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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:38:11 GMT -5
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Sunday, 11 October 2116Immaculate Conception Parish on Alder Island was the Archdiocese's wealthiest and largest. Most parishes hosted no more than several dozen on any Sunday. Immaculate Conception could seat about seven hundred and was usually nearly full on Sundays; on major holidays it was standing room only, with overflow in the parish hall watching via holo-vid with multichannel sound beamed from the sanctuary. Even more remarkably, the average congregation there was packed with young as well as old. Many families filled a pew by themselves, and a typical gathering probably included more expectant parents than any other parish of its size in North America. Father Craig O'Hanlon, SJ, was well aware of Alder Island's culture. He had been here well before it developed; he was but the second priest to serve there in the last fifty years, and either he or his predecessor, old Father Kung Chao Xie, had baptized over fifteen thousand children--including many of the island's leading citizens, among them the current Mayor, Joy Hotchkiss, the current Police Chief, Arminio Gepitulan, and Govannon Rhys Macklin--though Father Kung, still new at that time, had fussed a bit at the pagan name the latter's parents had chosen. Father Craig, more progressive, had sensed which way the wind was blowing, and if that wind carried an odor of nontraditional sexual mores, it was also so strongly and obviously child and family-oriented, and brought such a wave of interest in the church's ancient pro-life teachings, that he had said to Purgatory with it, and sought permission to cater to all but the outspoken nonbelievers. The rising tide of registration and of income--which now met half the Chancery's payroll by itself--had convinced the powers-that-be to let him have a very free hand in matters of paperwork and pastoral administration. So successful had his program been that stories circulated on the 'Net, and by word of mouth. Legends grew. Assisting at mass there, at certain times especially, it was said, could result in wonderful fertility experiences for even women with histories of poor results. Many visitors to the island took care to drop by during their stays and were duly impressed by the number of mothers of multiples they met there, and a trade in souvenirs such as holy water from its font had sprung up, which added to the bottom line. But Father Craig was careful. Fame had also brought malicious attention, and the local Knights of Columbus and Legion of Mary chapters--elsewhere consisting of hoary men--here included athletic young fellows and ex-military who could whisk any troublemakers out quietly and efficiently. Only the confessionals, and the family-room at the side of the sanctuary with its unusual one-way window, were free of electronic monitoring. This particular Sunday was very well-attended. The memorial of the Motherhood of Mary, a fixed event falling on 11 October every year, was rumored to be one of the days of special blessing for women, and there was special activity devoted to women who were still hoping for their first child and trusting to a miracle. A few of them were kneeling at a side altar, lighting a candle, with others seated nearby in front fingering rosaries. They were waiting. Inside the door to the family room--soundproofed as all family rooms were, though this one was a 'family room' only in a certain sense--flowers were arranged everywhere, rows of vases of them under glittery spotlights, and incense wafted. Two women in red altar servers' robes, one older and one younger, attended, while beyond, a row of gauzy hangings, undulating in the peculiar lighting, came heavy female breathing-- ohhhhh ... ahh ... uhhh ... uh-uh-uh-huh-huh-huh-huhhh-huh-huhhhh ... "In me," the reader could be heard through a speaker, intoning from the book of Ecclesiasticus, "is all grace of the way and the truth; in me is all hope of life and of virtue ..." "Ohhh .. YESSSS!! Uhhhhh ... oh jeezus-and-mary ... AAAAHHH!! OHHhhhhhhh ...." "Come over to me, all ye that desire me, and be filled with my fruits," continued the reader. "For my spirit is sweet above honey, and my inheritance is above honey and the honeycomb ..." "Ohhh ... yes ... fill me with your fruits," implored the female voice. "Aaaahhh ... holymother, thank you, thank youuuu ..." and then came a sob. In the sanctuary, Father Craig, seated in his chair for the readings, glanced a few feet over at the mirrored glass which separated the family room from the altar area. He thought he'd heard a vague sound. He was a man of faith ... he had no doubt that the sought-after miracles were in the offing. Inside the room, the curtains parted, and a well-attired woman came out, smoothing her dress and wiping her eyes; she was hobbling a bit on her high heels, and a tear was streaking her makeup. The two acolytes set to, with well-practiced motions; one sat her on a bench with a brocaded coverlet and saw to her face and hair, while the other prompted her to part her legs, tearing open a tampon packet. It was done in a matter of seconds, and the woman was helped up, steadied, checked to be sure she was alright--she nodded--and she went out a door which would lead her outside and around to the main door of the church were she could re-enter and rejoin the service. She did not neglect to stuff a small roll of bills in an offering box on her way out. As the door swung shut behind her, another was admitted from the corner near Mary's niche inside. In the family room behind the gauze curtains, computer-controlled lighting with some tasteful holo effects played. There were a few objects like prayer benches and a velvet-covered standing frame that looked like it could be leaned on. Merilee Brunett had been doing her own swift attending on a figure seated in a carved, gilded chair; a long-limbed, slender male with curly blonde hair with sparkles in it; a white linen robe, the middle of which gathered itself over a huge mound between the thighs, and a facial half-mask which still showed pale blue eyes, a pair of full, rather rubbery lips, and a receding chin. She had swabbed him up, cooing and talking softly with snatches of song, and was now standing close in front of him, arms around him, as he drank greedily from a large, aching breast. All too soon it was over; they had only two minutes. "You really are my angel, John ... mine and so many other nice, nice women. How helpful you are!" He nodded, parting from her reluctantly as she did up her brassiere flap and moved her sweater over it, smiling at him seraphically. He liked church better than school. Here there was no danger of being made fun of, or running into girls with something strange about them. Here everything was warmth and love and nice ladies who cared. With a kiss to his lips, and a pushed button on a remote control, Merilee vanished--or appeared to, via light magic, and a glorious haze formed around him as the next woman entered and knelt. Over the sound system, faintly, there came: "There shall come forth a rod out of the root of Jesse, and a flower shall rise up out of his root." The response from the congregation: "And the spirit of the Lord shall rest upon him."The next woman wrapped her arms around his legs, and nuzzled the robe apart with her face. "Yes ... I believe! I believe in your root," she whispered. "Now ... give me your rod!" She selected one of the prayer benches, spreading herself on it and raising her skirt as he moved silently over, parting the long skirts of his robe, and he settled upon her in a crouch while she wrapped her legs around him, and his rod went to work creating another flower in another daughter of the anointed. Over the speaker, the deacon read the Gospel, where the young Savior was in the Temple, "about my Father's business;" it was a long reading, and by the time it was over, the father-business was already concluded; the second woman was blowing a kiss at him as she backed through the gauze, and in another moment Merilee appeared with a towel and a bottle. He would need a big drink now, bottled by her personally during interludes of waiting, and she began attending him again with a caress. Then it was Father Craig's homily, and soon another miracle-seeker was making her way in. >< >< >< >< >< >< "What do Catholics mean when they say Mary is the Mother of God?" asked the priest rhetorically. "Isn't God eternal, the Creator, the Triune Divine who created time itself? Of course He is. To say that Mary gave birth to the Lord God Almighty, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, in Bethlehem, is obviously absurd on its face. But she did give birth to Jesus Christ, the Son of God, who we know was fully god and fully human in one unique nature. Not two natures--not god and man separately, but the One God-Man. He is the only one to have possessed the fullness of both in one, and He was conceived, truly, in Mary's womb, and passed, truly, through her birth canal, to emerge physically as an infant. How else could he have been fully human? "So it is because of this that we traditionally call Mary the Mother of God. By doing that we are really making a statement about Jesus. Mary was the Theotokos, in the Greek that was the theological language of the time--the 'God-bearing one,' because he was truly God as well as truly human, and not only human, but a man, with all the conditions of being a man, save that he fell not to sin. "This is not to discount the powerful role of Mary, who alone brought this savior to us with the strength of her body. And she is an example to us as a strong woman--do not be entire lulled by her customary mild depiction, and her famous humility and modesty. It is not for nothing that an old antiphon says: 'Who is she that comes forth as the morning rising, fair as the moon, bright as the sun, terrible as an army set in battle array?' Her presence is a fierce onslaught to sin, and fatal to the forces of our enemy the devil and his legions. A word from her to her Son, or to the angels of whom she is Queen, is more powerful than all the arsenals of all the armies in the world. Yet she wields this might in love and mercy toward all creatures. So also, like her, we should be strong, physically and spiritually, but strong in compassion and forbearance and charity to all. She is an aid of incomparable worth to us in our infirmity of sin. "Few mortals since the first century have had a better or more intimate knowledge of Mary than St. Louis Grignion de Montfort, whom, if you'll bear with me, I'll quote." He put on his glasses and read: “The Holy Ghost gives no heavenly gift to men which He does not have pass through Her virginal hands... such is the sentiment of the Church and its holy Fathers. Mary, being altogether transformed into God by grace and by the glory which transforms all the Saints into Him, asks nothing, wishes nothing, does nothing contrary to the eternal and immutable Will of God. When we read then in the writings of Saints Bernard, Bernardine, Bonaventure and others, that in heaven and on earth everything, even God Himself, is subject to the Blessed Virgin, they mean that the authority which God has been well pleased to give Her is so great that it seems as if She had the same power as God; and that Her prayers and petitions are so powerful with God that they always pass for commandments with His Majesty, who never resists the prayer of His dear Mother, because She is always humble and conformed to His Will.
"If Moses, by the force of his prayer, stayed the anger of God against the Israelites in a manner so powerful that the most high and infinitely merciful Lord, being unable to resist him, told him to let Him alone that He might be angry with and punish that rebellious people, what must we not, with much greater reason, think of the prayer of the humble Mary, the worthy Mother of God, which is more powerful with His Majesty than the prayers and intercessions of all the Angels and Saints both in heaven and on earth?
“The sin of our first father has spoiled us all, soured us, puffed us up and corrupted us... The actual sins which we have committed, whether mortal or venial, pardoned though they may be, have nevertheless increased our concupiscence, our weakness, our inconstancy and our corruption, and have left evil remains in our souls... We have nothing for our portion but pride and blindness of spirit, hardness of heart, weakness and inconstancy of soul, revolted passions, and sicknesses in the body... Let us say boldly with Saint Bernard that we have need of a mediator with the Mediator Himself, and that it is the divine Mary who is most capable of filling that charitable office. It was through Her that Jesus Christ came to us, and it is through Her that we must go to Him. If we fear to go directly to Jesus Christ, our God, whether because of His infinite greatness or because of our vileness, or because of our sins, let us boldly implore the aid and intercession of Mary, our Mother. She is good, She is tender, She has nothing in Her that is austere and forbidding, nothing too sublime and too brilliant ...
