middle-aged man in a slightly darker blue uniform sat down at the table, spreading several books and writing utensils across its wooden surface. He was joined by two much larger and younger men who stood on either side projecting an air of malice and distrust. A line formed in front of the table and the man in the darkest blue suit waved the first passengers forward.
Several yards behind the table Edward and Witticker, now dressed in floor length, hooded black robes, had joined the line as inconspicuously as possible. Edward had decided on their apparel for the trip. His reasoning had been that, while it was unlikely they would be recognized; the extra precaution would not hurt.
The line snaked slowly across the train yard as the afternoon sun arced across the sky like a pole-vaulter in suspended animation. Little children ran up and down the line selling refreshments to the travelers. Several motorbikes zoomed past the motionless train, sailing past the crowds and down the tracks. The locals cheered as the bikes sped by and the riders raised their fists in the air to reciprocate the enthusiasm. The drivers were drifters and vagrants, hired by the train conductors to ride ahead, checking for disruptions or breaks in the track. People familiar with the line of work, considered by most to be a particularly dangerous occupation, felt a certain inclination to support the vandal riders who they only knew as selfless surveyors of the countryside.
As the line crawled across the wasteland of train tracks a makeshift marketplace sprang up around the captive consumers. Vendors dropped quilts on the ground and unloaded their goods for the public’s viewing eye. Witticker was amazed at the persistence and resiliency of the merchants, shouting and gesturing at every passerby regardless of their show of interest. At one point he was nearly drawn into one of the stands himself after a pocket watch that lay among a pile of like shiny trinkets, but was quickly torn away by Edward who reminded him of their unique situation. He snapped at Witticker with a quiet hiss, instructing him to keep his face to the ground and under the hood.
After an hour and a half the two men found themselves only a few places from the front of the line. The man in the dark blue suit seemed to be questioning each passenger in a similar manner, asking each their intended destination and reason for travel.
“When we get up there,” whispered Edward, his face to the ground, “don’t say anything. I’ll take care of everything. Just make sure to agree with whatever I say.”
“Alright.”
“Good start.”
The two men stepped forward and waited for the man in the dark blue suit to call them to the table. Out of the corner of his eye Edward could see the crowds of people moving all around the train, swarming in and around its various cable cars. Some were employed to inspect and repair the trains many moving parts and others were helping recent arrivals still exiting the train with their luggage which, in some cases with traveling families, was ample.
As he scanned the mechanical landscape a familiar image suddenly caught Edward’s attention. At the back of the train Edward could see the outline of a lanky man raking a brush through an unkempt beard. The old man threw a satchel onto the train and leapt up onto one of the many cleared platforms.
“Next.”
Edward quickly snapped his head back to the ground and stepped forward. Witticker followed Edward’s lead and stood slightly behind his guide. Up close the man in the blue suit appeared to be a slightly portly gentleman with a large handlebar mustache and considerable oval eyes. Upon his blue lapel stuck a rectangular pin with the words ‘CONDUCTOR’ visible through the smudge lathered onto it.


Sweat dripped from underneath the conductor’s hat and rolled down the length of his face, falling onto the pages of the book laid out before him.
“Destination?”
“New York,” growled Edward in a gruff tone much unlike his normal speaking voice.
“City or upstate?”
“City.”
The man in the blue suit took a small handkerchief from his breast pocket and wiped the length of his forehead. Replacing the handkerchief, he grabbed a pen and jotted a few notes in the next open margin in the book laid out before him.
“Reason for travel?”
“To further spread the word.”
“And which word would that be?” asked the conductor without a hint of interest.
“The word of the Region,” replied Edward, not missing a beat, “the most forward-thinking ideal, ever-expanding in an effort to show the people of the world the harmony and comfort of living in a united community. Have you heard the word?”
“No, and I don’t intend to,” murmured the conductor, “Your friend is awfully quiet. Doesn’t he feel the need to spread the word?”
“My friend and I are on route to see a very important official in the New York area. He has been commissioned to speak to no one before a meeting of this magnitude so that his thoughts might remain unfettered and on the task at hand. Isn’t that right?”
Witticker nodded under his robe and raised his hand slightly.
“Fine. You do understand the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior en route to your destination, correct?”
Edward nodded.
“Alright, you and your mute friend are in car eight, room thirteen.”
Edward and Witticker both nodded and shuffled towards the train. As they reached the platform on the eighth car Witticker pulled Edward aside.
“What is the penalty for engaging in criminal behavior on this thing?”
“Oh, they toss your ass from the train. Come on, we need to see who we’re riding with.”
Edward jumped up onto the train and slid through the thin door into the passenger car. Witticker turned and scanned the sea of travelers still in line behind the table. They shuffled in their places as he had only moments before, kicking dirt up into the air which seemed to engulf the mass in a hazy fog. The dusty mist clutched the line, snaring it into place. It never seemed to move. It was simply there, stuck in one place. Faceless bodies shuffling endlessly under the noon-day sun.
A whistle blew from the front of the train signaling an imminent departure. Witticker quickly jumped up to the platform and disappeared into car number eight. The line of people dispersed along with the blue-suited conductor and his table. The dust began to settle back to the earth. Everything became silent again.
The train whistle blew again and the hulking engine roared to life. The train crept forward hurling loose earth back into the air. The massive machine picked up speed and flew out of town, leaving clouds of smoke and dirt swirling in its wake.

Chapter 41

Witticker sat in a very tight and shady alleyway between two thatch houses in the outer distrip. He and Edward had run from the heart of the market after their most recent encounter, ducking into the empty space to wait until the air cleared from the altercation. Witticker sat watching Edward who had been trying for the past several minutes to catch water dripping from the gutter of the house in his canteen.
“They’ve followed us pretty far,” grunted Witticker. “How did they know we were here?”
Edward continued his precarious attempts at seizing water, shifting his weight from foot to foot just slightly in order to catch each precious drop.
“They don’t operate on chance,” Edward answered dryly, “the same amount of men were in every distrip in a hundred mile radius from here.”
Edward put the canteen down at his feet and held his head towards the ground down, rubbing his temples with his thumbs.
“Dammit! The sun is just high enough in the sky to be right in my eyes. It’s hard as hell to see those drops until it’s almost too late. Better than buying a bottle from those crooks out there, I suppose.”
Edward looked over at Witticker who seemed to be more interested in the dirt at his feet than their diminishing water supply.
“What’s wrong? Is it about what happened back there? You shouldn’t worry about those guys. Really.”
Witticker kicked his feet, sending small motes of dirt floating through the air around them.
“If it’s any consolation, they weren’t here for you.”
Finally catching his attention, Witticker turned his gaze to Edward.
“Alright, explain it to me.”
Edward picked up the canteen and continued his balancing act.
“Well, it’s complicated.”

*~~*

A Brief Lecture on World History
Delivered orally by Edward St. Cavalier
Recorded in 2208
Archive NYPL

“The War of the Golden Sheet began in the year 2200 with an announcement from the Perceptionist group the Golden Acolytes to the remaining inhabitants of North America. Before relating this announcement or its bearing on continental affairs there must be a discussion on the origins of the Golden Acolytes.”

“The Golden Acolytes were founded by a group of mathematicians who based their personal philosophies and daily rituals on the Golden Ratio. This Golden Ratio, or phi, is an arithmetic proportion that can be traced through history as being, in the perspective of several different cultures, a particularly aesthetic measurement.”

“Let us consider three variables. We will call our first variable, the smaller of the three, A. The next variable, slightly larger, B. The final variable, the sum of A and B, C. The golden ratio is found when the division of C/B equals the division of B/A. For example:

A farmer has a herd of thirty-four sheep. When he stands them in a straight line, as farmers are not generally wont to do, but will for the purposes of this experiment, he observes an amazing phenomenon. The farmer, having stamped F’s on the legs of his female sheep, of which there are thirteen, and M’s on his male sheep, of which there are twenty-one, discovers that the sheep are lined up in two distinct groups with respect to their gender. The result is as follows:

FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM

From this distribution of sheep we can infer the following:

FFFFFFFFFFFFFMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM
or…
34/21 = 1.61904…

will equal

MMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM/
FFFFFFFFFFFFF
or…
21/13 = 1.61538

In short, what the farmer was surprised to see was a stunningly beautiful arrangement of sheep.”

“The equality in the proportion is deemed to be the foundation of the beauty and while it is not always found to be perfect, as in our model of sheep, it is usually pretty darn close. So close, in fact, that it inspired the physical structure of the Parthenon, several paintings by Salvador Dali, and at least one cult.”

“And so, having bridged the historical gap, we return to the announcement made by the Golden Acolytes in 2200. They, not content with imposing the Golden Ratio solely upon the lifestyle of its own members, announced their intent to reduce the number of earth’s inhabitants to an ‘aesthetic’ proportion. They termed their task the ‘Cleansing Subtraction’ and while it is not known what the final count was to be it is well-documented how the members of this cult planned and carried out their ‘Subtraction’ method.”