"She is so charitable that She repels none of those who ask Her intercession, no matter how great sinners they have been; for, as the Saints say, never has it been heard, since the world was the world, that anyone has confidently and perseveringly had recourse to our Blessed Lady and yet been repelled.”By that time, the angel in the side room had bestowed his gift on four more supplicants, and was taking a break to be ministered to by his mother. He certainly hadn't repelled anyone, though he'd had to get a change of robe at one point. But the waiting women were patient. If one didn't fancy adoption, or one of the clinics, where things were liable to be pricey and involve paperwork, one had to find a fertile male, preferably a Bearer, and they could be hard to pin down ... particularly this one, said on certain 'Net boards to be the gentlest and sweetest of the three. Today there were more visiting women than usual, and by the time the last one had deposited her offering in the early afternoon, John, whose name meant gift of God, had himself passed on gifts to sixty-three of them, and the parish would be nearly a quarter-million dollars ahead. Then he would go home to rest and nurse in Merilee's arms until dinnertime, tired but glowing. He wished every day were Sunday ... no school, no cold, no having to be on his own. Nothing but comfort, love, and ease. It really was like heaven. >< >< >< If John Brunett liked Sundays, Taylor didn't. She especially didn't like it when they started with Shaz's knock on her door. He was being a little nicer these days, and gave what he obviously thought was a nice smile as he came in. "All right, Tay-babe!" he said, when she handed him another five thousand dollars. He looked her up and down in her robe. "You're doin' good, girl. You're lookin' good these days too, no shit. You're lookin' fit. Something's doin' you good." "Thanks," she told him, trying not to look to hard at the vessel in his neck--the carotid artery, she'd learned. She had decided exactly where and how she was going to sever it and drain every drop out ... and spit it all in the goddamn gutter where it belonged. All that remained in the plan was when. She would still wait on Nick--or whatever his name was--for a while, but not too long. "You on a new diet or somethin'?" he asked "I guess you could say that," she replied. Shaz pushed his little hat back on his head. "Hey--where wus you workin' last night anyway, Tay?" he asked. "The usual," she lied. "I gotta steer clear of the lower downtown, you know." That part was true enough. "Why?" "You gotta be careful, that's all. I got my ear to the street, you know, and my weird-shit-o-matic has been pinging lately. Word is, that body they turned up at Terminal 25 was a greaser ho who went missing two weeks ago. They say it ain't pretty. Ol' Lucky--you know her, right?--gang-banged practically to death. Two shootings in the North End, and two guys dead in a slashing on the Eastside. They think a hooker did the slashing. Nasty, nasty shit--I don't want you gettin' hurt. You didn't hear nothin', did ya?" "No," she shrugged. Then she looked past him toward the door where she'd kicked off her ankle boots yesterday morning. One had dried blood drops on it. Shaz was a lot of things, but shit-stupid wasn't one of them. When he turned to go, he'd see them. And he'd know what the stain was--he'd seen enough of that. Then he'd have something else he could use on her. He looked up at the kitchen window. "You sure can't see nothin'." He gestured. "You got your windows all taped over with foil. Whatta--you--gotten allergic to light or some shit?" "I don't like what I see. Shaz, I wanna move," she said. "Move? You mean move outta here? What's wrong with this place?" She looked around at the cracked wallboard, the blistering paint, the stained sink, and the peeling vinyl, and took a good whiff; even with closed windows in October, the smell of the dumpster in the alley could make itself detectable. He wouldn't see anything the matter with it. But all that would have been tolerable if it hadn't been for the fact that someone at the motel last night would certainly have turned in a description of her. At the very least she wanted a place where there was another way out if someone came around. "I'm moving because I don't want to stay here," she said. "I pay my own rent, so what do you care?" "What the fuck's up, Taylor? Give," he said, motioning with his hand. "What do you mean?" "I mean, whassup?? What kinda shit you in?" "Go in the bedroom. Look out the window ... you can peel away the covering. I'll fix it. Do it now." He went ... enough time for her to grab the boots quickly and throw them into the cabinet under the sink and close it. "I don't see nothin'," he said, a hostile, suspicious tone entering his voice. "He was there," she said. "A cop, I think." He came back in, angry. He always knew, the little skinny rat-bastard slimeball. "Bullshit! You're lying." He took hold of her robe lapels. "What the fuck is this about?? Tell me now!!" he demanded. "Or else!!"Something in her snapped. She instantly grabbed his forearms and wrenched them apart, letting her unnatural strength show. He tried to slap her. Catching his arm again, she held it and let her nails sink in. "I wanna move," she told him, her eyes cold, cold like a dead fish's. "I'm not asking you. I'm telling you. I'm gonna move. I'll let you know. And you'll keep getting your money, don't worry." His voice sank, and he tried to take a step back, afraid. She could smell it. He wasn't used to being stood up to. "So you find some way to start scoring big cash, and now you're too fuckin' good, huh? Fine." With his free hand, he produced an envelope. "I was gonna give you these. But I think I won't." "Fine by me," she said. She let him wrench his arm away. "Okay," he said. "You pay your own rent, you score your own junk, too. And I wanna see five grand a day, every day. Can you do that?" "Yeah," she said. "You'd better. I'll let you have that deal, and you can move. But you don't deliver--even one time--and you can take it up with the boss. You got that, bitch?" "Yeah." "Okay, then," he said, calming down, cooling. He seemed to have come to a decision. "I was lookin' out for you. But I'm done with that. I'm just the bagman now--you just pay me. But you fuck up, even once--you come up short, even once--and you'll wish you had old Shazzie around instead of who you will see." "I'll take it," she told him. "You tell me where to find you, and it'd better be around in my 'hood," he said. "You ain't walkin' away just like that." Then he turned. "Good luck. You're gonna need it." "I make my own," she told him. "That and shit," he said, and was gone out the door. >< >< >< >< >< >< That evening, Rhys Macklin had the gas grill out on his patio overlooking the muddy tideflats of Alder Island. “Not quite the same as a good wood fire, but you know how it is,” he explained to Councilor Anderson. “You try building a wood fire around here—assuming you can get the permit—and someone shows up wanting to know how many trees you murdered so you could have your dinner.” “Oh, I know,” said Nels, wearing a dark-blue blazer over his tieless shirt and chino trousers. “Nice place, though.” he said, looking across the water toward Queen City. “You have beach access?” “I have beach,” said Rhys. “Five hundred and thirty-nine feet.” “Damn!” said Nels. “What’s that worth these days?” “About ten thousand a foot.” Rhys turned a salmon fillet over with a sizzle. “Hey, honey,” he called to Candee. “You said Jason was going to be here, right?” Candee came out with a stemmed glass in each hand, both with clear contents; in one an olive was suspended; that one she handed to Nels, and the other, with a small onion, she handed to Rhys. “Yes. He’s bringing … oh, now—Michelle, I think her name is.” Candee looked good. The news that Ralna would be the sixth guest, to complement Nels, whose wife had died a year before, had evidently inspired her. She was a knockout tonight in her velvet Moscha cocktail dress, with a two-thousand-dollar coiffure and a modest but elegant diamond set. Rhys reflected that he’d have to host dinners more often. “Good. Well, I hope they get here soon,” said the big man, carefully squeezing out exactly three drops of lemon juice. “How’s the martini, Nels?” she asked the Councilor. “Perfect, Candee, thanks. You’ve got the knack,” he told her sincerely, as Rhys laid another fillet on. “It’s a rare woman who can mix a really good one. I’ve always said while mixing is mostly art, making martinis is science.” “Well, hanging out with this guy, you learn science,” Candee said, giving Rhys a rub across his back. “But how are you getting on in the Council? We hardly hear anything of you over here. You're standing for re-election, right?” “Of course,” replied the politician. “I hardly have a choice in the matter." "That's an odd thing to say," commented Candee. "How could you not choose?" "He's been a friend of Leonard's for a long time," said Rhys. "If I may say so, Councilor." "We get along," said Nels. "I was on the Council before he was, you know, Mrs. Macklin. And he's only the first of equals. He has a District like everyone else." "I didn't know that," said Candee. "I don't pay much attention to politics, actually. I suppose I need to, if Rhys is going to run some day." "I could think of people I'd be less willing to see succeed me," said the Norwegian. "It's true that Leonard wants me to run again. But he's not lacking for friends on the Council now. And he's not the boss of me. He needs to remember that. I made him," he said with sudden vehemence. "I did. It was my project that attracted the Chi--Pacific interests here who back him. I'm not saying I can unmake him, or that I want to. Anyone who tried would probably be setting himself up for a rough time. And yet, I want to say for the record that I think he does a good job in what is, after all, a hard game. He's attracted a lot of business and investment. But things are very different nowadays from when I first ran for Council. I won't be sorry when my turn comes to retire." "You hear that?" said Candee, throwing Rhys a look. Rhys smiled. “I hear. The answer is still no, babe.” He turned another fillet. "Will it ever be yes?" she asked him. "I'd like to hear that. She glanced at Nels. "I think we both would." "I'd have to have very solid backing," he said. "And the time would be of my own choosing. Because whoever asks me to, when I accept, they're going to figure they own my ass, and nobody owns my ass." "Nobody?" asked Candee. "Nobody but you, of course, darling," said the big man. Nels chuckled. "Remember, anyone who doesn't like me running has a huge armory against me. I'm not loved off the island, and you can't get elected with just island votes." Nels said: "So tell me, Rhys. You were one of the movers behind what Alder Island is--a fertility bonanza grown out of a gene therapy gone wrong. I don’t doubt that there’s a lot of people who want your head. But there’s a lot of others who’d be willing to make you a professor or research fellow somewhere. So what are you doing in the bush leagues, a minor pencil-pusher in a local government position? How can you even afford to work that job? And why would you want to?” Ralna wandered out onto the deck, clad in a modest tube-style dress with spaghetti straps, her hair twisted back into a knot. She seemed to be taking everything in quietly. She had succeeded brilliantly in her weekend mission, and now Rhys hoped the latest upgrades on her social mode were working. But he said to Nels: “It’s a fair question. I was a researcher. I was involved in a lot of things at Subhuti. I worked on some experiments there that developed into therapies that are now standard and accepted without question for the treatment of certain skin and eye conditions. I worked with the team of university people that developed the AIDS vaccine, for which they all shared a Nobel Prize and every other prize there is. I didn’t share any of it with them, because that came after the wave of lawsuits designed to put Subhuti out of business and bankrupt everyone associated with it. Due to the therapy whose side effect produced the Bearers. By the way, the therapy did work. No one of them has ever had a lymphatic problem.” Rhys sprinkled a few spices, and then laid on the last fillet as he talked. “I didn’t jump ship. I stood by my work. And the lawyers tarred me with the blame for everything that went wrong with everyone’s work. The media made me the figurehead because I was the one defendant who had the balls to call the plaintiffs what they were, which was--and I still stand by my words--a pack of rabid weasels after a quick buck, and clawing to death any hope of having medical innovation going in in this country. So I took the hits, gave up everything I had—including my medical license--and surrendered my rights to patents for work done at Subhuti which by now alone would have made me a billionaire, and went overseas. Places like Calcutta, Shanghai, Manila, and Nairobi are where it’s happening now. A researcher can get some work done there without fear that some infinitesimal miscalculation regarding a genetic sequence’s response to a certain amino acid is going to mushroom into a multi-billion-dollar lawsuit. That’s why all the work is happening over there. Calcutta is where I invented the insulinometer. Thanks to that, diabetes hasn’t yet been cured, but it’s been put on the shelf.” “You invented that?” said Nels, impressed. “I know a hundred people that have those. I have one myself. Just a little implant that regulates your pancreatic functions.” “Well, that’s neurocomputing, which is my specialty,” Rhys said. “Patents on components to that and a few other things give me a nice income. I worked on sensory and physical enhancements as an associate with MSS. If I wanted to, I could retire. But I want to take a few years to give something back to the community I came from, and whose treatment of me, despite bumps in the road, eventually put me where I am today. So I have a modest office with a phone and a ‘net line, and the local government pays me a little to stick around and help do a good turn once in awhile. Hey, how’s it going, champ?” he said to Jason, who had come through the doors with a girl in tow. “OK, thanks, dad,” said Jason, giving Rhys a quick hug. “When do we eat?” Nels, Rhys, and Candee laughed, and Ralna smiled with them. Jason looked around. “What’d I say?” he asked. “Just what ordinary seventeen-year-old guys have asked for the last ten thousand years,” said Rhys. >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:38:34 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:40:11 GMT -5
025[/b] Nels had left an hour earlier, rather tipsy but escorted by Ralna. Rhys had no doubt of her ability to get the Councilor home in one piece without betraying herself. It was his way of testing both of them, but he was sure they'd both pass. Jason and Michelle had gone out again--to a movie, they said. Rhys and Candee had the house to themselves again. Candee had turned on the BBC, as she did, Rhys noted, whenever she felt like a bit of culture. Tonight this channel was running a news program on current events. The camera panned into an interior shot of a girl of about seventeen. She wore a headscarf over her hair, as required for any woman who appeared on the BBC outside of a film production, but it was a cheap one and she wore it rather untidily, and it looked out of place framing her typically English face, with blonde strands, clear, rosy skin, and somewhat vacant blue eyes rimmed with too much mascara. "So," asked an unseen interviewer, "some girls network to find fertile males, while others just go out on the streets and hunt?" "You gotta do wo'ever y' can," said the girl. "If it's a boy y' know or summone y' meet online, or y' go doggin'--wo'ever." "'Dogging'--you mean hunting on the street." "Yeh, so what? It's hard to find a boy who's got it, innit? I mean, y' think y' know 'em, but y' dunno that 'til you've 'ad a go. They don't come wif labels, y' know. Any one could be the one. You don't know." "But if you don't know, then you might have to do that a lot." "So wot if I fancy a boy, and another, and another one? There's no law against that. And even if y' don't get a baby, you can get some wedge wif it." There was a female murmur of assent from just off-camera, and a gentle, sisterly hand on her shoulder. "But why? Is there not some danger involved with so much sex?" The girl's gaze went completely blank. "So? Who gives a f--- ?" The programmers had blipped out the four-letter word. The video cut to an older woman, in the usual headscarf, an expensive one. "It's revolting the way these chavs carry on. Rutting like animals, that's all it is. It should be illegal, but this country has a million nooks and corners and alleys. All it takes is get around behind the skip, skirt up, trousers down, and five minutes. Some don't even bother to hide--they'll let some pervert watch them go at it for a few pounds or a pack of cigarettes." "You're campaigning for decency, then?" asked the same unseen inverviewer. "I'm against degeneracy, if that's what you mean. Nowadays all they want are babies. In my day, no woman who had a shred of self-respect would think of breeding. Now they all spawn, or want to. It's all they can think of. Give 'em some piercings and tattoos, the newest PDA, and a bun in the oven, and they're on top of the world. Everything our generation fought for is being lost in a stew of indiscriminate screwing, hanging bellies, and soiled nappies. All paid for by our tax money." "This isn't the first generation to embrace casual sex, though, surely, is it?" "Good clean sex is one thing. This is perversion," she said, spitting the last words out. The camera went back to the first girl. "So then, you want a baby." The girl's look refocused. "I guess," she said. "I mean, everyone's having them, aren't they?" "There's clinics ... there's lots of ways." "That's fine if y' got the dosh, you can fly off anywhere you like, hire someone, wo'ever, all nice and la-la. But if you're like anyone, you live on assistance, y' got a room--not a flat or a house--but a room, half-day light an' heat, everything on rats, wot else y' gonna do?" "It's a way up, then?" "F---in' wot else? You get a baby, then y' get yer own council flat, all-day light an' heat, milk an' eggs every day, meat twice a week, discount on yer trans-pass. Who don't want that?" "You have to be married, don't you?" She giggled knowingly. "And what about the baby?" the interviewer drove on. The girl's eyes glazed again. "Huh?" "You have to care for the baby, right?" She shrugged, obviously a little uncomfortable. "Well, for four years anyway. Then they go into the system and it's easier." "What kind of a life will it have, just growing up in the system?" She snapped up. "Same as anyone else, right? Like you give a f---," she retorted. "We--" "Shut up," she snapped. "I got me mates--let us alone. We don't need any f---in' one a' you. Just gimme wha' I got comin' t' me and get the f--- out a' my face." She turned away. The video panned back to show the end of that segment being watched on a telescreen by a middle-aged black man wearing a Christian cleric's collar. "Reverend Sumawesi?" asked the same unseen inverviewer. "It's a fairly typical attitude," said the man, with an educated accent. He was sitting in an comfortable armchair, apparently in a study. "We've spent uncounted billions raising them, raising this generation, that is, those of us who chose to make the sacrifice, after surviving war, disease outbreaks, crime, and terrorism." "What about those who chose not to raise them?" "They paid a share through taxes and fees and assessments. They also pay for education and public safety. And in their old age they will still be dependent on society, meaning whatever this generation--those like this girl--elect to do, even if children of their own are not among them." "Government assistance is there." "Government assistance still depends ultimately on citizens who will work and contribute, unless the Government finance by borrowing, and we saw in the last century what that can lead to." "You don't seem to hold out much hope," said the interviewer. "What did we give them to hope for?" asked the man sadly. The video next went to some stock shots of London political scenes, including the new glass-and-steel Houses of Parliament in Westminster which had risen to replace the old ones, destroyed in a suicide jetliner crash. The presenter's voice said: "But there is a different view in some quarters. Britain has been Europe's most populous nation for a century, leading to punitive penalties from the European authority, and the Government of Mr. al-Waziri has taken progressive steps to address and manage the situation. A plan was announced this week by Home Secretary Hamzi Ruwayidullah." The footage went to a press conference. "The Government have viewed the situation of child and family welfare in Britain with grave concern," said the neatly-whiskered, trim-suited official. "While we of course support marriage and family policies that serve to uphold traditional British values as well as the teachings of the Prophet--peace be upon him--neither can we allow the limited resources of the nation be squandered in a rising tide of births that have less to do with family situations and more with the selfish desires and concerns of individuals who are clearly not marriage-minded, and seek only to consume what society produces at the cost of no more effort than that of producing offspring for which they care nothing. This is also a public health matter, as enormous sums allocated for family health are spent on these persons instead, treating not only their offspring but themselves for health concerns which this lifestyle generates. To address this, I can announce to-day that we are implementing a scheme for managing the way public benefits are allotted. Called the 'British Family Protection Act,' it will require twice-yearly medical screenings and checkups for every citizen. Those who fail to meet public health standards shall submit to immediate mandatory treatment if they wish to continue receiving any public benefits ..." The camera cut to a man behind a desk; a caption identified him as a Tory MP. "If you read the fine print in this law," he said, "you find that the standards for public health referred to cover a number of diseases and complaints, all well and good, but one of them is pregnancy. 'Immediate mandatory treatment' for pregnancy can mean nothing but abortion." "Do the Conservatives then oppose requiring abortion for population control?" asked the unseen interviewer. "That has been a public policy for some time now." "Oh, not at all," said the MP. "No one's suggesting that we return to the days of wide-open human breeding; that's bad for the environment, of course. What we object to is the exception for married persons. Immediate treatment for pregnancy is not mandatory for them. In fact, given the legal situation, we expect that any British Shari'a court would create blanket exemptions for Muslims, while Crown courts would rule them out for non-Muslims." The camera cut away to focus on another gentleman, identified as a Fellow of the Royal College of Surgeons. "Pregnancy has been classified as a disease for many years now, and rightly so. It's a disease of the planet. Any doctor confronted with it has same options with it as with any other disease. With the patient's consent, treatment can be undertaken in a timely manner; or the disease may be allowed to run its course, since it's seldom fatal to the patient herself." "That is, allowing birth to happen," clarified the interviewer. "That's another way of saying it," said the physician. "What we view with alarm is prohibiting medical treatment for this disease based on someone's creed or religion. A doctor who treated a married or affianced Muslim woman for pregnancy, even with her consent, might be forced to answer legal charges if this exemption is created. And, likewise, male fertility is also classed as an abnormal condition. With another exception for married men." The camera cut again, to another man, identified as a British 'blogger now living in New York. "Under this law," he said in a Northern-tinged accent, "within a year of its passage, every non-Muslim person in Britain could be forcibly sterilised." "Except marrieds," said the interviewer. "If you want to rely on their respect for a non-Muslim institution, you go right ahead, mate," replied the man. "And God 'elp you, because no 'un else will." Candee switched off the screen with a jerk of the remote and turned to Rhys. "Is that true?" she asked. "Yes," he said, putting his glass aside. "Would they really do that?" "I doubt it, unless al-Waziri, who's a bit of a moderate, is replaced by a hard-liner. For their purposes now, just having the law is enough. They'll wait to see if the threat is effective." "Will it be?" He shrugged. "You heard that girl. You think she and her mates would care even if they knew the threat?" "No," said Candee. She gave a sudden shiver. "Thank goodness we haven't reached that state here yet." "We will," he said. "It's the looters versus the savages for what scraps remain." "Looters?" she asked. "You went to college. Did you never read a book called Atlas Shrugged?" he asked. "No. I saw the movie, though. Pretty good, I thought." "Well, the doctor, the politician with him, and the lady are looters. You know--people who don't do anything except take paychecks to sit around and complain about how someone ought to do something--and when someone does do something, they start yelling about how bad and wrong it was. The government minister represents the savages. My own sympathy would be for the girl. However selfish her reasons, however ignorant she is, she's at least engaging in a crude form of business--trying to produce something. She and her mates are the last vestiges of what used to be Western civilization a few hundred years ago. What's happening there is a dress rehearsal for North America. Just give it a few more years." "Looters, huh?" said Candee reflectively. "I remember that from the movie. So, who is John Galt?" The big man laughed. "Good question, babe. You have a way of nailing things." He got up and ran his hand through her hair. "Coming to bed?" >< >< >< Monday, 12 October[/b] The seven A.M. newscast always woke Nels Anderson up. The buzz of soothing, confident voices usually brought him slowly to and put him in a positive frame of mind. His mind drifted as he listened, semi-conscious, but the mention of a name made him blink awake. He sat up, fumbling for his controller; in his haste, he hit the volume button so that the 'caster's voice blasted his ears, and then got it under control. The screen was showing shots of a street only a mile or two east of his own house, with barriers and a police evi-dome set up. "... apparent murder of the FBI's top field agent by a woman publicly linked with the Mexican Consul, Senor Roland Campos. The evidence suggests that Ms. Perez-Kessler shot Ms. MacLennon several times with this assault weapon,"--showing a little silenced machine pistol in an evi-bag, and going to a car at the curb-- "and that the recoil caused her to stumble, by a fatal mischance breaking her own neck falling against a parked vehicle. We've had no comment yet from Senor Campos or any spokesperson, but,"--a picture now of a good-looking Hispanic woman, which Nels peered at closely-- "Liliane Perez-Kessler is said by our source--"Nels stopped the 'cast, his stomach churning, and programmed a grab of the entire thing. He knew that face. So would Enrique Cabrera, one of whose functionaries arranged for women of a certain race and status to keep him company some nights. Unlike the others, he'd kept up with Liliane for a while; she'd visited him three times, and they'd traded phone calls and video chats for a while until she'd dropped out of sight. If this got out--and that Stern woman and her friends, who had checked out, seemed perfectly capable of bringing it--there was now nothing they couldn't force him to. A simple vice smear could be taken care of--everyone did it--but a link to a dead FBI agent and a live gangster was something else. He got up, numb, fumbling about for his clothes. >< >< >< An hour later, Rhys Macklin was watching the updated version on his portadesk while sipping a coffee on the ferry to work, when he became aware--first--of an unusual noise, a sort of dull thump that might have been a galley food service worker dropping a crate of provisions. A few moments passed, then a murmur arose--a sudden wave of surprise and disbelief sweeping over the passenger deck. People were making their way to the side of the boat, and he hastily snapped shut the cover and joined them as the engines cut and the craft made a sudden, unaccustomed turn. Everyone was looking toward the city, where, he could see over and between a few excited heads, a smudge of spreading smoke among the buildings. Hands were diving into cases and pockets for PDAs to get news. "It's City Hall," said a woman next to him, whom he knew slightly. "You sure?" asked another man. "I work there," said a third. "Fifth and James. That's got to be it, just the other side of the Columbia Center. It's either that or maybe the Justice Building." "Oh my god!" said another woman. "Who'd want to bomb City Hall for god's sake?" The ferry's PA system gave an alarm tone, and a man's voice came over. "Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. I regret to inform you that there will be a delay in our crossing. We've been informed that there has been an explosion at the City Hall. Emergency services are responding at this time, and ferries have been requested to help keep downtown streets clear by refraining from docking. We are awaiting an official advisory whether to stand by, or to return to our departure point. We appreciate your patience, and we ask everyone to keep calm and to cooperate with crew members in carrying out any instructions I must give. We will issue you with any news as soon as we know it ourselves. Again, thank you." By this time, smoke was rising from the skyline in a column, bent by the wind; however, other buildings, especially the giant Columbia Center near by, appeared relatively unaffected, except--according to a man with birding binoculars--a lot of broken windows on its lower levels, up to the middle. Rhys had started walking and was already connecting to his personal assistant. "Ralna--code three-one-one-eight-two omicron. Mark ... status ... good. Listen carefully," he said--absurdly, it occurred to him in a flash, since she wasn't capable of doing anything carelessly--"proceed to the blast site. Just go as my PA. Get as near as you can without mode change or taking any unauthorized actions. Analyze patterns, scan thermals, and provide best estimate of chemical residues. Compare and run analysis, collate with all other known terrorist vehicle bombings against large buildings. and review ... Ferry delayed. I have no estimate of when I might arrive. Return to office and proceed with regular tasks when assignment complete. Rhys out, code two-two-zero-nine one omega. That's all, and thank you, Ralna." >< >< >< In the interim, Rhys fielded a call from Candee, assuring her that he was unhurt and well, and went to work on his porta-desk again. Within twenty minutes, an announcement had explained that the explosion did appear to be due to a car or truck bomb, though no one had yet claimed responsibility; but the 'netcasts were all over that. The announcement went on to request that any City or County law-enforcement or essential government workers report to the lower deck. The big man looked out and saw a police boat cutting a swath through the waves; out of all the commuters, a number worked at City or County jobs that might require them. He packed up and made his own way down, retrieving his ID magcard, but there was no need to worry; his presence had been specifically requested by the Clerk of the Council. He boarded the police craft, along with the others, via an emergency gangway deployed by the ferry crew, and took a seat inside along with several other more-or-less acquaintances. "Hell of a deal, eh, Dr. Macklin?" a City investigator asked him. "Who do you think it was?" "My first thought was IMU," he replied, naming an organization ostensibly devoted to freeing Uzbekistan from Chinese control. Then he shrugged. "Could be," said the other sagely. They were all asked to belt into their seats in preparation for the short but rapid ride. He would, he calculated, be back at the office before Ralna returned from his assignment, which suited him. There would be a lot he could do from there that he couldn't get started here. >< >< >< Candee ended the call with her husband and checked her time. She had put on one of her nicer negligees for her morning appointment, but he was late now, so late that she guessed the news from the city had decided him not to come to her. She quashed the impulse to dial his PDA. She didn't want to appear too anxious over him; anyway he was just a college student with a night job as a waiter in an Island bistro ... suitable for a casual roll in the hay, but nowhere near the level where she should be dialing him for anything. And on top of all that, Rhys had done her like a lamb chop last night--he was pretty hot for a man his age when he wanted it, and last night he'd been like a machine, leaving her with aching thighs and a throb inside around her cervix. So, instead, she went to her own e-plex in her 'office,' as she called it--really a sort of lounge and clothing room--and brought up the 'Net. The national news on Yahoogle was just picking it up now. She didn't bother, apart from cursorily scanning a few first videos. There were fatalities, but not more than a few dozen, and it had been a suicide bomb--rather ill-timed if they'd wanted maximum casualties, as most workers had been yet to arrive. Damage looked initially spectacular, but time spent in the Middle East, and with Rhys, who had explained a lot to her, told her that old, solid building had withstood the blast well, apart from losing a good deal of its facade. The row of eastward-facing offices would be toast, but the structure itself stood. Windows for two blocks around were all gone, and the front of the Hall of Justice was damaged; fire crews had things in hand. It was, decided, an amateurish job, or intended to look like one--or else it was meant as a warning over something. That would be sorted out when responsibility was addressed. And Rhys had reassured her that he was all right, and would be all right, so that was sorted. Whatever his other characteristics, he always knew what he was doing. She clicked away, flickering though her usual searches. A posting on a certain board caught her eye, and she followed a link to another link, which took her to a survey, which led to more links in some erudite medical groups. But while she wasn't a doctor, she wasn't married to one for nothing, and there were one or two subjects that she'd studied very carefully. So she was ready and interested when she came upon a board which discussed the outcome of a new experimental fertility therapy, for which University Hospital Physicians were seeking qualified candidates through certain programs. It looked good to her ... very good, and quite astonishingly simple, involving a radical theory about combining a relatively straightforward ovarian surgery with a hormone treatment to adjust uterine pH balance. She wasn't in any of the programs, but that could be fixed. She knew there had to be a way, and her gut was telling her this might really be it. Without even bothering to log off or get out of her negligee, she went for her PDA. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:40:28 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:46:21 GMT -5