“In the year 2202 the War of the Golden Sheet, as it had been termed, reached a fever pitch. The Golden Acolytes had amassed a considerable number of followers and were the predominant force in the eastern part of the Americas. The resistance force to the Acolytes had dwindled significantly in the course of the ware and, in a final effort, had resolved to cripple the organization by striking at its core, the leading members of the Golden Acolytes known only as the Perfect Circle. The operation was green-lit by resistance commanders and a small contingent, led by one Cpt. St. Cavalier, was able to break through and speak to the Perfect Circle. It has never been revealed what business was conducted in that time, but after the meeting the armies of the Golden Acolytes were disbanded and the cult quietly retreated out of the public sphere.”

*~~*

“It was just some group of people I pissed off a while back. They have a habit of dressing in black and since those guys were dressed in black it is a fair assumption that it was them. I wouldn’t worry about it.”
Witticker slung his head back down, his sight line aimed at the tip of shoes.
“Fine, whatever. What’s our next move?”
“Well,” said Edward, dodging left and right with the canteen, “now that we’ve been spotted again it won’t be long until we’ve got more tag-alongs. There’s no point in avoiding a faster way to travel if we’re hunted either way. We might as well just grab a train and keep a low profile. The only safe place now is where we’re going.”
Witticker stood up as Edward put the cap back on his canteen.
“Just where are we going?”
Edward placed the canteen into his satchel and began walking out of the alleyway.
“New York. Now hurry, we’ve got to catch the next train out of here or we’re going to have more than just four guys to deal with.”
Witticker hurried after Edward into the crowded street of the distrip feeling as if he were jumping into yet another foreign ocean without any semblance of a life preserver.

Chapter 40

He could hear the bell. It rang softly from the next room as it had twenty times before. However, this dinner had gone on much longer than he had ever anticipated and Arnold Cavenstein felt little motivation left inside. His limbs began to move out of habit; directing him towards the stove to retrieve the final course for his guests.
Each course had lasted two hours bringing the affair to a staggering forty hour siege. He had managed to sleep one half-hour at a time between courses, but became troubled in his rest by the distinct possibility that the bell would ring and that he would miss his window to introduce the next meal. His guests were not entirely forgiving and Mr. Cavenstein envisioned their castigation for such an oversight would be swift and horrifyingly permanent.
He stood, rather haggard and wobbly, over the stove preparing the petit four that had been keeping warm inside the lightly heated oven. As he moved the small cakes into an aesthetically pleasing pattern his mind wandered to the events of the evening. For the past several hours his guests had become very quiet, keeping their conversational volume to a whisper tone and spending most of their time in silence. The only aspect remotely reassuring to Arnold Cavenstein was that it seemed the events of the evening had been as taxing on his guests as they were on him. They were becoming restless. It was as if they were waiting for something, a phone call or a telegram, but nothing had come. Nothing had come.
Mr. Cavenstein, as he had done so many times in the past two days, checked himself in the mirror before making his entrance. Finally, ready to serve, he opened the door, armed with the vast array of miniature deserts. His guests occupied their very familiar positions in front of empty plates. As he gathered their dirty receptacles they broke their collective silence.
“Well,” began Roland, “it seems that Jehovah is finding his match with our escapee.”
“You should have let me after him in the first place,” whispered Simon with his head bowed towards the table.
Roland turned his head sharply and glared at the giant hunched over the small table.
“With how you handled the last delicate job you were assigned you should be thankful that you’re even sitting at this table.”
Simon kicked the chair out from under him and stood up swiftly, towering only inches from the ceiling. He turned towards Roland, raising his arm to strike.
“Simon, please,” hissed the lone woman at the end of the table, “your theatrics might be entertaining to the company you keep outside these walls, but in here it’s ultimately pointless. You know as well as the rest of us the consequences of engaging a fellow Party member. Your death would benefit no one.”
Simon took a step to the side and regained his composure, sliding his meaty hands through his hair. After a moment he replaced the chair he had kicked out to its original position and resumed his place at the table, falling into the seat with a heavier than normal pressure. As he continued to adjust himself Ms. J produced a small compact from her purse and began to check her complexion in its faint reflection. She lightly powdered her nose and placed the compact neatly back into her petite bag.
“Now, as Roland was proposing, we may need to contact an alternate source in locating our man. Jehovah is reliable, but he may be working on a larger timetable than was recommended. I believe we should consider notifying the authorities in the immediate area, warning them of a significant threat on the loose. With the proper description we could have this issue tackled within a matter of hours.”
“That is hasty decision-making,” wheezed the old man, “The release to the general public will threaten the isolation of information. The dreamer has undoubtedly infected enough citizens already. His capture by civilian authorities could result in much larger implications than you realize.”
“Yes,” answered Ms. J, “but our legs are being cut out from under us. As you say, he is infecting more people with every passing hour and he isn’t even aware of his condition. Imagine if he finds out.”

*~~*

Thirty years earlier…

A man and woman sit in a dim and crowded restaurant. They are surrounded by dining parties of a considerably higher social standing, complete with top hats and evening gowns. The nearby tables are boisterous and carefree, spectacles of excessive wealth and privilege.
The man and woman stand out in the restaurant not by appearance, but by their cold and silent demeanor. They pick at their food sparingly and only rarely glance at one another, quickly turning their attention back to the table top. They are a sore thumb, a burning building in a neighborhood of fine townhouses.
“So, when are you leaving to play house?” asks the woman sharply.
The man looks up from his plate, places his silverware on the plate, and reclines against the back of his chair.
“You know I don’t know,” responds the man begrudgingly. “I don’t understand why you’re acting as if this was never going to happen. I always told you that if I was called I would have to leave. You used to say that it added ‘spice’ to our exotic lifestyle.”
“I used to say a lot of things that weren’t true,” spits the woman as she pulls out her compact, “and you always spoke of this ‘call’ as some kind of long shot. As if it would never happen.”
“It is happening, Victoria. I can’t stop it and I can’t avoid it.”
The two sit silently again. The woman powders her nose and replaces the compact in her purse. The man sips at his wine as he stares curiously at his dining partner. Laughter erupts from the surrounding tables, highlighting the heightened tension.
“You know,” he says, suddenly standing up from the table, “I’ve explained this too many times already. I’m not sure why I expected you to respond any differently tonight. I’m not waiting until tomorrow. I’m leaving now.”
The man takes his suit jacket from the back of the chair and slings it over his arm.
“Don’t worry about my things. I’ve already packed what I need.”
The man takes a silver ring off his fourth finger and places it next to the plate in front of the woman.
“I hope someday you’ll understand.”
As the man turns to leave the woman puts her hand over the ring left on the plate.
“Brisby,” says the woman, her voice shaking, “at least tell me why."
The woman doesn't mover her focus from the plate on the table, her hand covering the catalyst.
“What mission is so pressing, so urgent, that it need break up a marriage?”
The man turns his face just slightly towards the woman, his features masked by the shadows of the room.
“Do you remember the stories I told you about my childhood? How I would shake and shiver in my sleep? The doctors said it was a stress reaction. A symptom of a larger problem. I never told anyone this, but I saw things then. Visions of other worlds, images of fantastic places in that sleep. They put me on medication and the visions went away, the shaking stopped. I’ve never been sure, even to this day, if I really wanted them to stop. Now they’ve found another case of this shaking and they want to take care of him, to teach him. They want a pure case intact, no medication, just in case. In the event that it might be useful. I have so many questions and this may very well be the only chance I ever get to have any answers. They took something from me and I’m going there to get it back.”
The woman turns herself in the chair to face the man covered in shadows.
“Brisby, just…”
“I’m sorry,” interrupts the man as he turns away, “but I have to do this.”
The man leaves the woman alone in the crowded restaurant. She takes the silver ring left by the man and slides it on her fourth finger. A single tear slides down her face as she sits staring at the silver band, now a mixed symbol of unity and heartbreak.

*~~*

“Yes, we must think of the overall containment,” said Roland, taking a small sip of the wine in front of him. “Notifying all the authorities is a bit risky, but as long as they think he is a common criminal there is less of a threat in there being a leak.”
Arnold Cavenstein had finished putting the deserts in front of his guests and, after topping off each of their glasses with his finest wine, turned back towards the kitchen. Upon reaching the door he half-expected to be stopped by his guests for another request, but, being fully enamored with their fresh assortment of cakes, they were silent again. He pushed through the door into the tiny kitchen and promptly started a fifteen minute timer. He would surely be out to see them again, but not before a moments rest.

Chapter 39

The native distrip burst forth with life, a quick and blooming oasis in an arid desert. Shop owners hung their wares from tree branches and erected small stands on the earthen floor. The bazaar centered on a small log building from which several armed men kept watch, presumably the only semblance of law and order in the market. People bustled from one stand to next keeping their heads low and their hands in their pockets, tightly clutching any or all of their currency. The market was in full swing.
Two men entered the distrip from one of the several pathways leading in from the forest. They began to mill about the market, joining the busy throng. The crowd walked in silence, only speaking at stands and, even then, only of business. Of the two men recently arrived one stopped to observe an older gentleman attempting to barter a live chicken for solar panels as the other haggled with a shopkeeper over the price of eggs.
A single shot was fired into the air.
The distrip cleared.
The two men stood next to the now-abandoned stand as a cluster of four men dressed entirely in black approached them. The street was quiet and dusty, hearkening back to an overused cliché. The man who had been haggling the expense of eggs gestured to his observing friend, inferring that he should step to the side.
After his companion withdrew, the other man approached the four clad in black in the middle of the road and drew his sword. The four men drew their pistols, each barrel aimed at a single target.

*~~*

The advantage that a person with a handgun has over an unarmed opponent is undeniably paramount. This singular concept has changed the course of history on multiple occasions and has proven to be the defining characteristic in man’s domination of subservient cultures. Cortes and his Aztecs. Pizarro and his Incans. Etcetera ad Nauseum.

It is, however, just a device. A tool with which there are advantages and disadvantages. Still affected by the laws of physics and still held to the dynamic tenets of chance. These four men felt solidly grounded in their advantage over the man with little more than a stick of steel. Their arrogance was to be their undoing.

*~~*

At first, just one step.
A verbal warning.
The handle rests loosely in the palm of his hand.
He turns the blade just slightly to catch the sun in its surface.
One more step.
A shot is fired and the man dodges to the right.
Eight quick steps and he’s right behind you.
Three where there were four.
Two shots fired at a moving target.
Missed.
Two where there were three.
A quick spin.
One. Just one.
Four shots fired in succession.
The gun falls to the ground with its owner.

*~~*

The man sheathed his sword and walked back towards his companion waiting at the side of the road. Shopkeepers ran from the forest and begin to pillage the remains of the fallen assailants. The people slowly reappeared and the market began to rumble again. The two men disappeared into the sea of the distrip, swallowed by the shuffling feet and downcast faces.

Chapter 38

Edward walked slightly ahead of Witticker, reminiscent of a samurai being followed by his servant. However, the roles in this case had become slightly reversed. Edward had saved Witticker from several complications already with no mention of restitution or compensation and while Witticker found this to be a rather curious circumstance he did not dare to look the gift horse directly in its mouth.
The two men found a worn pathway leading into the forest in the direction of the native distrip and took it in opposition of hiking over open fields. The heat of the day beat through the light-filtering trees as they wound through the forest pathway, flanked by wild undergrowth. As they began their descent into the valley of the distrip they spotted a small clearing in a grove on the valley’s edge. As they reached the clearing they spied a man alone in the grove, curled into the fetal position, rocking back and forth, and groaning in pain.
“Are you alright, sir?” asked Edward cautiously.
The man looked up at his new visitors with eyes brimming with wild fear and despair. His face was stretched and pulled in agony.
“I’ve got…I’ve got’em in me. Nobody will tell me the truth, but I know…I know they’re there. I can feel’em crawling, calculating. I just need to find one…can you see one?”
Upon saying this, the man released his fetal lock, showcasing his gut, unrecognizable through the red of the blood. His body appeared to have been sliced open at the waist in a most gruesome fashion.
Witticker jumped back as Edward moved closer to the man.
“Who did this to you? Were did they go?”
The man stared madly into Edward’s eyes as he pulled a blade from the ground next to him.
“It wasn’t no one else. I’m gonna find one. I know there’s one inside of me…somewhere. I just have to find it.”
“One what? What is inside of you?”
“A robot! They’re real small…and can look just like all the other stuff in there. It’s a big scam, you see…the doctors put’em in there and the lawyers…the lawyers just cover it up, but I figured’em out. I’ve just gotta find one and then everyone will believe. Everyone will…everyone.”
At this the man opened himself up again and began poking through his wounds savagely, clawing through his own body like an open suitcase. Edward took a step back, removing himself from the man’s activity. He watched as the man dug and screamed in alternation, a horrific self-inflicted torture. Edward took a revolver from his side-holster and aimed it at the man. The gun discharged and the man fell limp to the ground, his extremities idly drawn to the forest floor.

*~~*


Witticker walked back on the path a short way and, after the shot rang through the valley, fell on his hands and knees, heaving in disgust. Edward approached him from the grove and waited in silence.
“What…why did that man do that to himself?”
Edward stood reloading his gun and polishing its metal frame.
“Don’t quite know. Every person reacts to knowledge in a different way.”
Witticker stood up and leaned against a tree, using it for support.
“What does knowledge have to do with what that man was doing to himself?”
Edward slipped the revolver back into his side-holster, concealed beneath his brown vest.
“Imagine it like this. You grow up your entire life with an active imagination. The possibilities are endless. You learn and achieve and acquire and at the end of the tunnel someone tells you that reality isn’t what you learned about all those years. It’s what’s in your head.
“For some people it’s like a new lease on life. They love the control. For some,” said Edward as he pointed towards the grove, “it’s like throwing a brick through a glass window. People just don’t know what to believe and in the breakdown that means they really have no reality. Long story short, Perceptionism isn’t for everyone.”
Witticker leaned against the tree for a long time. He couldn’t get the image of the man’s face out of his head. The way his eyes had communicated such despair. The way his face had stretched out in earnest agony.
Edward waited and, after a time, Witticker moved again. The two men passed through the grove and down the valley, drawing nearer to the distrip.

Side Two

Side Two









“If you’re behind the times, they won’t notice you. If you’re right in tune with them, you’re no better than they are, so they won’t care much for you. Be just a little ahead of them.”

Shel Silverstein
1930-1999
Poet, Musician, Cartoonist, and Author

The Beguiling Story of Edward and the Broken Sword

At the age of nearly four hours old a boy identified only as Edward was found crying on the floor of an abandoned Methodist Temple in the inner district of the ancient city of Chicago. The savior of the boy was Ricard Touso, a man sent to the temple on business that had nothing to do with collecting a new born infant. However, upon being alerted to Edward’s presence, the good Mr. Touso felt obligated to, at the very least, find a suitable home for the boy. He completed the work he had been sent to do and returned with Edward from whence he had come, which would be the Sanctuary of the Broken Sword.

The Brotherhood of the Broken Sword consists of an elite group of men who were gathered in the wake of the Great Decline and were trained as highly-educated citizen warriors. The organization was begun by the last Pinkerton Agent from the former United States with the intention to maintain a private outlet that could hold a neutral sway in a large scale conflict. While their existence has remained largely unknown to the general public they have been involved in every major event since the Great Decline.

Since its formation more than a century and a half ago the brotherhood has evolved from a professional membership into a spiritual sect. Members are only accepted if found worthy by trial and, pending approval, are educated in all the arts in order to eventually reach the level of warrior philosophers or, in other words, the modern samurai.

Edward, having been brought to the temple by a member, was permitted to be raised by Brother Ricard until the age of twelve. The following is Edward’s account of his twelfth year:

I was not afraid when they took me. My father had told me they would come. As they stole me from my bed I fell limp as I had been instructed. Fighting back would have proved fruitless and shameful. They placed me inside a small dark box where I would remain for nine months. My father explained to me that I was to be reborn inside the brotherhood.

The box was never opened. No sound was heard. Light became a faint memory. I learned to find comfort in the quite place, this forgotten corner. They would pour water through the cracks of the box and slip bread and leaves through in moderation. I listened to my heartbeat, a consistent reminder that I was still alive. I re-lived every moment of my childhood over and over again. Every memory remembered and repeated until they blurred into one consciousness. When the darkness overtook me I chanted the mantra spoken to me from my father. Move forward. Constantly Move Forward.

The days grew darker, but I could feel my mind growing stronger. Stronger against the resolve of a constant darkness. Move forward. As time passed the pails of water through the cracks turned to drips. The bread and leaves were fragmentary, only a bare minimum. Move forward. The final days were spent in drought. Biting fingernails. Holding every ounce of water. Licking the wooden box for any hint of moisture. Move forward.

On the final day the box was lifted and taken before the Master. My box was opened among a sea of like boxes. I stood from the wrecked shell only to find a handful of others rise from the myriad of boxes surrounding us. We few stood shaking, nearly lifeless from the ordeal we had endured. The box on my right housed a boy my same age who had succumbed to the trial. His body had wasted into nothing, gray and lifeless. His arms and legs were extraordinarily long and his joints had swelled from the great pressure of being trapped inside the box. His face was clenched in fear, covered in the shadow of the box. I have never forgotten this expression.

I could not see, for the light was much too bright, but I heard the Master speak. This is what he said:

Brothers, you have arisen from the deepest darkness. You are reborn into this Brotherhood. Do not weep for those around you who have not risen to the task. They have received nothing more or less than what you yourself have undertaken. It was simply their will, their strength of mind that failed.
Never forget what you lost here. The fear. What you have gained is tremendously more valuable and will never be taken from you. Your trial is over Brothers. Now you begin your training.

I would never hear the master speak again. This audience was a gift and was, for most, the only one they would ever receive in their lifetime.

In the following months I was given back to my father. He fed me with food and knowledge, both of which I dipped heavily from. He revealed the secrets of the Brotherhood to me, their history, their mission, and, most importantly, their moral code. We followed the ancient samurai in practice, word, and deed. The tenets of honor, courage, benevolence, respect, honesty, rectitude, and loyalty were shown to me daily in the observation of my father with his affairs.

In my eighteenth year I was taken again. The Brotherhood sent word and I was collected from my father for the final training. In our final days together he gave me my first and last sword. When the day came and I was retrieved he cried. His face was clenched in sadness as I had seen once before. I did not cry, but I felt a heaviness, a sadness I could not describe.

Upon our collection my brothers and I began our final training. The first day we were lined up in a large hall and, after waiting for several hours, were approached by a single man. He possessed no weapons save for his hands and his words. One by one we were all challenged by the disarmed fellow. Those who refused to fight were broken and cast out, the rest of us were merely broken.