026[/b] At about the time Rhys had gone to look out of the ferry window, County Executive Leonard Chung's black-clad driver had pulled the white limo over into the right lane, narrowly missing a truck and a little Flybo, prompting that man to flip up his mobiplex keyboard in annoyance. "Frankie," he snapped, "just what the hell do you think you're doing?" The driver tapped his earpiece. "Explosion at City Hall, sir. Could be terrorists, anything. Diversion--security protocol." He was heading for the Rainier Valley exit. "Get back on the road," the politician ordered. "City Hall is City Hall--it's not where I work, and if it has been hit, then someone's got to take charge. I'm a leader of this community, and I intend to be seen doing my fucking job." "Sir, there could be--" "I pay you to drive, not to think. And you're going to drive me to my office, you got that? Once you deliver me, then you can head for the fallout shelter if you like, 'til I call you." "Yes, sir," the driver had responded, easing back in. Now, an hour on, he was indeed being seen, as a hundred 'cams and various devices clicked and flashed and beeped away in the Council Chambers' Conference Room 2. He liked press conferences, though it wouldn't fit his image to admit that. He regarded press conferences as an art in which one used words, not to impart facts or even to create a story, but as prompters to suggest to reporters what the story should convey, and what the facts ought to be. Then they would use common instinct to create a consensus version based on whatever was most appealing, and that would appear on the 'casts. It was rather like being the leader of a free-jazz combo. He'd made a brief statement, noting with satisfaction that Sarah DeJong hadn't shown up. She'd been at the gym, officially; unofficially, she'd been in a Westside IB booth getting a half-hour girly-special following an early morning tiff with Tina, but no one had to know that. At least not now. He knew all the reporters, and pretty much what questions they'd have, so he picked them in order, nodding or pointing. "Yes?" "Mr. Chung, what is the casualty count at this point?" "We have thirty-six citizens confirmed dead, two hundred fifty-four injured, and seven known to be missing." "Mr. Chung, what action have you taken to restore public confidence and keep things going?" "I've summoned an emergency County Council meeting, set to start in a half-hour. I personally called all the Councilors to bring them up to date." That much was true. Not all had answered, he thought. Nels Anderson--whose Commission would be facing some heat--had proven to be unavailable. "The need for decisive, collective action is urgent, and I have already instructed County officials to provide all the help their City colleagues may need." "Mr. Chung, has anyone claimed responsibility for the bombing yet?" "No, but we are expecting that at any moment. I can assure you that law enforcement, at the County level and others, stand ready to track down and apprehend whoever is behind this, and find out their grievances so we can deal with them in a humane and civilized way." "Mr. Chung, there are reports it was a suicide attack. What do you know?" "We have the evidence of eyewitnesses who saw a white van heading down Cherry Street, turning onto Fifth Avenue seconds before the blast, and no white van is among the parked vehicles destroyed, so it could very well have been that vehicle. Which would of course have been obliterated along with its driver. We regret the loss of his or her life, as well as the others." "Mr. Chung, who in your opinion would be likely to mount such an attack on City Hall?" "Someone who opposes the principles for which it stands. Social justice, fairness and fair trade; responsible commerce; diversity; environmental protection; international cooperation and amity; equal rights for all citizens; quality, affordable health care for all, and of course, a woman's right to choose. In this country, in this State, in this County even, there are still many who do oppose those things." "Such as?" asked the same reporter. "Not Party members," he said, raising a laugh. "Naturally, I'm not going to venture any names at this point purely on speculation. But we all know the type of person. Their hateful bigotry is spewed all over the media every day. They network. They organize. They talk, especially about religion. They breed. They own property, and pollute. They engage in profiteering and speculation. Many of them have guns. And, most of all, they engage in politics--all un-American, things contrary to the spirit in which this country was founded, and on which this State, County and City take famously progressive views. It's no wonder they struck. Frankly, thinking about it now, I'm a little surprised they waited this long." "Mr. Chung, do you feel that this is an attempt to influence the upcoming elections?" "It could be. This is a famously tolerant and diverse city, and so naturally, it votes overwhelmingly for just those candidates, from the Party which supports diversity and tolerance, and stands united against profiteering, violence, hate, racism, sexism, bigotry, and homophobia. As President Berio Bamah put it a century ago, 'We may disagree with what you say, but we will defend to the death your right to mandatory training about sensitivity and hate-speech awareness for saying it.' "The one thing we cannot tolerate is intolerance, and so we take vigorous law-enforcement action against it. Every incident reported to us is investigated, and, if possible, prosecuted to the fullest extent. But intolerance is everywhere. It hides even inside those who may believe themselves tolerant. So, therefore, even what you think you are, you may not be. It is we, your elected leaders, who can save you from your doubts and fears, and as we prepare for voting next month, as thousands of us submit our e-ballots, or however else we cast votes--except for those who blatantly falsify their votes, of course--I can assure you that we take our responsibility most seriously. I am confident--I am positive--that the voters will return the slate of progressive candidates with a greater majority than usual. While the Party is well up in the polls, showing over eighty percent in national surveys, it's expected that our Red Party opponents will try again to steal the election, as they sometimes succeed in doing. How they do it is still unknown in all its details, but it involves somehow getting results to show a higher number of votes for their so-called 'candidates.'" "Mr. Chung, do you think there's any connection to the murder of FBI agent Nora MacLennon, or the Medagenix prison murders?" "That's for police investigators to answer. A suspect is in custody for one of the Medagenix murders, but we don't know of any link yet. As for the other, I simply can't comment at this time. Last question--yes?" "Mr. Chung, what will be the role of State and Federal authorities in the investigation?" "An excellent question. As you know, the near-complete shutdown of State government functions despite the best efforts of our progressive Party legislators means that we can't expect significant resources to arrive from that quarter in the near term. We are in contact with Federal authorities, and I expect to talk with President Jefferson herself within the hour. But again, budget constraints have stretched the Federal government to its limits already this year. The Chicago and Milwaukee riots, the new credit crisis thanks to Federal bond rates in the double digits, and the ongoing conflicts with the Aztlan separatist movements in Arizona, New Mexico, and West Texas--not to mention aid to the Alaska Republic to help with the Russian military incursions--have all put strains on the system. While I won't say that national resources won't be brought to bear, I would caution against unpreparedness on our part in relying on Congress, especially during an election season such as this. But let me assure you that emergency responders and law enforcement are on the job. And no matter where the persons responsible may be, we will hunt them, we will find them, we will apprehend them, and we will ensure that the representatives of the world community will be notified so that they can express their concern about the matter. Thank you all. I will have to defer any further questions to my spokesperson for the moment." There was a bit of a hubbub, but Leonard fell in between two black-clad attendants, and vanished offstage right with a wave. >< >< >< >< >< >< Ralna's information-gathering mission to the City Hall blast site, detouring her from her route to the office, had been uneventful, and perhaps more productive than Sir had expected. With her steady manner, ID badge, trenchcoat, briefcase, and businesslike mid-heels, she looked rather official herself, though she had only served one day in the office as Rhys' assistant. As it happened, she was recognized by a forensic investigator who had called Friday on a minor matter, and been let in, not into the immediate blast area, but inside the Fifth Avenue cordons. He handed her a disposable breathing mask, and she donned it as he had his on, pulling the elastic straps down. The fires were not yet all completely out, though visible blazes were contained and the danger of gas explosion had been ruled out. Shards of glass and metal and chunks of concrete, were strewn everywhere, and casualties were still being attended to by aid cars being let in and out on the Cherry Street side; the more critical cases had already been carried to the top of the Justice Building, where medevac 'choppers had taken them away. And in front of the building were the remains of metal bollards, flanking a meter-deep pit around which pavement and brick had been ripped away. An acrid fog hung about the area, composed of concrete dust and smoke from a hundred different vaporized materials, as masked, geared firemen and police personnel went about with their equipment. "Checking things out for the boss, then?" asked the man through his mask, giving her a barely noticeable once-over, lingering for a moment on her legs. "Dr. Macklin's ferry was delayed, and he asked me to step over and collect some initial impressions," she said. "It's all new to me though--may I ask you what that is?" She set down her briefcase, indicating a device that he had in his hand. "Sure. Scans for ambient chemical, nuclear, and biological residues. Explosives always leave traces. TNT, RDX, HMX, and PETN--they all leave nitro or nitramine compounds floating around ... manganese dioxide, magnesium chloride, mercury, or even potassium nitrate if you wanna get really old-school. Dioxins, various uranium and plutonium isotopes." "Can you show me how it works? I mean, just run it for a minute. What do you see?" Amused at the lady's curiosity, the investigator hit the review function, explaining as datasorts flashed across the screen in flickering clumps--but not nearly so fast that she couldn't process them visually for analysis. "Yo, Deck," said another masked cop, touching this one on the shoulder. "Enough chitchat already, huh? Who is this, anyway?" "She's okay--Dr. Rhys Macklin's new assistant." He indicated the ID which she had slung about her neck on its lanyard. "Ah," said the other, with a flicker of recognition. "Shame about Louise--if you don't mind my saying so, miss." "Not at all. I'm sure I'm not in Mrs. Skogsted's league as a personal assistant," she said. "But I'll do my best." "Yes. Sorry, um--what was your name again?" "Ralna," she said. "Ralna Ochoa." "Sorry, Ralna, but we gotta get back to work. They've cleared the main lobby. I won't chase you off, but someone else might. Nobody'd want you to get hurt. Just watch your step, okay?" "Thanks for everything," she said. Then, as they left, she turned to study the fragment distribution patterns, with attention to edging and curling on the larger pieces, and checking degradation indicators. After fifteen more minutes, she judged by filesize that she had data sufficient to meet Sir's request; collation and comparison, as he had ordered, could only be done at the office. She walked out, past the guarding officers and threading the ranks of gawkers, removing her mask and stowing it folded in her coat pocket. Getting in to the building, a good few blocks away, involved a delay. A fair number of people had come to work today--many were already en route at the time of the blast, and might have turned around again had they not been riding transport, which had been ordered to finish its routes rather than risk creating gridlock by stopping or backtracking. Security personnel were hand-checking IDs and looking through bags, but the latter did not alarm her. On Sir's instructions, she was commuting to work unarmed; the 52 bus was one place where risk of accidental discovery outweighed the need to be prepared for a firefight, and there was a PDW in the office at any event. After a few minutes in line, a wanding, and a bag check, she was let through. In the lobby, with people waiting for the lifts, there was, she thought, a lot of chat, but not about work--chat of a tone at once worried and reassuring. People's tongues certainly appeared to be loosened. She took the stairs, herself, as a routine fitness measure. On her floor, she proceeded down the hall and decided to duck into the ladies' room, near the corner break area, to freshen up. Having done, she was starting to open the door to leave when she heard feminine laughter, and a name. "You met that new gal yet, his new PA?" asked a voice. "Not yet," said a second. "I saw her coming out the stairwell on Friday," said a third. "I said to her, 'Girl, we got elevators, you know.' And she's all like, 'Stairs are conducive to fitness.' 'Condoosive?' Omi gawd--what's up with that?" "I think it means 'good for something,'" said Second. "Well, she must be good for him, then," said First. "Someone who talks about toxo-feenol-propil-chlorinate and stuff all day. You know, I called up, and you know how she answers the comset?" "Go on, then," said Third. First cleared her throat, and declaimed in a fair imitation of Ralna's default pitch and tone: "'Good morning. Doctor Macklin's office. How may I assist you, please?'" There were a couple of giggles. "Who's she think she is, anyway?" "Well, he's the mad scientist on staff," said First. "You know what they used to call him back in the day?" "'Doctor Humod,'" chorused the others nearly together, with a stifled chuckle. "Well, he wasn't really," said Second. "He was in some other stuff, but it was all this human genetic reprogramming razzamatazz." Over the last word, Third began: "A humod. Maybe that's what she is, ya think? Maybe he built her out of body parts and electronic widgets in his secret lab!" She must have made some little pantomime motions, because the others tittered. "She's foreign, I think. I mean, talking like that, ain't she?" asked First. "Like she learnt to talk out of an old book, or a half-ass 'netsite. You think she's from Estonia or Bellaroos or somewhere? What's her name ... Rayna?" "Ralna," said Third. "Ralna Ochoa." Ralna cracked open the door very slightly. She got a look at First, in a print dress with big beads, and a partial view of Second, a brunette in a pantsuit. "What kind of a name is that, Morg?" asked Second. "Spanish?" "Yeah," said Third. "Well, Hispanic, anyway." "She don't seem like none of the Latinas I know," said Morg--a nickname, Ralna retrieved--for 'Morgause.' "But you don't know really. People have all sorts of names. Mine's McDougall, and I sure ain't no Highlan' Lassie." "She's different, that's for sure. Even if she was a humod, which she's not--hey," said Second--named Sinead Phelps. "I think she'll work out alright really. She's nice. She'll pick up on things and fit in, as long as she doesn't go all Estonian on our ass." "How d' you know that, gal?" asked Morgause. "C'mon, a joke's a joke," Sinead replied. "If she was a humod, she'd have a third eye, or a third arm, or have gills or some shit. That's what humods were. Everybody knows that. She's nice, yo. She's trying. She's only been here a day, for Pete's sake. Give her some time to get over leaving Estonia. She'll work out. Let's be nice." There were murmurs of agreement, but Morgause broke into what was obviously a reprise of Third's pantomime of a Frankenstein walk, and she and Sinead grinned, and one of them smothered another laugh. Ralna took up her briefcase, pushed her way out and walked by with a smile. "'Morning," she said, taking note of their momentary surprise. "Hey, Ralna," said Morgause, flashing a grin. The other two--Third was a worker named Shari--also smiled and gave polite nods. "You made it, then." "I made it, thanks," she said, not breaking stride. It seemed as if one of them were going to say something, but she was past them and down the hallway, and it remained unspoken. >< >< >< In the Staff Fitness Facility, after a vigorous warmup with the three Bearers that had necessitated a complete change of clothing and a mop-up--she'd been almost all night without a man due to some stupid excuse--Holly had seen the news about the City bombing as an alert on her office 'netlink; there would be a lunchtime special assembly about it. She had for a second wondered whether she should convey it now to the boys. It was primarily John she had doubts about; you never knew what might affect him in odd ways. But reflection told her that they would surely find out from the girls in conversation, and there was no hiding the assembly. So she'd told them. Jason had shrugged; there seemed to be something on his mind. John had taken it quietly, but he, also, was processing it, after his fashion. David had commented: "Ah ... so, the fuckers are bringin' it. Might not have to go real far to get some action, then." For that she had given him a look and a t'sk. He was obviously thinking of his Civil Defense Force or whatever they called it. She held the opinion that soldiers were on balance a damn sexy bunch of men, even while disapproving of militarism in principle. The Northwest had always been peaceful, despite unrest in other parts of the country. But she couldn't suppress a flash notion that if, somehow, something happened, and bullets really did start flying, there'd be worse places to be than behind David Thomsen. She made a mental note. Getting stood up last night had disturbed her, and the cold fact that her age now started with a three wasn't anything that added luster to her aura for a lot of men. Maybe she would look in on a CDF drill--it might be amusing, even if she didn't get a few lays out of it. Holly had also made a note to talk to Debi, following John's remarks about her, but a quick check revealed that DiStefano, Debi, was marked absent today. There wasn't time to follow up on it now, she told herself, putting her attention back on the roster for the next period, and, after a bit of clicking away, hit Save and Print. She grabbed her clipboard and whistle, tore off the sheet, and stood for a second, taking her motivating moment. Time, again, to go train and motivate some young women. Not bitches, or cows, or hoes, or again, sexless persons or victims, or again some kind of gender-bending womyn, or yet again sad little breeders and brooders--but strong, intelligent, powerful women, the warriors who might just yet keep embers of civilization alive for another generation. >< >< >< For the first of this three this time, Jason had drawn A.J., as everyone called her, a classmate of his, volleyball star and ace student, popular with everyone, and mother of one so far, born a few months ago, and her breasts were firm and big, heavy with milk ... so much so that when he'd gotten her excited, she leaned back, pulled out a nipple, pinched it, and doused his face with a spray. Something like that would have freaked out David, and from another girl might have bothered him, too. But A.J. was an old friend, and she was always up to mischief. It was always good with her. The second girl up, however, was a new arrival, both to the island and the school. She came to him and stood, looking rather girlish and timid in her new blue unitard and bright white trainers. As he did with girls who expressed no initial preference, he went and stood by the block bed. She came over, hesitantly it seemed, and lay down, knees up and legs spread in the classic position. Suddenly, for no reason, the picture of Lucky, down on her knees, curled up in the alley in the rain, came to him. He had reached into her in more ways than one ... drawn out her soul. He had felt its embrace, cold and grieving like a fallen angel's. And there was something in this girl that was--or that could become--very like something in Lucky. He drew himself up alongside her, laying a gentle hand on her shoulder. “Hi … what’s your name?” "You know. I know yours. Jason. Don't you remember mine? Are there that many?" "Yes, I remember. But I want you to tell it to me personally. Just us. I'm Jason." “I'm Allexa,” she replied, staring up. “Are you afraid, Allexa?” “A—a little,” she said, looking at him suddenly. “I can’t do anything like that … like she did.” “Allexa, we’re all different," he said. “Maybe you can’t. But I’m sure you can do something no one else can do.” “I’m … I’m just very ordinary,” she replied in a small voice. “I’ll just lay here, I think … do what you have to.” “Well you’ve surely been with other boys by now, Allexa,” Jason said softly. “Do you have a boyfriend?” She nodded. “Do you like being with him?” She nodded again. “Uh-huh. But I haven’t become pregnant yet … I keep wondering if I’m not doing something right.” “Well I’ll tell you what, Allexa .. why don’t you do now what you do for him? I’ll be able to tell you if it’s right or not.” “Can I take my shoes off?” “In the bed you can,” he told her. “Do whatever feels best.” She pried off one trainer by the heel with the other, then pried off the other with the first foot in its quarter-sock, and rolled over and quickly embraced him, pressing her whole body up against him almost desperately. He kissed her, petted her, spoke to her whisperingly, using lovers' words. She wrapped herself around him like a vine around a post, somewhat clumsily but tightly, and moved with him, following in a naive way, and he wondered if she'd been telling the truth about the boyfriend. But it didn't matter, not now. And his sweet moment, when it came, was golden. Allexa clung to him, gasping and shedding tears, but her smile as they came warded away any questions. >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:46:51 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:49:02 GMT -5