We were all housed together in a small barrack with one bed for every three men. We cut the mattresses and made hammocks so that every man could rest without resentment from the next. The next day we were taken to an open field in which the same man who had beaten us the day before instructed us upon our individual weaknesses. We became stronger and able to surpass our own inadequacies. Once a week we were challenged. We were allowed any weapon and were promised that if we were ever to strike our instructor we would be awarded a high place within the order of the Brotherhood. Our teacher was never touched.

In the midst of training we were each given a letter. We were instructed to keep its contents secret from the other brothers with the penalty of sharing the information being death. My letter detailed how my fellow brothers had been plotting against me, fearing my potential and talent. My following weeks were spent in silence; my waking moments spent watching the others. All the brothers seemed to creep in the shadows, hiding from one another.

Weeks later we were informed that the same letter had been sent to every man. This was meant to be our instruction in how to hide when the enemy is all around. How to camouflage our emotions to our closest of comrades.

In the end we were all sent to different places. I do not know what will become of those I trained with. I am to be sent to moderate a faction that has become overly concerned with balance and numbers. This record is my final task before becoming a full Brother.

It will soon be unimportant to continue contact with the Brotherhood. My presence is my purpose. If I fail others will take my place. My life is just begun.

~Edward St. Cavalier

INTERMISSION

Chapter 37

“There is no ‘we’ anymore. Do you see what I’m getting at?”
Edward and Witticker had been walking for the past ten hours in what their white box insisted was east. For the last hour of their hike over the Midwestern hills and valleys Edward had been trying to explain the modern tenets of the society Witticker had stumbled upon, specifically that the concept of an unconscious connection from person to person was outdated. Edward found that a discussion of the events since the Great Decline had been necessary to outline the foundation of his argument.
“When this was an official country ‘we’ were all part of a greater whole. The blanket term of ‘American’ included everyone, regardless of opinion or perception.”
Edward slung himself from tree to tree as he descended a steep hill into the valley below. Each tree acted as leverage against the gravity attempting to pull the man into the crux of the two hills.
“During the downward spiral of the decline the last government exercised the propaganda of a ‘united nation’ a bit too much. People got tired of hearing that everyone was ‘united’. It was easy to say, but then to look outside and watch a neighbor execute an entire city block for a loaf of bread...it was just difficult to stomach.”
Witticker grappled from tree to tree as Edward had before him, but the roots, having been already roughly handled, gave way, sending him sliding down the incline. He reached for a stray root and managed to catch hold before tumbling to the bottom.
“People stopped trusting each other and the idea of a ‘we’ died with the government that espoused it. That’s the way it is now.”
Both Edward and Witticker reached the bottom of the hill and dusted themselves off from the rough descent. As Edward led the way forward he felt the ground below give a little less than it had before. He kicked away the layer of leaves to find a spot of gray pavement peeking from below the blanket of earth.
“I wonder what road we’re on,” said Witticker looking down flattened valley floor before them. He longed for the comfort of steady footing and even terrain that the way would provide.
“Doesn’t matter,” said Edward as he climbed to the next side of the valley. “If we follow a road we’ll be spotted. Come up this way.”
Edward extended his arm to pull Witticker up onto the next hill. Witticker reached for the hand as they began their next ascent.

*~~*

Clouds filtered the light of the sun as the two men rested beside a shady lake. Edward had just emerged from bathing in the water and had taken to drying off by laying on a large rock next to the lake. The boulder extended out a little over the water’s edge and was raised from the ground around it. Edward sat cross-legged, resting his arms on his knees, with his eyes closed.
“What about humans?” asked Witticker; sitting on a rock below soaking his feet in the lake.
“What about them?”
“Well, you say there is no ‘we’, but couldn’t there be an intrinsic connection…being that we’re all the same species?”
“Not really. People only come to that conclusion when something un-human or non-human threatens their existence, but it’s really just an internal desire to keep living. Think about it. If this connection was intact, like you’re proposing, everyone would have rallied together after the failure of the government, but instead they all spread out. They ran away from each other! Most people only come into the distrips once a year. They’re just afraid.”
Witticker looked into the water at his reflection staring back. His face had sprouted a slight beard and his hair, which had always been so well-kept, was sticking out in every direction.
“It’s still there though,” said Witticker, kicking his reflection into ripples, “somewhere inside themselves. People can still identify with each other. A dog will always turn circles before it goes to sleep, even in the desert. It’s still in there somewhere.”
Edward grinned.
“Touché.”

*~~*

“So, why did you burn the house down?”
Edward broke the silence that the two had been walking with for the last three hours. The abrupt question caught Witticker so entirely off-guard that when he replied he felt the answer escape his lips with an unintentional and unfiltered honesty.
“I knew if it was still there I’d go back. I had to do something that would cement my decision to leave. There’s only one option now. I have to find out where I come from. With nowhere to go back to I can only move forward.”
Edward lit a cigarette tucked in the corner of his mouth.
“Good philosophy.”
The two men resumed their silence as they continued to push through the dense forest.

*~~*

As the sun began to set Edward and Witticker had come upon a small settlement amidst a grove of trees. While the food they had brought with them was ample they knew that without replenishing regularly their surplus would eventually run dry. It was inevitable that they would have to make some contact with the world along their journey. However, they decided that for each other’s safety they would keep as much secret about themselves and their journey as possible.
They observed the inhabitant from a distance for nearly an hour. He seemed to pose very little threat, living a quiet life in solitude. Edward approached the grove of trees slowly and hailed the camper from a distance. At first the man was defensive, but after the two agreed to leave all their belongings at a distance and come into the light with their hands raised he became much more agreeable.
They explained their need for food without revealing much of their destination or intent and the man, who identified himself only as Derrik, directed them towards a smaller distrip several miles in the general direction they were traveling. They thanked Derrik for his time and, without even revealing their names, disappeared en route to the next distrip.

*~~*

With little light left to walk by the two travelers decided to stop for the evening at the edge of an open field. The sun was crawling out of sight over the horizon, lighting the tall grass in the field as it danced in the breeze. In deciding to forgo the making of a fire on the off-chance they would be spotted their dinner was limited to dry food. Witticker stood staring into the night sky as he tossed handfuls of granola into his mouth.
“How often do you have…dreams?”
Witticker, shaken from his own thoughts by the question, turned and found Edward sitting on the ground against a tree, staring into his white box.
“I tend to have them pretty regularly, but I don’t know if it’s the same for everyone,” replied Witticker, “I used to have them randomly, but it’s much more consistent now.”
Edward moved his fingers across the white box screen and lights flickered from the screen, his face scrutinizing the contents.
“It was a very strange feeling having my thoughts interrupted. That doesn’t happen to me very often.”
Witticker nodded and turned his attention back to the sky. He had still not grown used to the sight, the vision of the night sky. In the dark night it seemed like each star was a lamp leading to a far-away destination. Witticker followed each star along trying to find an end; only ever discovering another beginning.
“What do the dreams mean?”
“I don’t know,” answered Witticker, “I never thought about them having any meaning.”
Witticker contemplated the new idea as Edward made a final gesture across the white box.
“I guess…I mean, I think they are what are most important to the dreamer.”
The two men sat quietly in the enveloping darkness. Wild sounds rose up from the forest at their back and a cool breeze drifted across the field, lightly bending the grass to its will. Witticker continued to stare off into the endless, starry sky as Edward turned over for the next nights sleep, an adventure of a different kind.

Chapter 36

Leon: Weeble. Come in, Weeble.

Dead Air

Leon: Weeble. Come in, Weeble.

Dead Air

Leon: Weeble, you old bastard, come in.

Weeble: Hey. Hey. Sorry, had a spring loose in this thing I found. You’d never believe what this thing can do. I flick it on and it starts…

Leon: I don’t care. There’s some new developments on the lockdown of the Spoon district. Apparently that guy Edward and his buddy got out, but that’s not the half of it. When the acolytes finally got to where he was hiding out it was rigged. They opened the door and the damn hammer dropped. Guys on the ground said fire shot out of that place in every direction.

Weeble: Really? Do they know how he did it?

Leon: No. Didn’t have a chance to check it out. There were explosives on the foundation as well. The whole building went down. This wasn’t a last minute job. This Edward guy must have seen this coming a long way off.

Dead Air

Leon: Anyway, it sounds like the acolytes are up in arms. A whole shit-ton of them started moving east.

Dead Air

Leon: I heard something else interesting when I was listening to those two weapons traders chattering on their walkie-talkies. Looks like Jehovah is moving east too. One of them heard he’s leaving the city for good.

Dead Air

Leon: Weeble? You still there?

Weeble: Oh, yeah. Listen to this. I turned this machine on and it started to pull all the metal in the room towards it, like a big magnet. Not sure if that means its working or not.

Leon: I don’t know why I talk to you.

Dead Air

Weeble: Hmm. Did you get anything else from them?

Leon: No, the line cut off abruptly, but I’m tracking the frequency a lot more often now.

Weeble: Well, sounds like you still have your thumb on the pulse of the world. Keep lookin’ out for all of us. I’ll talk to ya later.

Leon: Ponce de Leon out.

Chapter 35

Darkness. A samurai sword slices through the air. A familiar face. An intense orgasm. Standing in an open field. Sunlight.

*~~*

Edward jumped up from his bedroll, shaking and sweating. He stood nearly naked, only a set of cotton boxers, as the sun beat through the arms of trees onto the basement floor.
“Holy fuck,” whispered Edward.
He walked out of the basement onto the grass, letting his bare feet glide through the dew covered blades. He ran his fingers through his hair as he looked up into the sky. The morning breeze rustled through the bushes around him as he spotted a fallen tree close to the basement to take a seat on. He took a small surface pen from his boxers and clicked it three times. Touching it to the cotton shorts they shifted quickly into a set of brown pants, a beaten blue and white striped button-up, and a dusty brown vest.
Edward took a cigarette from his pocket and lit it with the silver lighter procured from his newly formed vest. He sat in the early morning for several hours, smoking and wondering just what the hell was happening to him.

*~~*

Witticker rustled from his sleep. He had slept in clothes which were now a bit soggy, but still mildly bearable. He sat up, noticing that Edward was outside the concrete shell, baking in the morning sun.
“Sleep well?” asked Witticker groggily.
“No,” answered Edward dimly from his tree throne, “Emphatically no.”
Edward blew a puff of smoke into the air and placed the cigarette into the crook of his mouth. Witticker walked out to Edward’s tree and sat next to him, hunched on his knees.
“So, why do you change your clothes so often? You never wear the same thing for more than a day.”
Edward shot him a sideways glance and looked back up into the sky.
“Before people started wearing clothes things were a lot simpler. People were concerned with food and shelter. That was it. You woke up in the morning and started looking for both of those things. Day in, day out.”
Edward took a drag and flicked his cigarette butt in the dirt. He pulled his leg from the its resting position and squashed the small ember beneath his boot.
“Then people started finding both of those things before mid-day and they had some time on their hands. It became about wants instead of needs. Fast-forward several centuries. I now have both food and shelter. I can take time to think about what I’m going to wear each day. I change clothes to reflect who I am.”
“But without those clothes aren’t you still you? What do the clothes reflect if not simply themselves?”
“This world is full of paradoxes, Witticker,” began Edward, hopping up from his seat, “We generally agree that you shouldn’t take a man on surface value alone, but most people agree that ‘the clothes make the man’. There are centuries of social constructs floating around in here,” said Edward as he pointed to his head. “Dogs always turn circles before they lie down to sleep. Did you ever wonder why?”
“I never had a dog.”
“Nevermind that. They do turn circles and they do because centuries ago their ancestors lived in tall grass and they had to turn circles to mat it down for a place to sleep. Now a dog will turn circles in the desert before it lays down to rest. It doesn’t matter if it makes sense. We do it because it’s inside of us and that’s what’s real.”
Witticker scratched his head and looked up into the sun on its way up towards the top of the sky. He took out his surface pen and clicked it three times. Hesitantly he touched his soggy clothes which promptly changed into a loose pair of blue jeans and a thick white button-up left undone by the top few buttons.
“You know,” started Edward, wandering off from the log bench, “I think I may have had one of those dream things.”
Witticker turned towards him, eyeing him suspiciously.
“Last night you said you never had one and now you think you have? What brought this on?”
“I hadn’t had one until last night. Nothing brought it on. I just think I had one last night.”
Edward pulled another cigarette out and began to light it.
“Well, what was it about?” asked Witticker.
“Not really sure,” said Edward, putting his lighter away in his vest pocket, “just a string of events leading nowhere. Is there something you’re supposed to see?”
“No, not really. It’s just what’s in your head I guess.”
“Well, I saw a lot of different things. Things from my past. And I ended up in this field full of flowers. It was so beautiful. I was running through the field. Just running as fast as I could and it felt great. I felt everything. The wind, the feeling of flowers as I rushed by, the sun on my body. It was amazing. But…nothing is different now…is it? Is something supposed to be different with dreams?”
Witticker thought for a long time about his own dreams. He thought about what he saw and the way it made him feel. He didn’t feel amazing. He felt alone, isolated. It was an unanswered question. A infinite remainder.
“I don’t know. Everybody uses their experiences differently. Just take from it what you can.”
Edward looked back up into the sky. A cloud floated overhead, blocking the sun for a short while.
“Sounds good. Well, it’s time to keep moving. Looks like we’re walking for a while and after that last little tangle we’ll take the back-way. I’m not sure if that guy was after me or you, but it would be best not to chance it. You ready?”
Witticker nodded. The two men gathered their belongings and headed off into the woods.

Chapter 34

Backing up…












































…step by step away…


















































…from men in black suits.


















































Click.


















































Witticker opened his eyes to the night sky through a hole in an ancient tin roof. Stars twinkled radiantly as a small, thin cloud drifted by, weaving in and amongst the distant balls of light. Several hours earlier, after a lengthy trek through the woods, the two travelers had found the remains of the abandoned farmhouse to rest in for the evening. Edward had started a fire in the cozy concrete hole and the two had, after a brief dinner, lain down. Witticker had managed to sleep for a while, but suddenly found himself awake, rolling from side to side, trying to find a comfortable position on the cold stone floor.
He sat up towards the glow of the fire to find Edward already awake, staring into the flames as he poked them with a crooked metal rod.
“Hey,” grumbled Witticker, “how long have I been out?”
“Just three hours,” replied Edward in a monotone drawl.
Witticker joined his companion, gazing into the fire, trying to find a black flame in the center, the existence of which he had read about years before in a short and possibly fictional record.
“Why do you shake in your sleep?” asked Edward, his eyes having shifted to focus on Witticker. Edward’s gaze was at once accusatory and worrisome.
Witticker, never having had an observer before, was not aware he did anything out of the ordinary when he slept. He thought for a moment on his response before finally answering.
“I’m not sure, to tell you the truth. I’ve been having pretty shocking dreams lately. Could be that maybe?”
“What are you talking about?” shot back Edward, “You’re having what?”
Witticker was surprised at the inflection in Edward’s tone, much more foreign and removed than he had from him before.
“I said I’ve been having dreams lately that have been very, well, vivid. Almost real.”
“What are dreams?”
Witticker chuckled and shifted himself on the blanket he had been sleeping on.
“You know, dreams.”
Witticker waved his hands in the air around his head as if signifying everything inside. Edward looked around and then back at Witticker.
“What? You mean everything around your head is a dream? Or…what?”
Witticker shook his head as he was not quite sure what surrealistic conversation Edward was trying to have with him.
“No, the dreams in my head. The ones I have when I sleep.”
“What in the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about dreams. My dreams. You know, the things that…well, the events that occur in my mind…while I’m asleep”
Witticker found that it was becoming increasingly difficult to put a definition on exactly what it was he wanted to describe.
“So, you’re saying that while you sleep you see things. What do you see?”
“Haven’t you ever had a dream?”
“No,” said Edward unabashedly.
Witticker laughed nervously until he realized by Edward’s complete lack of expression that he was fiercely serious.
“You’ve never had a dream?”
“No.”
“So you’ve never been asleep and had images or ideas come to mind? Almost like you’re there, but not quite. Things that you can’t explain, but they’re just there. How you know where you are even though it doesn’t make sense to be there. You just know that you’re there and what is happening is happening.”
“What the hell happened to you why you were on that farm?”
“No,” said Witticker defiantly, “this isn’t strange. Nothing ‘happened’ to me on the farm. People dream. Dreaming is normal.”
“Nobody I’ve ever spoken to has ever described anything remotely like what you’re talking about and I’ve met a lot of people. Where did you even come up with this word? Dreaming?”
Witticker paused a moment to breathe. He had never had to argue his own reality before and he found it unbelievably infuriating. He closed his eyes, slowly took in a big breath, and, after a moment of holding, let it out.
“I didn’t come up with the word. I don’t know who did. Dreaming is just part of the human condition. People have been dreaming forever.”
Edward noticed the fire was getting low and he turned to pull a few sticks from a bundle he had gathered when they had first arrived in the ancient house. He pushed several deep in the flame and the fire crackled as several embers tumbled inside.
“So, let’s consider for a moment that ‘dreaming’ is real. What would I see if I were ‘dreaming’?”
“I don’t know. Everybody dreams about different things.”
“That’s very convenient. So far your definition of ‘dreaming’ is something that you see in your sleep that is different for every person.”
Edward laughed.
“No offense, but it sounds made up.”
Witticker glared at his companion through the fire
“Why would I make this up? What is my motivation to lie to you? About something that only affects me?”
“Good point,” replied Edward, “but it’s definitely strange. Are you sure you’re not just thinking about something right before you go to sleep?”
“No, it’s not like that. It’s like…you’re not in control. It’s like you’re imagining something only you’re not in control of where it goes. Like a movie, only you’re there…only it’s not quite you…just, your point of view.”
Edward stopped for a moment to light a cigarette. He bent close to the fire and let the flames ignite the end of the skinny stick of tobacco.
“What do you see in these dreams?”
“Well,” said Witticker hesitantly, “that’s complicated as well. I usually can’t remember, but I know I’ve been dreaming. Just a feeling you have when you’ve had a dream. In the past the dreams I’ve remembered have been about things I’d read or things I’d seen or ideas I’d thought about before. It’s only recently that some of that has changed.”
Witticker sighed and stared into the fire. He didn’t understand why he was sharing any of this or why he had decided for the receiver to be someone he barely knew, but it felt intensely good to get it out. The more he shared seemed to feed a silent compulsion inside to continue until everything was out.
“What has changed?” asked Edward, shaking Witticker from his thoughts.
“Like I said, my dreams used to be random, but lately…lately they’ve been about something specific. I don’t know what it is, but…it…it’s tearing me apart. It’s the reason I left the farmhouse. The reason I knew I had to find out whatever it is that’s being hidden from me. The reason I’m here now.”
Edward took a long drag on his cigarette as he stared at Witticker over the flickers of the fire. Witticker looked back noticing that Edward was not staring so much as studying.
“What?” shot Witticker, “You don’t believe me? Fine. Don’t believe me. You’re the one that wanted to know in the first place.”
Witticker turned away from the fire and lay back down on his blanket. Edward took the last drag on his cigarette and tossed it into the fire.
“It’s not that I don’t believe you. Disbelief is easy. It doesn’t take much to reject an idea. I can just decide not to,” said Edward, poking the fire with his stirring stick.
“What’s hard is that some part of me believes you. A state of mind beyond the immediate conscious. Intriguing and upsetting at the same time.”
Witticker remained silent on his blanket as Edward turned back to his own bedroll. The two men, both unaware of the other doing the same, gazed up into the night sky. The stars continued twinkling on the black canvas of limitless space as both men drifted off to sleep.