027[/b] Ralna entered the suite to hear Rhys in his office, talking on his comset. He was speaking Arabic, and the sound of it stirred memories in her. "Yes, certainly," he was saying. "Whatever it takes. I want you to report to me by this evening at the latest. I must know ... thank you. Peace, my brother." Then he stirred; the call had ended. She doffed and hung up her coat, put away her ID, and as she turned on her workplex bridge, he appeared in the door to greet her. "Good morning, Ralna," he said. "I trust you had a successful visit to the blast site?" "Yes, sir, thank you; I gathered one hundred twenty-six gigs in visual and written information. I have not yet collated and run the analysis you requested." "Excellent. You're a treasure, Ralna. Do please proceed with that, priority one. Estimated time?" "Estimated, sixty-one minutes, barring chance delays." He knew what she meant: having to take calls or perform some other randomly-occurring task. "Fine. Before lunch, we need to finish the Minnesota workup on knowledge-based support vector learners for an AI project, putting together the notes I found." "Very good, sir." "I'd also like you to get into the County Elections Board database. Load and analyze all procedures and regulations dealing with e-balloting and paper balloting, financing procedures, and data on all endorsements and campaign staff for local elections. I'll need all the networking, IP protocols, processing and tabulation data, DNS, and a routing chart. I know you have much of that, but we require an update, so you can save only data modified within the last three days. But I won't require that until this afternoon." "Very good. Thank you, sir. I exist to serve." She took her seat, donning her earpiece, smoothly deployed her thinkpad link and keyboard, and within seconds had three screens flickering with datastreams. He watched for for a few moments, not without some pride, and another feeling that was close to sexual. By noon, she would have more accomplished than all the rest of the staff in the building put together. He turned back into his own office, and saw an interoffice memo had arrived. He opened the inbox. Detective Crowley had filed his report on the investigation into Louise's death; it had come back ruled a suicide by the coroner. Ralna had been correct in her evaluation. He scanned the report quickly. Crowley had left an open recommendation based on some indistinct rooftop evidence, but had found no eyewitnesses to any foul play. That would do. He sent a note to Ralna's desktop to arrange for a donation to be made in her memory to the Police Aid and Assistance Society. Then he bent his attention to another task. >< >< >< "Yes?" asked Rhys, some time later, in response to a flash on his deskbar. "Sir, about this KBSVL project ... I require some clarification." "Very well. Come on in, Ralna." She appeared with a sheaf of papers. "I'm having some difficulty processing your handwritten notes, sir. They appear to be incomplete. About the promoters-106 data set?" "Ah, let's see. Yes." He punched a few buttons, throwing up an e-pad on his screen as she went around to stand behind him, watching. "The data set consists of a set of fifty-three examples of DNA sequences that contain gene promoters and fifty-three examples that do not. Each strand consists of fifty-seven DNA characters starting from 50--before the promoter is expected to start--to 7, after the promoter starts on the chromosome. In our representation we use a simple 1,0 representation for each feature for each of the four possible DNA characters: a, g, t, and c. Basically, each feature represents one Boolean test of whether a character occurs at a position--such as p37=g, which is 1 if the character at position 37 before the start is g, and 0 otherwise. "The domain theory for promoters-106 has two major parts, one of which--the conformation portion of the theory--as been repeatedly rejected by other researchers. In the other part of the theory, there are four rules for each of two regions of the DNA sequence corresponding to sets of characters that would occur in these regions. This would lead to sixteen rules--four combinations for each of the two regions--which would make the learning process fairly unwieldy and make the issue of 'Bad' rules more complex. Instead, following the observations of Ortega, we combined the four rules for each of the two regions into a single antecedent. The four rules for the first region, called minus thirty-five, of the promoter tested the following conditions." He typed a bit: minus35 :- p37=c, p36=t, p35=t, p34=g, p33=a, p32=c. minus35 :- p36=t, p35=t, p34=g, p32=c, p31=a. minus35 :- p36=t, p35=t, p34=g, p33=a, p32=c, p31=a. minus35 :- p36=t, p35=t, p34=g, p33=a, p32=c. "There is significant shared structure to these rules," she observed. "All ask that p36=t, p35=t, et cetera." "Yes. Similarly the second--minus ten--region was defined as follows." He typed again. minus10 :- p14=t, p13=a, p12=t, p11=a, p10=a, p9=t. minus10 :- p13=t, p12=a, p10=a, p8=t. minus10 :- p13=t, p12=a, p11=t, p10=a, p9=a, p8=t. minus10 :- p12=t, p11=a, p7=t. "Our combined rule takes the following form," he continued, still typing: IF countOf(p37=c, p36=t,p35=t, p34=g, p33=a, p32=c, p31=a) = T35 AND countOf(p14=t, p13=(a or t), p12=(t or a), p11=(a or t), p10=a, p9=(t or a), p8=t, p7=t) = T10THEN Promoter=True.Ralna thought for a moment. "The question then becomes how to set the thresholds T35 and T10.""Based on our examination of the rules we set T35 to 5 and T10 to 4 for our useful advice, which comes close to capturing the domain theory. We will call this our 'Original' advice. To make the advice work less well, we significantly lowered the thresholds to 2 and 2 for each, which made the rules match far too often. We will call this our 'Poor' advice. We then tested this by running twenty repeats of tenfold cross-validation on the promoters-106 data set, using the methodology described above, to select parameters. Figure Four shows the results of these experiments." He clicked away, searching, and finally brought up a graph, headed: Figure 4: Average error rates for 20 ten-fold cross-validation experiments run on the promoters-106 data set with the rule discussed in the text used for advice. [/i] They both studied it for a moment. "The linear model with no knowledge performed about as well as other models did on this data," she said, intrigued. "Next, note that our advice models perform well compared to other learners, though not as well as KBANN, as in Towell and Shavlik, which used ensembles of neural networks. In terms of performance with the advice, note that when KBSVM is not able to ignore the 'Poor' advice, it performs very poorly, as expected, while the KBSVM system that is able to ignore the advice performs as well as the learner without advice." "I see that learners with the 'Original' advice perform very well, and that RRSVM that refined the 'Poor' advice performs best of all, though the difference between RRSVM and learners with the 'Original' advice is not statistically significant," Ralna said. "It would indicate that RRSVM can, on a real-world data set, make useful changes to a piece of advice even if that advice is not particularly accurate.” “Precisely. In terms of how the advice was adjusted, for the 'Poor Advice' in about 60% of the cases both of the thresholds T35 and T10 were adjusted upwards between 2 and 3. In the remaining cases the advice threshold was adjusted so that it only applied to a small number of cases while the other threshold was left alone--generally T35 would be shifted to 5 or 6 or T10 would be shifted to 6 or 7. This suggests that good rules might be made by strongly focusing on one region and then allowing a much looser fit for the other region. Overall, the promoter results suggest RRSVM can refine advice for a real-world problem and give some insight into our data. Our method’s ability to compile advice into a complex learning method, and to indicate how the advice has changed, makes it a novel knowledge refinement method.” “I detect two significant drawbacks, sir. The iterative procedure of RRSVM takes more time than standard KBSVM approaches.” “There were more parameters to be set. In our experiments we found that the time taken by RRSVM did grow linearly in the number of iterations with respect to KBSVM.“ “But then that algorithm did not take advantage of the fact that a good solution had been found on the previous iteration. It might have been possible to use the previous solution as a ‘hot start’ for the optimization to significantly reduce the time.” “Very good. Regarding the issue of setting parameters, we believe that approaches such as those presented by Bennett or Zhu could be used to automatically determine effective parameter values.” “Thank you, sir. I can now process the data properly.” She picked up the papers and turned, and at that moment they both saw a tall woman approaching the doorway, dressed in an off-the-rack skirtsuit, her pinched-looking face set hard. “Ahh … good morning, Jane,” said the big man. The woman leaned against the doorframe, surveying them coldly. “So, Doctor Romeo! I see what you’re up to--one bit of fluff back in my house on the island isn’t enough, eh? You’ve got another one to paw here as well! Whatta you two talking about? How to dump her as well? It’s been a couple of years … you must be gettin’ ready to trade her in too.” “Would you care to join the discussion on knowledge-based support vector learners?” asked Rhys. “Your thoughts on successive linear programming are always welcome.” “Just like a pair of firm young boobs a foot from your face … that was always welcome, too,” Rhys' ex-wife replied scornfully with a toss of her dyed blonde hair. “Do us a favor. Send Barbie Doll there for some 'bux. I’m sure that she at least knows how to make a cup.” He nodded to Ralna, who looked from one to the other. Jane didn’t move, forcing Rhys' assistant to sidle by her. Then as he activated a button, Jane closed the door and advanced into the office, helping herself to one of the chairs in front of the desk. She looked around. “Nice,” she said. “Very nice. You’re coming up in the world.” “And you would like a piece of the action, no doubt.” She laughed, a little too loud. “ You’re one to talk about getting a piece. Everything you have now is based on my hard work.” “Of course, darling. Though I like to imagine my patents, my MIT degree, and my published research monographs contributed to it.” "Half of everything you have, plus what it took and will take to raise our children, is mine by right. You know that." "We've had this talk before. You divorced me, I didn't divorce you--" "You made me--" she began. "And at that time, half of everything I had would have amounted to two million dollars in debt. Did I give you that?""The debt was all yours. Legal fees and crap trying to save some shreds of your precious reputation. I didn't make that." "Except for the fifty-three charge accounts and a few hundred grand owed to nick dealers." "We had to survive somehow!" "I forgot. How can anyone survive without two packs a day and a closetful of ten-thousand-dollar dresses from Saks and Neiman-Marcus?" muttered Rhys. "I was trying to look like the wife of the man you were pretending to be, and avoid having a nervous breakdown. For a long time, you took in everyone, me and the children as well. How were we to know? And if I overspent a little, that's all money that you should have been making in the first place. I'm not to blame." "Of course. Nor are you to blame for haring off to Dallas, falling in with a con man pretending to be an energy mogul, and winding up waiting tables in Galveston after he dumped you. Or that Zoey stayed with you, miserable and failing in school after school, from Galveston to Texarkana to Tulsa, then to Laramie, then to Idaho City, where on her sixteenth birthday she ditched you to marry a jack-Mormon plumber. How are Mr. and Mrs. Scraggs doing these days?" "I work at a furniture boutique now, no thanks to you. As for the rest, what do you care?" she said coldly. "Never a call, never a card, never an email. Just 'Mr. and Mrs. Scraggs.' That's so you." "And you'd know that--how? They talk to you then?" "I don't have to talk to them. I know how things are, unlike you." "If you're that knowledgeable, I think there's some people over on James Street who'd like to hear who blew up City Hall." "Nobody I'd know, Mister Sorry, He's In Abu Dhabi or wherever the hell it was the last few years. And now you're a billionaire, and I'm presenting the bill," she said. "So, let's talk business, then. What do you want?" "What do you mean, 'what do I want?' What do I have coming to me--didn't you get the memo?" "The demand letter, you mean? Yes." "So, are you going to give me what's mine?" There was a tap at the door, and Rhys called: "Come in." Ralna entered with two mugs, setting them down on the desk. One, black, she put beside Rhys, and the other, light, she handed to Jane, who took it and sniffed it. "Half a cream and three sugars, is that not right?" Ralna said to her. Jane harrumphed and took a sip. "So she can make a cup of coffee--I suspected as much." She looked Ralna up and down once, taking in her dark jacket and slacks, and her--today--mannish white shirt and tie, and gave her a flicker of acknowledgement. "You look nice, hon. Just don't stay with him too long or you'll wind up like me. I wouldn't wish that on any gal." "That'll be all, Ralna, thank you. See we're not disturbed." "Thank you," she said, to both and neither at once, and went out, closing the door. Rhys looked at his ex-wife. "So?" she asked. "The question stands. If you can still remember it after your good ogle at Barbie Doll there." "Your attorney will have a reply from my attorney. That's what we have attorneys for." "I knew you'd say that. More of a machine than a man. Always the one for gaming the system, playing by the rules--most of the time. I suppose it was too much to expect you to just be fair and generous and save all the bother." "So if you knew that, why did you ask? Why did you come here?" "Just curious to see if you'd changed at all ... shown any sign whatever," she said. "And to tell you off the record, you'd do well to accept my proposal." "Oh? You mean you'd do well if I did." "And that'd be gall to you, wouldn't it? To see your wife actually living a life instead of working at a furniture boutique while you play with one Barbie here and another back in my house on Alder Island. What a laugh!" "'My house?' I didn't get that until years after you left. And about my 'wife," he growled, "I have a wife, thanks, and she's not you." "Who bore your children?!" she demanded. "Her?? I don't think so!" "And thanks to whom is it that you can talk about 'children' in the plural?" he asked quietly. "Who looked at her two-year-old boy and wanted him killed by post-partum termination?" She banged down her mug. "And who the fuck preferred to keep him alive as a fucking science experiment to try to salvage some shreds of his reputation?!" she said venomously. "And who smeared him and his father and called them names wherever she could find a 'cam, and shouted against it, and who's decided, now he's a success, that she wants to dive in and wallow in it?" he shot back. She heaved herself up, glowering. "You think you're so goddamn big. You got it all, don't you? Well, you're not so big you can't be brought down. And I can do it. I can do it!"Rhys had pressed a button on the deskset. "Ralna, we're done. Please show Mrs. Macklin out." Then, still bent down, he looked up at her. "How's that?" he asked. Jane snapped her mouth shut. "What can you possibly come out with--what names can you call me that you haven't already tried?" he asked. "The world already has 'Doctor Humod,' thanks to you. Even with your talent at name-calling, that one would take some beating." "I'm just telling you--god help me, for your own good. I dunno why I fuckin' bother, I really don't." The door opened, and Ralna stood in it, standing easily, calmly. The other woman threw a look at her and their eyes locked. Ralna made a one-centimeter motion with her head. "Don't worry, I'll go," Jane said. "And I won't be back." Then she turned to the man. "I tried," she said. "I