Chapter 33

The outskirts of the city were lit in a dim glow; a residue of light pouring out of the distrip. It was as if the light floated like a cloud, diminishing over time and resting its fog-like body downwind. Through the half-lit mist the silhouette of two men could be seen hiking on an anbandoned railroad track. The men were outlined by a centralized light they carried with them that seemed to emanate from a device slung on the back of one of the two men. The men walked with no words spoken between them; intent on their destination. The hum of brass and drums punctuated the air as if the two men’s walking somehow summoned the sounds from the remains of the city.
Suddenly the two silhouettes stopped as another larger silhouette appeared in the distance. The new silhouette appeared to be a creature grown solely for its utility. It stood a foot taller than the other two men with a skinny build and long, lanky appendages. The two men and the giant stood frozen staring at one another, waiting for the other to move.
From a distance one of the two men screamed, “Get Down!”
What transpired in the following minute felt as long as any lifetime.

*~~*

Edward pulled two revolvers from his side as Witticker hit the ground, holding his leather satchel over his head. Edward ran towards Jehovah firing several shots as the giant moved only slightly to miss their trails. As Edward ran out of bullets he threw the revolvers to his side and drew a sword hidden on his back. He jumped towards Jehovah, swinging the sword which was met by another, drawn by his opponent. The two weighed against one another, sizing the others strength, and then pushed away. Edward twirled the blade in his hand and lunged towards Jehovah who deflected it. They both rebounded and Edward ducked as Jehovah sliced through the air above him. Having caught his opponent off-balance Edward swept the giant’s legs out from under him, immediately cracking the hilt of his sword against Jehovah’s head. The massive body lay motionless as Edward walked back towards Witticker.

*~~*

After the altercation the two surviving men walked speedily away from the sight of the battle. Their silhouettes could be seen abandoning the railroad track yards away, leaving the light residue of the city for the wooded overgrowth. After several minutes the giant silhouette rose from its fallen position. It stood motionless, weaving for several moments and then staring into the sky; as if perplexed by some tremendous or complex question. Almost mechanically its head clicked back down to the earth. The mammoth shadow turned towards the city and ran at incredible speed towards the artificial light. A scream like an animal’s howl whistled through the air, a sound of rage and despair from the city of rubble.

Chapter 32

Arnold Cavenstein stood half-naked in his kitchen, drenched in sweat. As he had anticipated, he had sweat through his first shirt of the day already and with this previously in mind he had taken the proper precaution of laying several dry shirts in store in the kitchen. He reached for one of the dry button-ups and, after putting it on, began buttoning from bottom to top.
The dining party had nearly reached their thirteenth course and, outside of the expected services, they had only required one bottle of wine and one extraneous use of the telephone.
Mr. Cavenstein walked over to the stove to check the filet mignon which would be their thirteenth course. It was broiling nicely inside the oven and as he could do nothing but wait for it he decided to move to the dining room and ask his guests if they were in want of anything. He took a moment to check himself in the mirror, straightening his hair and shirt before walking through the door.
As he entered the room he noticed that only three of the four attendants were seated at the table. The large, tan man known only to him as Simon had disappeared. His mind raced wildly for the answer to this situation as he masked his inner thoughts, calmly walking towards the table.
“Is everything to your liking?” whispered Mr. Cavenstein.
“Shh,” hissed Roland waving his hand in Mr. Cavenstein’s direction.
All of the muscles in Arnold’s body tensed as he waited. Thoughts began to cycle through his mind in quick succession. Where had the tan fellow gone? Had he become impatient with the service or had he been ‘taken care of’ as Roland had warned of earlier in the evening?
“Roland,” said Mrs. J, “this is ridiculous. I can’t hear anything and I can guarantee there is no one on the other side of that door. You’re just being paranoid.”
Suddenly Simon rounded the corner, bounding into the room from his mysterious location. He eyed Mr. Cavenstein suspiciously as he walked back to his seat.
“You know,” he said coldly, “your restroom is a bit small. You might consider pushing one of the walls out or perhaps a complete renovation. Just a thought.”
Mr. Cavenstein nodded and thanked his guest for the suggestion.
“Arnold,” said Roland as he took a napkin from his lap, “could you clear the table for our next course? We won’t be much longer.”
“Of course,” said Mr. Cavenstein as he darted towards the rolling cart in the corner of the room. He wheeled the silver cart towards the table and began to clear off the vestiges of the previous meals.
“So, Roland,” queried Simon, “you’ve sent Jehovah after the dreamer and that’s that?”
Roland nodded and reached for his glass of wine.
“But what if there’s more? He managed to find his way this far. What’s to say he won’t escape the city as well?”
The old man sitting at the other side of the table coughed which appeared to be a sign as it drew the attention of the remainder of the party.
“Because,” croaked Victor, “he’s not built for it.”

*~~*

Thirty years earlier…

Three doctors and a man in a gray suit stand in a room lit by very bright fluorescent lights. The room is a bright white with several metal apparatuses on the counter that have the look of medical design and function. Three doctors stand in a huddled mess in the corner of the room with a look of prolonged distress. The man in the gray suit appears relaxed, standing away from the three doctors, smoking a cigarette.
“So,” asks the smoking man, “why was I called here? I’m terribly busy what with the recent flip-flop of Perceptionist leaders.”
“You know, Victor,” says one of the doctors wiping the sweat from his brow, “that habit will take years off your life.”
Victor grins and blows a puff of smoke at the circle of doctors.
“There are no guarantees anymore, doctor. Global warming was supposed to wipe us out, but it didn’t. People die every day who never touched a cigarette and you know what?”
Victor looks at the cigarette as he flicks an ash on the floor.
“This makes me feel better. So, how about you tell me why I’m here.”
The doctors glare at the smoking man. One of them steps forward.
“You were referred specifically by the top to deal with this. There was a boy born here a few days ago that was having very poor reactions to the night hibernations. He shakes. His situation was reported and we were instructed to withhold the medication. The tremors increased. They happen every night.”
The doctor shakes his head.
“It’s something I’ve never seen before. We were told to let you ‘deal with it’.”
Victor chuckles and walks towards the doctors. As he reaches them he takes a long drag on his cigarette and blows the cloud of smoke up into the air.
“Case in point, gents. No guarantees anymore.”

*~~*

“The dreamer was never intended to leave the farm. He doesn’t have the capacity for travel.”
“Well,” said Simon, “it looks as if his ‘capacity’ is rising.”
“This is a moot point,” said Roland briskly, “regardless of his resourcefulness he’ll be recaptured within the next few hours. Jehovah has never failed us.”
Mrs. J sneered from her end of the table.
“You men have too much confidence in one another. I prefer to deal in the philosophy of random chance.”
Mrs. J rose from her chair and drew a small handgun from her handbag. Mr. Cavenstein’s eyes grew as large as saucers as she walked over to the door leading out of the apartment and swiftly opened it. She stuck her head out and looked both directions.
“You see, Roland, there is no one out here. Nobody knows we’re here.”
She walked back to the table and placed the gun back into her purse. Mr. Cavenstein stood frozen in place. The very real possibility of his own death had just occurred to him upon sighting the gun Mrs. J had in her possession. Seeing that these were a group of people who placed a very high value on secrecy he knew his ears had heard too much. His mind urged him to go back to the kitchen, but his legs refused to budge.
“Alright, Arnold,” said Roland, his tone belabored, “we’re ready the next course.”
As if Roland had flipped the switch on his musculature Mr. Cavenstein immediately became free and darted into the kitchen. As Arnold hastily lifted the thirteenth course from the oven he considered the likelihood of his survival from the fateful dinner party. He dreamed of a daring escape out the kitchen window. Dodging bullets as he swung down the rusty and ill-kept fire escape. His sprint down the street away from all the nastiness he had been forced to endure. Spending his days somewhere else, somewhere sunny.
Chairs creaked in the dining room as Arnold put the dinner plates on a large silver serving platter.
“Ah, well,” he thought as he barreled through the door, “I’m a horrible sprinter anyway.”