really tried. I won't try again. Go play with your Barbies. Hide your head in the sand, Rhys, and let the chips fall where they may. Then see who you'll get to clean up your mess for you. I'll see you in court." He said nothing, and Ralna stirred not at all as she marched out. He gave her a nod to leave the door open. After a minute, she reappeared in his doorway, her headset on again. "Yes, Ralna?" he asked, with a trace of weariness. "I wanted to inform you, sir--I performed a scan on you a few moments ago. Your signs are outside normal, and stress indicators were very elevated. Please do let me know if I can be of any assistance." "No," he said. She looked a little--well, he thought--not entirely businesslike. "Thank you, Ralna." "You were right, sir. She was wrong. What she said had no reason in it at all." "True. But some people thrive on unreason. To them, grievance equals virtue, anger equals justification, and hate equals compassion. It's not what you feel, but how much you feel. And they will deny that reason has any significance at all, because it's not emotion." She paused a moment. "Yet reason is the child of feeling, sir. Reason happens because we require--we feel a need to know. Don't you think so?" "Who said that?" he mused. "Nietzsche, was it?" "No--it's not a quotation, sir." He sat back and looked at her, with a fleeting smile. "I'm sorry, Ralna. I apologize. I should remember that you are very far from having found your limits yet, and every day you adapt, grow, and overcome. And in this age where looting for profit is the rule, and no one dares speak a word without vetting it on the 'Net first, one forgets that some people still do actually think creatively. Thank you." She inclined her head. "I exist to serve." "You can do one thing for me right now, Ralna." She came to attention, looking at him attentively. He pointed to his shoulder. "Please take five minutes and give me a good massage." >< >< >< Merilee Brunett opened her little locker in the nurse's office, stowing her bag and case in it, and Jo smiled up from her desk. "I'm glad you're here, Merilee. Our friend Sean's been back," she said, nodding to a familiar-looking backpack in one corner. "He was having a hard time again this morning, and I've had a lot of student file data from Island Physicians to upload. You know how it is with that. Coding changes so often, I have to load new updates every time before the data will sort." "Oh, dear. Well, I'm here to help any way I can, Jo." Jo nodded toward the inner room, her voice sinking "Sean was having a little nap in there, tossing and turning, and talking in his sleep. He was saying names, including yours." "Really? He must be having some problems at home, then." "Yes. I noticed from the reports so far that out of one hundred sixty-seven sixth-grade boys, we have thirty-four confirmed fertiles." "That's good," said Merilee. "That's on track to beat last year's sixth-grade class then." "Yep. And Mr. Lonergan, you'll recall, is one of them, but this confirms it." There was a stirring in the next room. "Is he still here, then?" asked Merilee. "He just woke up. I looked in on him. He seems better now, and I told him he could get dressed and go to his next class." "Good." The inner door opened, and Sean walked out, a little awkwardly. He smiled nervously at Merilee, and went over to Jo, obviously wishing to tell her something privately, so Merilee went to elaborately get herself a cup of water from the water cooler. Then, after a few seconds of murmuring, Sean darted over to grab his backpack and left. Merilee looked at her questioningly. "Um ... sorry, but could I ask you to change the bed, Merilee?" Jo asked. "It would seem that it needs it." >< >< >< >< >< >< [Note: This post contains material quoted from a RL paper entitled Refining Rules Incorporated into Knowledge-Based Support Vector Learners Via Successive Linear Programming, presented at the XXII Conference in Artificial Intelligence in Vancouver, B.C., whose principal author--interestingly--was one Dr R. Maclin.]>< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:49:31 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:50:46 GMT -5
028[/b] Ralna had left for lunch at twelve sharp and at twenty past Rhys went to sit in briefly on a hearing in the event that a certain witness might need confuting. He didn't, and Rhys had grabbed a bite on the way back and entered the office to find Ralna at her deskplex. She gave him a smile, but her eyes didn't move. "Good afternoon, sir. You'll find the Minnesota report on your desk." "Great--thank you, Ralna. Did you have a good lunch?" "Yes, thank you, sir. Gazpacho, a vegetable wrap, a chicken salad, tacos, a sushi plate, two apples, a naan bread, and a pomegranate, with milk and tea." "Excellent. You have to keep your strength up," he said with a little smile, privately imagining Ralna attacking a pomegranate. She punched a button, then removed her earpiece, sitting back in her seat a bit. "While I was picking up the sushi, sir, I overheard something--can we speak in your office, sir?" He raised an eyebrow. "Very well, but the entire suite is secure. Unless ...?" "No, sir. Yes, sir. But I judge that you'd prefer to have instant access to your deskplex while we talk." "All right," he said, hanging his overcoat up on the coat rack and motioning her in as she stood. Once in his private office, he went around and had a seat behind the desk while she stood. He activated his desktop, and then looked at her. "Given the fact that you have many contacts all over the world, sir, with which you're in frequent communication, this appeared to be of some possible concern. While I was--as I indicated--picking up the sushi, I met Mr. Young. Bernard Young, that is, sir." "Go on." "He greeted me, and we made a little conversation. With everyone, this morning's bombing incident is naturally a primary topic." "Of course." "He remarked to me in a jocular tone that you'd soon find out the facts behind it, probably sooner than the police. I asked him why he thought that was, and he said that you probably knew about it before it happened. He said, in fact, that he wouldn't put it past you to have arranged it as a means to prime a run for public office." The big man's jaw set, and then unset. "He did? Those were his very words?" he asked quietly. Ralna's blue eyes flickered for a moment as she accessed her cache files. "Yes, sir. Quote: 'Macklin probably knew about it before it happened. He's a canny bastard--I wouldn't put it past him to have arranged it as a means to prime a run for public office.' Then he gave a loud laugh and put his hand on my shoulder before he turned to speak to someone else." He leaned forward, putting his elbows on the desktop with his fingertips touching. "Sir?" "I know we usually do this only during our regular remote datasessions, but this matter won't brook delay. Ralna, code eight-eight-six-nine-one lambda," he said, with his eyes looking nowhere, somewhere afar off. She straightened, hearing the eight-eight sequence, arms folding behind her, feet planted slightly apart, like a soldier at parade rest. "Sir." "Ralna, you have a mission this evening, priority one. I want you to meet Mr. Bernard Young, ideally unseen or unnoticed by a third party, but if there is any risk you may alter appearance appropriately. Meet wherever you can manage it, and go with him to his residence, yours--whatever, so long as there's space and privacy for you to spend time together. I want you to find out everything he knows and thinks that might have contributed to this--um--little joke. Find out by any means necessary. Conversation, if that's effective, but if not, then by persuasion, seduction, or force, or any combination of them. If he has documents or evidence of any sort, I want you to obtain the data for me and then make them disappear." "Yes, sir. Intercept, interface, download." "And terminate. When the rest is accomplished, end him. There will be no sense in attempting to hide the remains. Leave the typical signs of an Asian gang killing. The usual evidentiary cautions. Use analyses to determine optimal success strategies. Other than what I've instructed, do what seems best to you, as you have been doing on our little missions. And leave no witnesses." "Yes, sir. Intercept, interface, download, terminate. Understood. It will be done." "You will complete in time to report here tomorrow as usual. Ralna, code one-three-seven-six-nine upsilon." She relaxed very slightly. "I have another question for you, Ralna." he said, leaning forward again. “Yes, sir?” “If I’m not mistaken, you scan a number of morning newspages as part of your basic weekday configuration, don’t you?” “I do, sir. I regularly update from twenty-six different sites, and run keyword searches for any data that might be of relevance to our current or upcoming work on seventy-nine more.” “What do you have on Liliane Perez-Kessler?” He spelled it out. Ralna's eyes flickered again. “Age, thirty-three, Colombian passport, linked romantically--it is reported--to Senor Roland Campos, Mexican consul-general for the Queen City area. Employed since 2113 as a customer service supervisor for AeroMexico Airlines. Discovered dead late Friday evening in a shooting incident on North Fifty-First Street, Queen City, in which FBI field agent Nora MacLennon was also found dead. She--" "Very good, Ralna, that will do. Now, with regards to Agent MacLennon, you performed well. I am correct in assuming that you had to terminate Ms. Perez-Kessler as a witness?" "Your instructions--as given in our regular data session, sir--no witnesses. And she chanced to be there at the exact moment when I had to terminate Agent MacLennon. Why do you ask again, sir?" "Because you've been leaving a bonus body here and there. Perez-Kessler; Bhattacharya's attorney, and the guard--congratulations on that again, by the way. Brilliantly handled, as was the entire Medagenix affair. I understand that Ms. Cripps still hasn't made bail yet, and is, in fact, having to be held away from other prisoners." He smiled again. "Thank you, sir." "Your executions have been stunning; if there is any fault, it surely comes of me issuing directives with ambiguities. I realize the downside potential with witness problems. But this time, tonight, we can't have any other bodies besides the one. We simply can't. There are just too many likely complications. I am afraid Ms. Perez-Kessler might have landed us in one." "I'm sorry, sir. I had no special instruction about her at the time. Are you directing me, then, sir, to abort tonight's mission in the event of potential witnesses? That might make the initial interception, and arranging it, problematic." "Yes, that's a fair point," he admitted. "Then we will prioritize, as we did with Agent MacLennon--I'm still processing what you obtained from her, as quick and makeshift as your acquisition had to be. Objective Alpha tonight is the termination. Acquisition of information will be Objective Beta. Complete that if possible with discretion, but not in the event of running a significant chance of detection." "Yes, sir. Understood." He looked her over, not unlike Jane had done, also taking in her dark jacket, green tie, and white shirt, and a thought seemed to strike him. "Ralna, just how close can you come, in alteration mode, to looking like an Asian male? I'm curious." Her eyes flickered yet again. "It will take a little extra time and energy, sir, but I can attempt it." He motioned. "Very well, sir. I'll require about two minutes." "I'll check my inbox," he said, remembering that maximum effect would require not watching her directly. He went to his desktop as she turned, assuming her legs-and-arms apart stance; once, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed her arms moving, drawing up the excess of her darkening hair and pinning it carefully in back. Then, a few moments later, she turned and stood facing him, her arms crossed in a masculine style. "Yes, Doctor Macklin," she said, in a soft, androgynous singsong. "This meets your requirements, then?" He looked up at her, drawing in a sharp breath. From the waist down, there and still some fullness of hip under the slacks. But from the waist up ... "No further questions, your honor," he muttered. >< >< >< >< >< >< David's school day had gone well, all told. He'd eaten and drunk plenty and had had some good exercise time--in between doing eighteen students in class, eight or nine others during breaks, and a couple of teachers, as well as a stockbroker he'd met in a nearby deli during his lunchtime. After the last HIR section, he'd checked his PDA to see what was up for messages. There would be no football practice, as a game had been scheduled for this evening; but that, too, was off due to the bombing in the city. Which, personally, he didn't give a shit about. If a bunch of Arabs wanted to bomb a bunch of gay kum-ba-yah pansies, that was their business, but it hadn't even been that much of a bombing. It did mean that he'd have to find something else to do. The school board meeting was on, students invited, blah blah. The never-failing message from Jodenne about being free later on. He just might take her up on it if nothing else developed; having her at least beat a trip to the clinic whacking off into bottles for sperm donation, even if there were willing nurses' aides to help. It looked like a visit to the community health club was in order. Their equipment wasn't great--not as good as the school's or his own at home--but you could get in a few lays in the 'relaxation rooms.' Then he saw a text. U my nt rmMbr m fr t HS bt i got2 meet w u ths pm really major. debi d. A PDA number was attached, but he didn't bother. Any girl should know he didn't return messages. He finished changing and grooming, packed his stuff in, and heaved his gym bag across abroad shoulder. He was the last one out--though her office light was on, even Holly was gone, so there'd be no one-for-the-road face job like she liked to give him some afternoons. He padded out, letting the metal door swing shut with a chunk behind him, and heading for his big black SUV. From behind it, around the back, a girl walked into sight. He didn't recognize her at first; ordinary-looking-plus, decent little body in a short denim skirt and sweater, brownish/blondish hair, no school bag. She gave a sort of shy girly-smile. "Hi, David," she said with a little wave. Without a pause, he remotely unkeyed the vehicle's security system, which made the lights flash and the horn give a honk. "Hey," he said. "Um ... I'm Debi. Debi D?" "Hi, Debi D," he grunted, opening the rear door. "Yeah, from class on Friday. You were with John. What can I do you for?" "Did you get my text?" she asked. "Yeah." He threw his gymbag in, then turned to rest a beefy arm on the open door. "You wanted to meet--well, here we are." He gave her the once-over. She was in shape--not bad at all, probably biking and jogging and diet. "I wanted to talk to you, personally." "Talk? About what?" She scuffed a shoe on the pavement, looking down. Then she looked up at him again suddenly. "Well, I'm new on the island. I wanted to ask you some questions." "Okay. You get one freebie." "One?" He closed the door and turned with a roll of his eyes. "See you around, Debi." "Wait!" She put a hand on him as he opened the driver's door. "I got business," he said, getting in. "Unless you make it business." "On your way to some sex?" "Yep. She's fat and plain and ain't real smart, but I'll have a foot of meat up in her, gettin' off, in fifteen minutes." He started the engine. "Really? " she asked, rallying. "Okay--if I blow you right here, right now, real hard, will you answer three questions for me afterward?" "I want a fuck. Make it some fanny and it's a deal. Fifteen minutes of fanny for fifteen of talk. After that I really gotta go." "Where--?" He motioned toward the back of the vehicle. "Plenty of room." She peered in. The passenger seats were folded down, and there was a plastic-covered queen mattress in the back, with a few pillows and towels and sheets. She met his gaze again; it was cool and blank. Not that she'd been expecting to see true love. "All right," she said. He pushed a button, his handsome face brightening, and the rear gate popped open. "Get ya ready," he told her. >< >< >< North of the city, in 'brownout country'--as Queen City residents sometimes referred to the suburbs where power cuts were in effect eight hours of the day, as opposed to twelve in rural areas, and only four in the city itself--a woman thrust an arm out of her bedclothes, shut off a chiming alarm, and then took hold of a robe, which she drew in; then, having draped it over her shoulders, she arose. She was thirtyish, of medium height and build with features and skin that might look Hispanic or Middle Eastern by turn, and when she spoke, which was only when necessary, it was with just the trace of an accent. She was health-conscious, and usually did yoga immediately upon getting up and dressing, but today she went to her e-plex first. There had been a little unpleasantness on the job the night before, and she wanted to see if there had been any follow-through on it before she could clear her mind for the coming workday. Yes, there was something ... she clicked Open, and a 'mail popped up from her boss's office. M--Had a call from the Department Head. Backs you completely, says you are one of the best on the staff. Allegations retracted, and Mr. Adams has apologized. JM.That was well, especially what the DH had said. That would give her a little leverage when review time came around--not that she had ambitions to rise higher, but a pay raise would be welcome. And the indignant Mr. Adams, who pretended to some medical knowledge and had sworn up and down that his brother's pain medication had been deliberately botched, wouldn't have a leg to stand on because under the law, his death certificate would carry the cause of death as complications of a brain tumor--his complaint--rather than assisted suicide. Which it was, in fact. She was just the agent for helping it happen-- death with dignity. His doctor knew--that is, the doctor who was actually in charge of him there, rather than his own physician, who was no specialist. And it was suicide in the sense that he would surely have chosen to pass, rather than risk an operation that had a chance of failure, and which--had it succeeded--would have cost the insurers, his doctor's employers, hundreds of thousands of dollars that the family couldn't repay. While she was online, she signed into a site and began summoning charts, taking in statistics. Most of them had to do with mortality rates at city-area hospitals and nursing homes. Others dealt with epidemiological data and coroners' reports. She took a professional interest in the latter, and thanks to an obliging colleague had an ID under which she could access State and local records directly. Medical costs did nothing but escalate, she reflected, thanks to the greedy pharmaceutical companies which made business so expensive for physicians, and they had to be controlled somehow. She was a roving controller, in the employ of a medical staffing company wholly owned by one of the big insurers--in fact, the biggest in this state, a quasi-governmental entity called, appropriately enough, Washington Cares. Because they did care, and she cared. She cared enough to protect people from the greedsters, to do what was necessary to hold down costs so that health care could continue to exist at all. Besides which, though she'd not care to say so aloud, she got some enjoyment out of holding the power of life and death over people--lots of people. Judges, retired officials, soldiers and officers, managers, businesspeople who had once ordered the fate of thousands--it didn't matter. They all came to her at last, and she helped clean the world of them by ridding it of their weak, diseased bodies. The late Mr. Adams had been one of three yesterday, and there would certainly be two more tonight, maybe a third again. There'd be no chance of replicating her personal best day, which was seven. She'd had a little "7" charm made, which she wore sometimes. She shut down the e-plex and went to don her yoga suit. She hadn't taken a vacation day since she started, and didn't like her weekends either. She lived so that others could die, and a day she had to spend doing anything else was, to her, like a little death of her own. >< >< >< At about the time M was starting her yoga, a man picked up his handset in his study in the Eastlake district. The house he lived in was a very old one, nearly two hundred years old, immaculately restored to its original style, complete with real wood floors. It had a lot more rooms than he and his wife needed, and looked serenely across the lake to Queen Anne from amid a host of newer structures, many of which were in worse shape internally, even if their paint and stucco looked fresh. Enrique Cabrera was a man who appreciated substance and style. One thing he didn’t appreciate was having his uncle’s widow calling him every day, plaintively asking what he’d done about her Juancito, such a nice, well-spoken boy. He’d been telling her the police would take care of it. She plainly didn’t believe that. She didn’t believe, either, that her Juancito was well-known to the cops as a high-class molester who would have been at least three years into a jail sentence by now if he, Enrique, hadn’t pulled out some stops. Still, family was family. Juan’s father would have set him straight if he’d lived past Juan’s fifth birthday, but he hadn’t. Enrique himself had tried now and then, but a cousin across town who’s busy running a chain of restaurants and shopettes and check-cashing stores, and juggling all that with being a labor broker and part-time citizenship consultant, doesn’t have a lot of time. With their uncle Oscar, he’d seen Juan off to college, where Juancito had combined business acumen with brutal sexual escapades which nearly—and perhaps should have—gotten him expelled, and gone straight to work for an investment bank, rising quickly thanks to a female manager who liked her men cruel and Latin. Even so … even so.A voice answered, in English. In their houses, this language’s rhythm would make it clear to family that business was on, and not to disturb. “Espinoza.” “How’s business, tio Caro? You keeping up?” "I'm well, Rico. And you?" “I’m doing alright. Please tell me you’re making headway for getting the zoning variance application on my community center approved.” “I am. It’s taken a little fixing, and it’s gonna take a little more.” “You need cash?” “It’s alright. I have to take care of a favor for Leonard." "Speaking of favors, tio, I have something to let you in on.” “Talk to me.” “You heard about Juan getting whacked downtown, right?” “’Whacked?’ I didn’t hear that. I heard he picked on a tough chica who picked back. To speak plainly, Rico, you ask me--he needed that to happen a long time ago.” “Woe to the messenger, uncle.” “Huh? What’s that supposed to mean?” “Bad news must needs come, but woe to the messenger it comes by,” explained Enrique. "It’s in the Bible.” “So what are you talking about? You tryin’ to get me into that church your wife goes to?” “Something oughtta happen to this woman. Juan might have had it coming, but nobody does that to your brother’s son--my cousin--and walks away.” “Wait--way-way-way- wait. You wanna whack a chica? Uh-uh. I for one am not gonna take any shit about how we have to do women because maybe we can’t handle men anymore. Next thing you know we’ll be gettin' asked to take candy from babies. I know what you got goin' on the side, and I ain't said much, but I'll say it now; I didn't set you up to be the fucking puta squad here, you know.” “Look, uncle. It’s not her. It’s the cops. They know who she is. And they’re doing nothing. Yes, Juan had a bad streak. You know that and I know that. But he was a banker, too, and a good one. He did deals for us. He helped us. He did. He was known on the street as a sharp businessman and someone who helped other Latinos. And the cops are doing nothing. This doesn’t look good on us, uncle. We--and I mean the whole community--lose cred if no one pays for this. And I’m not talking about a hit. Just layin' some hurt on her, giving her a goddamn good whack on the head like Juan got. I think it oughtta happen, and happen soon.” "The cops are busy right now--didn't you catch the news yet today? I think you're a goddamn idiot if you do this, especially three weeks out from an election with all this going on. And there's some shit going down with this election, too. The County Elections Board got hacked this afternoon. Nothing damaged, but some very sophisticated, very sly little 'ware got in. They don't know if it was just a worm or something going around, or someone targeting the CEB intentionally--nobody's talkin', but I got a bad feeling about it. The bombing and the hacking in one day. And I, for one, I think--I think the bomb might of been just a distraction, and the hack was the thing we oughtta worry more about. Who knows what else they mighta hit and we don't even know yet?" "What about our family name?" demanded Enrique. "Our family name's gonna sound like merde enchilada if we go around trying to beat up chicas at a time when the public's worried about real bombs in the street and the Party's worried about virtual bombs in CEB-SYS." "What--hey," said the businessman, "it's all taken care of by e-balloting, right? You just program in the votes you want. That's how it's always been." "Unless somebody's left 'bots in there, or copied some of the restricted files for publication. Nobody knows right now. Look, this is how it is. After the election, maybe then--but the way things are now, I can't run any cover for you. I can't stop you from calling in your goons, but they get caught, and it gets back to you, and I'm tellin' you--you're on your own, Rico." "With respect, uncle, I got ta say, that's not what I was hoping to hear. But thank you for layin' it out straight." "You want it laid out straight? This is layin' it out straight: if you go ahead and it don't work, you'll be called a man who can't beat up a woman. If it does work, you'll be called a man who can beat up a woman. Either way there ain't much return in it. You think about it," said the older man. "We're in okay shape right now, and I want to stay that way." "I'll keep you in the loop," replied Enrique. "You'd better. Anything else?" "No, uncle. Adios."Oscar grunted a farewell and hung up. Enrique ended, too, and sat back. He had never told Oscar about his decision to work with that bastard Rhys Macklin; he thought the old man wouldn't approve. And if he was so nervous about a little matter like this, he'd shit bricks if he knew about the unfinished business on that front. But as Macklin had said, you grow or die, and that much was true. Growing might mean trouble, but it beat the alternative. >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:51:08 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:52:40 GMT -5
029[/b] In a plush business suite high above Vancouver, British Columbia, Carlos Jenkins of the Pacific Coast Economic Sphere's Advisory Board on Information Standards was finally summoned from the waiting area into the Chairman's office, a big room with teak paneling, mahogany furniture, and a carpet your feet sank into like ... well, he wasn't sure, but something feet loved. He was shown to a seat in front of the massive desk, behind which sat the Chairman himself, a distinguished Asian of middle age with two white-clad attendants, male and female, who stood as still as sculptures, looking at everything and nothing. "Sit down, Mr. Jenkins," said the Chairman. "This person is gratified to see that you have finally procured a prototype of the TVX-101. Not quite when initially promised ... but that is unimportant in this matter. What is important is that we have it at all." "I'm sorry, sir. I had a trip to Queen City that could not be got out of under any circumstances without arousing suspicion," said the jaunty little man, accepting a cigar. Nick was illegal in Canada as well; but for those at the Chairman's level, law was for other people. "Of course, it's not a prototype but the prototype. So there was no question of trusting it to anyone else, eh?" Carlos snipped the cigar-end off with a chuckle. "No. You seem to have acted wisely. Patience ... timing ... correct action at the correct time; these are important things," said the Chairman as one of the attendants moved smoothly to give him a light. "You do have it, yes?" "'S why I'm here, sir," replied Carlos with a grin, extracting the little PDA-looking device from his pocket and laying it on the mirror-polished surface. "TVX-101 porta-jammer, beta tester. UHF-based with a microsecond voltage flash. No matter what wireless your enemies are running, this will put a crimp in 'em. Designed for serious undercover work. If this prototype were to pass the final round of tests in December, it would have gone into production next year, and be issued to agents for field testing in late 2117." "Yes, and that would be most inconvenient. Excellent. Might one enquire how you escaped detection, and how it is not missed from its place?" "Looks just like a PDA, eh? Down to the milligram of weight, too. So I just switched it for an actual PDA." "Simplicity itself," said the Chairman, picking it up and examining it. "Very good. I can see why you chose that way. The PDA replication is perfect. May I turn it on?" "It's yours, bought and paid for. You can do what you please with it," said Carlos. "I do hope you haven't got any high-frequency wi-fi applications running though." The Chairman shook his head. "This office--my sanctum--is shielded. I'm interested, though. We could make billions with this." "Yep," said Carlos with a smile. "We certainly could, sir--speaking strictly unofficially, of course." "Of course." The executive flipped it open and turned the power on. Almost immediately, the device chimed. Carlos looked quizzically at it, and the Chairman, in a PDA-accustomed reflex, pressed the button labelled "Accept." A canned voice said cheerily out of the speaker. "Hi! This is Carly, with Advanced Sat-TV. I'm calling to announce our free three-day-only promotion!" The executive shut it off with a meaningful look at Carlos, who had turned ashen. He hit speed-dial, four, and they all listened as a voice said: "Good morning. Women's Rights Civil Action League--how may I direct your call?"Carlos rose, backing off, shaking. "I swear to you, sir--!" The Chairman, with a cold look, spoke a syllable, and both attendants were in the air, vaulting toward the visitor--who ran, dodging around a conference table, toward the doors. Those opened to reveal two more attendants who seized him and hustled him, kicking and struggling, back into the office as the door closed. The Chairman had risen, and now confronted him, stone-faced. "Mr. Jenkins, I do not pay for failure. You will pay for this failure." He said something to his attendants in an Asian language, and one of them stuck two fingers into Carlos' neck at a certain spot, making him slump, senseless. Then they took him out. The Chairman, left alone for a moment, went back and picked up the device. He made as if to throw it against the wall and dash it to pieces, but stopped himself ... and set it back down on the desktop nearly as carefully as if it had been the genuine article. This would change matters considerably. A new strategy was in order, and that would call for a fresh delivery to his branch in Queen City. And even though this item was a mere ordinary PDA, there was information in it. And no information was ever completely useless ... to one who knew how to analyze it correctly. >< >< >< Candee had the e-plex on as she cleaned up. She had to go take delivery of dinner, and by the time that was done the first few minutes of the most popular six o'clock local newscom were past. She turned up the volume with the remote. "--investigating UPF for the City Hall bombing this morning, despite earlier claims that a Muslim political group had claimed credit. The United Patriots' Front--a shadowy organization founded a hundred years ago to oppose certain legal measures of President Berio Bamah's administration--was quiescent for decades, but has recently resurfaced on Federal and North American watch lists for domestic terrorism. Its agenda calls for the United States to unilaterally dissolve the North American Entity; privatize key economic sectors such as health care, energy, interstate transportation, and communications; and aims to cut government through lower taxes. It has other, even more alarming demands, such as ending Federal administration of education and subsidies for health care, returning them to issues to be resolved by States, and they even deny that these latter two issues are even dealt with by the Constitution. They are persistently linked by experts to efforts to deny basic healthcare to women, bankrolling the so-called 'Real, Natural' hate propaganda campaign claiming that pregnancy is not a disease, as authorities agree, but a healthy, natural process that can even be enjoyable. We've asked a local official, Ms. Lalia Starbird, to be here to comment for us. Ms. Starbird," said the anchor, turning to a businesslike woman sitting by, "What do we really know about this group?"
"We know that they are opposed to the principles for which this City and County, and our Party, stand. Social justice, fairness and fair trade; responsible commerce; diversity; environmental protection; international cooperation and amity; equal rights for all citizens; quality, affordable health care for all, and of course, a woman's right to choose. We can safely assume that no Muslim group was involved in this, since we've done nothing to offend any Muslims for many years."
"Don't religious groups based on Christianity and other spiritualities still exist, though?"
"They enjoy tolerance; that is, after all, still the law, though they don't have any right to go creating hate and fear by displaying their superstitions in public. I mean, we're talking about people who used to burn Jews and pagans while priests raped little boys and the Gestapo forced women to have coat-hanger abortions in back alleys. The Pope visited Auschwitz. This whole god thing is so--so medieval, you know."
"And we do still license alcoholic drinks."
"Well, yes," said Lalia. "Hate speech is hate speech, it's illegal, as it should be, but a good glass of chardonnay--no one can say that's unreasonable. They don't have to drink it if they don't want to. We are all about choice here, except when it comes to allowing bigots to offend everyone. Our Muslim sisters and brothers understand that in their hearts. You can see it in their eyes when you go to a falafel place and they serve you so wonderfully. It's true that because of their traditions they still talk about destroying us, and even they have some--ah, enthusiasts. But we know, despite what they say, if there is any offense against us, it's because we've been insensitive to their ways."On the ferry, now pulling in to the Alder Island slip, Rhys Macklin, watching, turned his e-desk's volume off with an audible snort. It was getting time to power down and get ready to disembark anyway. "Some live, random reactions on the street to the events," said the anchor, and a 'cam feed came up. One was of an intelligent-looking young woman. "Horrible," she said. "It's just unbelievable. Those people ought to be tracked down at once and brought to justice."
"The bombers?" said a reporter, whose hand was holding up a microphone. "What a quaint idea--not!" she huffed. "I'm talking about whoever it is whose typical white American supremacist attitudes drove the bombers to a state where they felt they had to resort to such a thing. It was a plea for attention, a call for help. How peace-loving, tolerant religious people,"--her eyes blinked, as if she were reading something momentarily-- "by which I mean, um, those who hypocritically claim to be, but are nothing more than hate-mongering racist, sexist, bigoted, homophobes ... of course they ought to be tracked down at once and given a fair trial before we lock them away forever. It was nothing but a criminal assault on our way of life."
"Is it going to change your vote in the upcoming elections?"
"Of course not. We're a tolerant and diverse city, and so my friends and I will vote for just those candidates, from the Party, which support diversity and tolerance, and stand united against profiteering, violence, hate, racism, sexism, bigotry, and homophobia." Over in the city, in a very modestly-furnished apartment, a young woman on a sofa with two others had her hand in her mouth, stuffing it with popcorn, when something seemed to dawn on her. "Mgh wmmff det waddi," she said. A second one handed her a large paper cup with a straw. "Wash it down, Brionne," she advised, and the straw was soon kucckcuccccguk-gukk-ing as she sucked the last of the drink out of it. "Thanks, Rayvyn," said Brionne. "Hey, I--" The third one shushed her. "I wanna watch this bit, guys." "Sorry, Ashley," said Rayvyn. " ... cooperation and amity; equal rights for all citizens; quality, affordable health care for all, and of course, a woman's right to choose," said a slightly older, comfy-featured woman with a bright smile. "And if the UPF were linked to it conclusively?"