Chapter 31

“It’s a straight shot out of the city,” said Edward up to Witticker as both climbed down a slick metal ladder originating from the street top in front of Edward’s building.
“What we do once we get out of the city, however, is still up in the air.”
Witticker was descending the ladder slowly due to the recently acquired leather satchel Edward had lent him. They had both decided that Witticker’s briefcase, while being both sturdy and lockable, communicated to the general public that there was something inside worth stealing. He found the satchel much lighter and easier to travel with, but was, in his current environ, experiencing minor trouble with it. As he eased down the narrow crawl space it seemed to snag every loose nail and stray bar in its path making it more of a nuisance than he had imagined.
“Watch out for the last drop,” echoed Edward’s voice from below.
Witticker felt for the next step with his foot only to find that there was little there to feel for. He hesitantly peered down and was surprised to see nothing, no walls, no floor, no Edward, jus black emptiness in the corridor below.
“How much of a drop are we talking about Edward?”
“It should be fine,” answered Edward, “I survived.”
Witticker climbed down further until he was dangling precariously by a forearm grip from the bar. He swung his legs in the air for a moment, pleased that they still both worked and hoping that they would continue to do so in the near future. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes, and let go.
The drop seemed endless as he fell silently through the air. Wind rushed around him and a smell of chalky dust filled his senses. Without a warning the ground appeared and he came to an abrupt stop, rolling back from the blow. Dust billowed out from under his body as he rose from the ground.
“So, where are we?” growled Witticker.
Edward walked towards him, illuminated by the light of the white box he held in his hands.
“We are in a place that has long been forgotten by time.”
Witticker chuckled.
“That was very mystic. Where are we?”
Edward grinned.
“Indeed. This is one of the last remaining tunnels from the transportation system used by the old city dwellers. All of these tunnels were destroyed around the time of the Great Decline. I’ve spent a lot of time down here clearing a way out. Just in case I ever needed a way to leave quickly and quietly. Here, hold this,” said Edward, tossing the white box to Witticker.
Witticker looked into the white box’s screen as Edward lit a cigarette. The screen contained a map of the tunnel in which they were walking overlaid with a dim sketch of the city block above. Witticker followed the path of the tunnel with his finger until it reached the edge of the screen.
“Hey, how do I see the rest of the map?” hooted Witticker as Edward jogged ahead in the rubble.
Edward laughed and pointed his finger in the air.
“Use this. Just drag the map across the screen. It’s all touch-based. Treat it like a real thing and it becomes real. That is Perceptionism.”
Edward, obviously pleased with his own joke, snickered and blew a puff of smoke out in fuzzy rings. Witticker, oblivious to any joke, pressed his finger against the screen and moved it slightly. The map shifted quickly, appearing to follow even his slightest movement.
“Fascinating,” said Witticker as he continued to move the map around with his index finger.
“You think that’s neat,” said Witticker out of the corner of his mouth, “try this out.”
Edward walked over to him and took the white box in his hands. He tapped at the screen a few times and, as if they had suddenly been joined by a host of performers, a busy sound filled the air.

*~~*

At first there’s a busy piano with a light drum.
A trumpet, spitting out sound in spurts.
Drums chime in quick.
Sharp repeated taps.
Saying, “Listen Up!”
An alto saxophone jumps in with another line to counter the horn.
Pushing things forward.
Then they all move together.
First up.
Then down.
Then keeping it together for just one cat.
Sitting on top of a complex foundation.
Composition in the midst of performance.
Waterfalls of notes pouring into the air.
All affected.
All considered.
By what has gone before.
And what is just around the corner.

*~~*

“What is that?” asked Witticker, thoroughly affected by the sounds bouncing around the thin dark tunnel.
“That,” answered Edward as he tossed the white box back to his compatriot, “is Jazz. This one’s called ‘Parisian Thoroughfare’. Keep it on for a while. We’ll listen to more while we go.”
Edward turned around and started walking down the dark corridor. Witticker tossed the satchel over his shoulder and ran down the track after him. The rattle and bang of the music filled the ancient acoustic as the two wanted men walked out of the city in the dark.

Chapter 30

Carmine Followorth sat on a wooden rolling stool in a small room, surrounded by various mechanical devices collected over the span of many years of life. While some of these items retained small amounts of functional use the vast majority were beyond repair. Carmine thought himself a master mechanic and upon acquiring a new gadget would go to work bringing it back to life. However, he was easily distracted and would no sooner be in the middle of one job before starting another, thus explaining his vast collection of broken machinery.
The dusty mechanic sat amongst his broken children, surveying their various states and deciding which project to tackle next. He longed for the day when he would flip a switch in the small room and all the devices would jump into life; all springing, spinning, or percolating into action as they had originally been intended to. As he rolled himself towards what was once a very effective coffee-maker one of the machines from across the room lit up and began to emit a static-like hiss.
“Hey, Weeble. You there?” crackled an aged voice from the hissing machine.

*~~*

As a child Jean-Paul Pickering was constantly left out of the loop. He was born into the family business of espionage which was, while loving, also extremely secretive. Family dinners were conducted in silence and there was never any talk of what had happened at work that day. As Jean-Paul grew older he learned to treasure even the smallest bits of information he could glean from his parents, recognizing that any whispered word could be useful in the right context.
Due to this predisposition for recognizing and collecting any information out of the ordinary Jean-Paul fell into a job as a scanner; a dispatcher filtering through radio signals; listening to silence with the dim hope of overhearing something he was not meant to hear. In the midst of any military conflict he was hired out by an agency to work for the highest bidder which, coincidentally, tended to be the winning side. After a lifetime in this line of work he left to pursue what are generally considered to be the ‘golden years’.
However, he found he could not shut off the sifting ear which he had so finely tuned throughout his career. He found himself sitting in distrip yards, waiting rooms, train stations; listening to conversations around him, trying to decode idle chatter. After eliciting one-to-many awkward stares Jean-Paul decided a change would have to be made. He holed up in his apartment and began listening again. He didn’t know what he was listening for, he just felt drawn to it, like an addiction.
He began the listening on his home radio to which he had attached a large set of headphones so as not to miss even one whispered word. He sat at his desk with a legal pad of paper; flipping slowly through the radio signals; listening to the dead silence in anticipation of a information bombshell.
His first bit of interest came in the form of an old mechanic who had managed to repair a radio long enough to transmit a signal so weak that even Jean-Paul strained in hearing it. The following is a transcript of their first conversation:

?: …Hello…Hello?
Jean-Paul: Hello!
?: What? Hello?
Jean-Paul: This is Ponce de Leon, what is
your handle?
?: Handle?
Ponce de Leon: …What do you go by?
?: Oh, my name? My name is Carmine Follo…
Ponce de Leon: NO! I don’t want your real
name! That isn’t how this works. Your handle
is your radio name. My handle is Ponce de
Leon, but people just call me Leon. What is
your on-air name?
Carmine Follow: hmm…okay, you can call me
The Weeble.
Leon: Okay, Weeble. How long have you been on the air?
Weeble: Just today…oh wait…radio’s on fire.
Gotta go.

Since their first introduction Jean-Paul and Carmine had spoken several times through the radio channel and had formed a friendship based almost entirely on their mutual loneliness.

*~~*

Carmine leaned back against the wooden stool as he held a radio receiver in one hand, a screwdriver in the other, and a shiny metal box with two slots on the top in-between his legs.
“This is the weeble. How are ya Leon?”
“Something’s up!” creaked the voice over the radio, “I’ve been reading my notes for the last few weeks and I’ve found a connection. Remember that guy Edward I’ve been telling you about? The one that I’ve been hearing about all over the channels in the city?”
Carmine popped the top off the silver box and set it on the table in front of him. He glared into the burnt innards of the machine.
“Yeah, I remember. So what?”
“Turns out all the radio chatter about him is because everyone thought he was dead. A few nights ago he was seen in the Long Spoon distrip on the east side of Recon-Chicago. And not alone! Turns out he’s got an accomplice. Got away though.”
“Damn,” said Carmine as he picked thin black pieces of charcoal from the gut of the ancient device.
“That isn’t the half of it. Turns out this Edward was a top-ranking official in that last skirmish with the Golden Acolytes. They want him bad. They’re watching every exit in the city. Jehovah’s out too, but as far as I can tell it’s for something else. Either way, the Spoon’s on lock down. It’s about to get very crowded.”
Having dusted off the newly cleaned gadget, Carmine secured its ancient plug into the wall socket next to his workbench. It slowly began to turn a vibrant red and the small handle on the side shot up. The red faded. Carmine depressed the handle to its original position and the machine glowed red again.
“Leon, I have to go. I think I fixed something, but I’m not sure.”
“Fine, but keep an ear out. I heard this morning they have a bead on where Edward might be. From what I can tell they’re blasting through the inner city with a demolition crew.”
“Sure. Sounds good,” said Carmine as he poked at the red part of the machine. “Good luck with your listening.”
Carmine laid down the receiver and the radio went dead.

Chapter 29

Dark figures…












































…against the horizon…


















































…reaching out to threaten.


















































Click.


















































Witticker opened his eyes to the ceiling of Edward’s apartment. His back ached and his head rolled. He slowly rolled off the chair that he had slept on the night previously and rubbed at his back and still battle-weary shoulder. He glanced around the room only to find that the his vision still swam in a hazy swirl. He immediately retreated to the refuge of the floor which seemed to be his only source of solid comfort. So close to the ground, Witticker felt vibrations pounding through the floor; becoming progressively louder until, finally, their source appeared in the doorway in the form of Edward.
“Somebody fell into a bottle last night,” chuckled Edward as he wiped the sleep from his eyes.
Witticker blinked at him in rapid succession in an effort to communicate his vibrant earthly pain, but, without any response, pulled himself from the floor with an extended groan.
“Not so much fell as drowned,” grumbled Witticker.
Edward grabbed the remnants of the previous night’s libations and carried them out of the room.
“You ought to clean yourself up a bit before we leave,” yelled Edward from down the hallway. “There’s a cleanser down the hall to your left. Make sure to take off all your clothes though. It’s a bit old and tends to light fabric on fire.”
Witticker popped his head around the corner and noticed a metal door a short way down the hallway. As he walked closer to it he noticed a small plastic sign hanging on the handle of the door. It advertised the words “Check your Clothes at the Door” and featured a small figure of a man engulfed in flames. Witticker noticed a hook, presumably meant for his clothing, off to the side of the door. A small curtain hung on one side of the hallway and, upon further investigation, Witticker found that it extended the length of the hall. Having not bathed since the beginning of his trip he shed his resolve and, after removing his clothing, hopped into the metal container.
As the door clicked behind him a small light activated at the top of the closet-like room. He looked for the shower nozzle and hot and cold water toggles, but found only a small panel on the wall, falling at his midsection, that blinked whenever he moved. He bent over to look into the blinking panel, contorting himself awkwardly in the small closet. As he peered into the surface it lit up with three options, ‘moderate’, ‘deep cleanse’, and ‘manual’. Witticker knew better than to trust himself operating whatever might come out to clean him, thus ruling out any ‘manual’ option. Left with only two options Witticker conducted a brief self-examination and upon concluding that he was rather filthy resolved that a ‘deep cleanse’ was necessary. As he pressed the button the panel went dark and the room began to hum quietly. Witticker stood clenched in fear, frozen like a rabbit in an open field; being both safe and exposed at the same time.
Suddenly a sharp blast of pressure hit him from the left.
Then the right.
Then in every direction all at once.
The pressure was not so strong as to push him in any one direction, but instead gusted at him like a stationary fan. Witticker breathed a sigh of relief as the gusts of air gently pressed at his body. Suddenly there was a prolonged beep from the panel. Witticker turned leisurely to see it blinking red, highlighting the words ‘HOLD ON’.

*~~*

Edward stood in his kitchen running the glasses of the previous night under the faucet. Immediately visible outside the window, adjacent to the sink, was a large tub that collected rainwater. Edward stared at the surface of the water in the tub, sparkling and bubbling in the sun, when a prolonged scream came from the cleanser down the hall. He ran to the hall to see the cleanser door flung open and a naked Witticker hanging on the curtain, gasping for breath.
“Everything okay?” asked Edward.
Witticker glared at Edward.
“Hold on! It said ‘hold on’ and then shot me around that closet like a ragdoll.”
Edward’s eyes suddenly widened and he hopped over Witticker into the cleanser.
“Oh, I’m sorry. I’d been meaning to get that fixed, but things have been a little busier than normal. There are usually two handles hanging from the ceiling, but I removed them for an experiment I had in…”
Edward stopped short realizing that Witticker was in no mood to hear about his project and had, in fact, stopped listening.
“What exactly is this cleanser? Where I come from we clean with water and soap. Did I miss a step somewhere?”
“Yes,” answered Edward matter-of-factly, “during the Great Decline there were several instances of water contamination and the use of large scale water reservoirs was abandoned. When the relief centers were established the government introduced sonic wave cleansing as a new means of mass hygiene. It provided the utility to clean large amounts of people quickly ensuring that disease wouldn’t break out and eliminate an entire center. Savvy manufacturers still able to produce any kind of hardware started to build the cleansers into shower stalls, but found that without a metal container the waves could burst into a person’s home and set any fabric on fire due to a reaction known as the Priley effect. Usually the waves aren’t that raucous, but you must have asked for a deep cleanse. Do you feel any better?”
Witticker rubbed at his arms and to his surprise they felt much softer than they had before; not only clean, but moisturized.
“Yeah, I guess I’m better,” said Witticker as he reached for his tattered blue shirt. Edward watched him pull the beaten cloth over his head.
“Do you have some connection with this clothing that I should know about?” queried Edward, “because these rags are going to attract a lot more attention than either of us need.”
“Well,” said Witticker blankly, “these are all I have. I hadn’t banked being on the run so…”
Edward nodded his head in understanding, clicked his fingers in the air, and turned to walk in the other direction.
“Come with me. It’s time to suit you up.”

*~~*

Five minutes later Witticker stood standing in a gray plastic-like jumpsuit in the middle of Edward’s living room.
“So you see,” said Edward as he lit a cigarette in the corner of the room, “the need for more than one set of clothing is no longer necessary. This material, flexomat, was developed to respond to the electromagnetic signals of a device known as a sur…”
“Surface pen,” said Witticker in a regretful monotone drawl, “I know about those. I have one in my briefcase.”
Witticker pointed to his open briefcase in the next room.
“Oh, good,” said Edward as he walked towards the container, “You usually have to key a surface pen to someone’s DNA, but it looks as if that’s one more thing your benefactor took care of for you.”
Edward clicked the end of the pen three times and the tiny gadget began to hum. He handed the pen to Witticker who took it hesitantly, holding it away from himself as if it were on fire.
“Now,” started Edward, “just imagine what you want the material to shift to and the pen will read the transmission from your head and transmit that idea, by touch, to the material. In other words, imagine what you want to wear and it the suit will shift to match.”
Witticker closed his eyes and imagined the outfit he wore when he left the farmhouse. Slowly, he brought the pen closer, lightly tapping it on his left shoulder. He opened his eyes and was amazed to see an exact reproduction of the outfit he had just left behind near the cleanser, devoid of the wear and tear it had previously suffered.
“Not bad,” said Edward skeptically, “but you might want to choose something a little more contemporary.”
Witticker shook his head at Edward communicating a lack of an appropriate model.
“Here,” said Edward as he reached into the bookshelf and brought out the white box, “like this.”
Edward moved his fingers quickly across the screen and a picture appeared of a man dressed in a black suit with a bright blue collared shirt underneath.
Witticker winced disapprovingly at Edward.
Edward moved his fingers again and pointed to another picture on the screen of a man with brown painter’s pants and a white button-front held together with a black belt.
Witticker, weary of his decision, closed his eyes and clicked the pen.
One.
Two.
Three.

Chapter 28

Edward and Witticker sat across from each other over a table in one of the many rooms in Edward’s apartment. A small candle sat in the middle of the table throwing enough light to illuminate a bottle of rum and a few tumblers carrying the remnants of ice cubes just nearly melted away. Sitting next to the tumblers laid the H-card and its corresponding journal from Witticker’s briefcase. The journal lay open, having been perused only moments before by Edward in search of any information as to Witticker’s identity. Edward now sat back in his chair; staring into the white box. Witticker had given him permission to scan the small device after the search of the journal proved fruitless. Edward moved his fingers quickly across the face of the box only hesitating when the box would beep in a harsher tone than usual.
“Nothing,” muttered Edward, “not a damn thing.”
Witticker yawned in the chair opposite to Edward, his head weaving and bobbing in the air. This had been, unbeknownst to Edward, Witticker’s first round of drinks ever and he was not entirely prepared for the effects the drinks were taking on him. The room refused to remain consistent, constantly shifting a half-an-inch in every direction. Witticker closed his eyes only to find that shifting continued in the darkness under his eyelids. He immediately opened his eyes again to see Edward eyeing him quizzically.
“You all right?”
“I’m…fine,” grumbled Witticker, furrowing his brow.
“Well,” shrugged Edward, “it seems that there is no record of you in this thing at all. Only some music and documents with nothing but poems and short stories inside. You might want to try sometime though. Some of these things only respond with voice recognition.”
Edward tossed the white box onto the table with a thud. The glasses shook and Witticker stirred from his swirling world.
“However, if I’m reading this right, and I like to think that I am, you may want to consider being Brisby Jacobs.”
Witticker cocked his head to the side and grunted an inquisitive ‘uh’. Edward reached for the H-card journal and flipped through the pages.
“This guy has a fairly impressive resume.’
Witticker chuckled.
“While there might not be any information on you here I bet I know where we can go to find out. I need to get out of this place anyway. Too nasty anymore and there is so much…”
Witticker lost track of Edward’s voice in the swirl of clouds forming in and around his mind. He slowly began to lean back, the sound of Edward’s voice fading in the distance. His leaning back had suddenly turned into a different sensation. The structure of the chair gradually disappeared until he felt as if he were flying. His body was free as his mind arched and sprung towards different ideas.
Situations.
Faces.
People.
Suddenly everything hit a wall. The room stopped shifting. Witticker smiled. Everything went black.
Black.