"Those vicious, lying, slimy, bigoted fascist nazi retards peddle venom everywhere on the media and think nothing of spreading violence and hate speech everywhere. Thankfully, we have fairness rules in place that prohibit that sort of talk and promote fairness and moderation, which makes these rapists and murderers vomit in their own filth. So I want to take this opportunity to thank you, you little band of brave, outnumbered journalists, and your six thousand sister stations, working in conjunction with 'net firms, movies, entertainment, and every other form of media. It is your message that people want to hear. We know it ... all the reports say so, and the surveys are sky-high with people who are sick of the perversion and hatred peddled all over. A decent person can hardly get a word in--"
"--Thank you--" began the reporter. "--for all these people's endless, mindless spewing of prejudice--"
"--Thank you, Fa--"
"You just can't get them to shut up! It's outrageous, and we're calling on people everywhere to act up. Let your lawmakers know you're tired of injustice and oppression. There's a protest today at--"
"Thank-you-Fawn!" said the reporter. "Now--"
"--please! This is very important, just give me one moment, thank you--at Fifth and Pine, a candlelight vigil against the hatemongers--public invited, of course, sponsored by NSFPAC, AC-TOOP, and Code Pi--"
"BacktoyouNatalie!" said the reporter as the camera cut away and the 'cast went on, but Brionne burst out: "Hey! That's something!" "What's that?" asked Rayvyn. "Well, those two random people on the street--?" She paused impressively. "I just happen to know both of them!""Really?" "Yea-aaah! I'll tell you what else ... they both work at the same place, the women's health center where they were so helpful with information for me and Marcus on planning our family! The first one was Daniella the receptionist, and the second one was Fawn the counselor. Now what are the chances of picking two people off the street toe-tully at random--and they both happen to work at the same place?" "It's kinda creepy, when ya think about it," said Rayvyn. "Well," said Ashley, adding another stick of gum to her mouth to enlarge the wad already there. "Shows you the power of coincidence ... duffend id?" "How?" asked Brionne, a little dimly. "Fungk boud id, grrl," said Ashley, her jaw working a moment, then jutting out as her palate worked the gumwad away from her epiglottis. "It wouldn't be coincidence if they weren't picked randomly, right?" "Right ... ?" "But they were picked randomly, so it goes to show ya ... the power of coincidence!" concluded Ashley triumphantly. "Wowwww... that's heavy," said Brionne. "That's why I luvs ya, 'Shlee-gal. I wouldn't a' noticed that personally. You're smart 'n' stuff. I need to get into college like you." "Anyone for another beer?" asked Rayvyn, getting up. And away somewhere in a room with concrete-block walls hung with posters and banners sporting guns and graceful Middle Eastern script on them, stools for sitting, a table stacked with papers, wires, and various gadgets, a dark, handsome man in white clothing flushed even darker, clicking a remote, then turning from the screen in the corner to a couple of comrades who were dressed in various configurations of mercenary wear. "What is this?" he asked them in a tone of quiet anger. "Get me Hashim. You and you, go." He pointed to two others. "I want him here in twenty minutes. Do not fail." >< >< >< After dinner, Candee was taking plates away, and remarked: "I saw the news this evening. Did you know that Sarah DeJong will be appearing on Orca tomorrow?" "Who or what ... ?" he asked. "You know ... heck!" she said, mock-chidingly. "Even you have to know the Orca Blimphrey Show--why, she's huge! She's tremendous!" "Oh, her. Yep, I'd say a size 22 last I saw." "Be nice, Rhys!" she scolded. "I mean, everyone watches Orca! Do you know, after she endorsed Tawnisha Jefferson for President four years ago, TeeJay got one hundred million votes?" "I thought that was interesting. Eighty million votes were cast nationally, and her Red Party opponent got a few." "Really?" she asked, coming back to stand behind him and massage his broad shoulders a bit. "Well, you know, as they say, it's not the math that counts, but where your heart is." "I wish the Internal Revenue people would get the memo on that," he said wryly. "By the way, darling, you'll want to get ready for the school board meeting tonight." "Oh! Is that tonight? I'm sorry, hon ... I--I really can't." He turned to look up at her, mildly surprised at the refusal; she usually loved to go show off her latest hairdo or shoes. "You alright, babe?" "Sure, I'm just kinda tired ... I was working out today and I think I overdid it a little," she said, and in those last words he'd recognized her way of saying no, and please don't ask. "Rest up, then," he said, accepting it, and getting up to go change into some more casual attire. >< >< >< At about that time, Bernie Young answered a buzz on his apartment door. He hadn't let anyone in the building, so his face registered surprise when he saw Rhys' PA outside, the nice one he'd seen briefly in the sushi place. She looked kind of hot, and he swung both ways. But she also seemed standoffish, and he'd figured it would be awhile before they broke the ice, having to work together on a case. She wore a leather jacket and a T-shirt and jeans, but nice ones, carrying a sizeable purse, and gave him a wave. He unchained the door and let her in. "Ralna? Hi! This is an unexpected pleasure," he said. "I was just wondering whether I should get dressed and hit the usual place, or order out for some Thai and watch old movies on the e-plex." She stepped in. "Oh! Well, that's good, then--I had hoped I wasn't disturbing you." "Not at all. I just thought it was a neighbor about something, because I didn't let you in. You know ... a kid selling subscriptions, or an invitation to a meeting." "I came by to see what they had for rent," she said. It was true in a sense, though the leasing agent had kept an appointment with a certain Nigel Hsia, a young businessman from Hong Kong. "The leasing agent's very good about accommodating people who work, and I thought I'd just stop by and say 'hi.'" "Well, they have to be these days ... seems like there's less and less of us who do work," he smiled. "C'mon, let me have your coat ... have a seat." "Thank you." She sat down in a chair; his place was tastefully furnished in Scandinavian style. "Nice place ... I have to say I'm impressed with the building." "They've kept it up very well, and you're lucky, coming in after all the earthquake retrofitting they did." He rolled his eyes. "I had to keep everything I owned in plastic bags for a month. They promised us no rent increases for five years if we stayed through it." "That would appear to be a somewhat disingenuous promise, since rents are stable or declining over the last ten years. Too much cheap real estate out in--the brownout country." "Perhaps," he said, then clapped his hands together and rubbed them. "So, Ralna. Can I, um, get you a drink or something?" "Can you make a smoothie?" she asked, giving him a little smile. "Sure!" he said, patting a gleaming blender. "Mango, melon, banana ... whatever you like, ducky." She uncrossed her legs, leaning back and stretching a moment so that her bustline jutted upward, then recovered and looked at him directly. "Do you have ... passion fruit?" >< >< >< "So," said the man in white to another man, hauled into the banner-draped room. "Hashim." "Yes, Commander?" asked the other nervously. "Thou art our information officer, and hast thou forgotten how to use a simple telephone?" "What is it, oh Commander of warriors? Your soldier carried out your orders to the letter!" The dark man looked him up and down with contempt, then spat on him, making him flinch, but his arms were tightly held. "Really? Indeed," he said. "View this, thou rubble on which the dogs pisseth." He clicked the remote, and a replay of the news commentary sprang up. "Authorities are investigating UPF for the City Hall bombing this morning, despite earlier claims that a Muslim political group had claimed credit. The United Patriots' Front--a shadowy organization founded a hundred years ago to oppose certain legal measures of President Berio Bamah's administration--was quiescent for decades, but has recently resurfaced on Federal and North American watch lists for domestic terrorism. Its agenda calls for the United States to unilaterally dissolve the North American Entity; privatize key economic sectors ..." The dark man clicked it off and put his face close to the captive's. "I have heard of looting and stealing," he growled, "but never yet of a glorious battle victory looted from the soldiers of Islam who won it, and awarded to infidels! Through thy failure, thou hast made a public mockery of our martyred brother by these--these fornicating Western harlots! Thou hast suffered not only this, but our very name to be stolen from us!" He spat on the prisoner again, who trembled, but said nothing. "It was thy mission, cur, to ensure that the warriors of the December Second Brigades received recognition for this act of war upon the infidel. Our cause is to strike fear into the hearts of the unbelievers--fear of God's wrath upon the weak, spineless, decadent West. And we have instead a nameless 'Muslim political group' which receives nothing but a contemptuous dismissal? Explain!" "I cannot, oh Commander of multitudes! Your servant phoned ... faxed proofs ... to all the usual media outlets--used all our contacts!" cried the wretch, wide-eyed. "Thou liest!" The dark man struck him hard against the face. "It is truth, oh Commander! Examine the call records! The sent message files! They will bear witness!" "If thou speakest true, chattering jackal, then wherefore do the media award fame to this other group of unbelieving cockroaches? Who are these--this so-called 'United Patriots' Front?' I know nothing of them, nor do my brothers. Why is their agenda being advanced, and how are they receiving the awe and fear due to us?""I do not know, oh Commander of hosts! They are so ignorant and mad that they have plucked out their own eyes, manipulated by Zionist sympathizers--" "Shut up!" snapped the dark man, and struck him again. "I tire of thy womanish excuses and complaints--they grate on the ear like the yowling of cats. Our martyred comrade shall meet seventy-two black-eyed virgins in Paradise, no thanks to thee. What thou shalt meet, I think, is the fate of Abu Galib." Hashim turned grey. The person referred to was still listed by the authorities as 'missing,' which was accurate; he had been deposited, naked and gagged, in a prison shower room with his wrists duct-taped to his ankles, and hadn't been seen since. "Take him away!" ordered the man in white. "Put him in the holding room, and watch him, with your lives to answer for it." The men on him hauled him out the way they had come. One of the others he had been with earlier asked: "What will you do, then, oh emir?" "Research, brother," he growled. "It is to be considered that Hashim has never failed us until today. This is an unusual situation, I admit, but he has failed, and the cause of righteousness brooks none of that--God's warriors must steel themselves to overcome any obstacles. Still, he may have some use yet, if only in an effort to redeem himself." He passed his fingers back and forth over his stubbled chin. "I will contact you with instructions before midnight." "As God wills," said the other. "As God wills," repeated the dark man, and went out. He went down a hall, climbed two flights of stairs, and emerged in a spartan studio room, where he picked up a PDA and hit a speed-dial number. "Code name Watiq," he said into it. "I require thee to contact Khan Qlirmys most urgently." >< >< >< >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 10, 2008 12:53:10 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 11, 2008 8:20:01 GMT -5
030[/b] After doing Debi, and heading over for an hour or two's good hard wallow with Jodenne and two friends she'd whistled up--like her, plain but solid--David had put down a good meal and then headed over to the health club. He'd warmed up and was doing curls in the free-weight area when he heard a stifled shriek and gasp behind him. He turned to see a woman on a weight bench, pinned under a bar that had eighty pounds on. He swiftly moved to the bench's head, reached down, and easily lifted it off her, setting it on the rests. Then he looked down to make sure she was alright--and if so, chide her a little for spotter-less lifting--and found himself looking upside-down at the face of Mona Stern. She was wearing a two-toned mauve-and-white bodysuit with wristlets and a headband ... and looking pretty sporty without the glasses, he thought. "Thanks," she gasped. "You alright, Mona?" "Yeah ... thanks. It was just more of a surprise than anything. My arms just gave out all of a sudden." He nodded and waved away a gym attendant who had approached. "You had ninety-five pounds there with the bar," he said, looking her over professionally. He put a ham-like hand on her upper arm, giving it a firm but gentle squeeze. "That's quite a lot for you, I think." "Ohhh," she breathed ... "well, thank you for rescuing me, David." She pushed herself up, sitting very erect. "It's nothing. I'd have done the same for anyone. You just have to be safe in here--so don't lift again without a spotter." "That's good advice. Would you spot me for a while, then?" she asked innocently. "I--um, sure, I guess. For awhile," he added. They adjusted the bar to hold, they agreed, sixty pounds, and he spotted her though two sets of ten. After the second set, he said: "Good, Mona. I think that's about all for you right now. Why don't you break from this and go on a 'cycle for awhile, or do some stretches?" She went over to a matted area and did some stretchy things while he went back to his curls. He couldn't help deciding to change his position to he could get a look at her now and then sort of sideways. She was no Holly or Candee Macklin, but she wasn't bad--not at all. She knew how to move. After he finished and picked up his towel, she took a few steps his way. "David ... I appreciate your help." "It's nothing," he said. "I could have been hurt." Her glance flickered over him, head to toe and back again. "I'd like to thank you--properly." She put her hand on his arm. "Is that an invitation?" "Yes," she said frankly, looking at his eyes with a smile. "I know about you and Jason. He's the smart one, isn't he? The thinker." "I'm not thinking right now, except for that I want you--and as a Bearer, you can't refuse a woman who comes to you. It's the one rule." "I know," he said. "Besides, you write my counselor's evals in school. I can't ship out with the army without a good one." She took one of his brawny arms in both of hers, looking down, then up. "Don't think about those things. I want to be just another woman to you for an hour. I want you to give me some of your strength--your power--your passion." He leaned back a little, drawing her into him, her tummy coming to rest against the enormous bulge building rapidly in his crotch. "I'll give it to you alright Mona," he said. He turned her around and faced her toward the relaxation room. "Right now." "Oh!" she smiled. "Ohhhh ... ahh!">< >< >< >< >< >< Stan Wilkes, the Alder Island School Board chairman, liked to joke that he was just right for the job; paralysis from a botched back operation had confined him to a wheelchair. The stream of traffic entering the parking lot had seemed to indicate an adjournment to the LGI--the large-group instruction auditorium--might be in order. Rhys helped Stan along onto the stage with its hastily-set-up table arrangement. Then they had to unpartition that room from its neighbor; still, with accommodation for six hundred, people had to stand. It was, Rhys felt, the bombing. Everyone had seen the news, and now everyone felt like coming together in the time of uncertainty, looking for direction. While it had struck the city across the Sound rather than the island, it still hit home. The smoke rising from downtown could be seen locally through the morning, and ferries had been placed on emergency schedule. Over the afternoon and into the evening they'd brought a few dozen injured back with them. Eight islanders had died. Official news about the UPF, said to be responsible, wasn't very forthcoming, and rumors were flying. The gathering was less a school event than an impromptu town meeting, containing as it did most of the community's leaders: not only Rhys, but Mayor Hotchkiss, Chief Gepitulan, Regina Thomsen--who also sat on the Chamber of Commerce; all the town councilors but one, who'd been injured in the blast; and Lieutenant-Colonel Malcolm George, USMC (Ret.), who served as the leader of the Alder Island Civil Defense Force. The CDF had been spoken of patronizingly by some citizens as 'weekend warriors,' but tonight the colonel had brought a briefcase with a hundred sign-up forms along. He'd run out of them not long into the meeting. It had been orderly. The usual kickoff Pledge Of Allegiance had been rag-tag but sincerely voiced, and Stan had made some remarks about the incident. The agenda items had been run down fairly quickly despite the crowd--some eighty percent of which, Rhys guessed, hadn't been to a school board meeting in years, if ever. They seemed to be waiting--waiting with vague but definite sense of expectancy for ... for something else--nobody quite knew what--just something. Rhys himself, as was his habit, said nothing except 'Aye' or 'Nay' on voice votes. He had agreed once--after some persuasion--to sit on the board, and sit was what he did. It was after the regular business had been concluded and the meeting was opened to questions about new business that a prosperous-looking woman stood and began: "Mr. Wilkes, Chantal--" "You'll have to speak up, ma'am," said Stan. "We've no mike or PA hooked up, I'm afraid." "Chantal Inouye. My husband and I have three school-age children, and we've been sending them to private school in Queen City. Now, I understand that under our Board's agreement with the County, Alder Island is exempt from the usual scheme of busing out a certain number of local public-school students and busing in a certain number of students from the city. That's true, isn't it?" "Yes," said Stan. "You all know how contentious an issue that has been in the County. In our case, it was felt that transportation costs and risks outweighed the perceived requirement for socio-economic redistribution. Crudely put, city parents worried about their students being stranded on the island in case of ferry problems, or, well, incidents like today's. Just as, I'd imagine, you're concerned about your three students. There was also the fact that several hundred Island students, like yours, attend private schools in the city, and their tuition helps keep those schools afloat. So it was agreed that as long as a certain number of Island students continued to cross, that the State and Federal requirements would be considered satisfied." "Yes. Well, we're worried," said the woman. "We're not sure we want them to go to school in the city anymore, and we'd like to place them here locally instead." "That's easily done," said Wilkes. "You take care of that through your school offices." "I've talked to quite a few parents today who feel the same way," said Chantal. A man had stood up. "Gavin Keyes. We do," he said, and then several more voices were raised. Wilkes called for order and then said: "Apparently there are a fair number of you, Dr. Inouye--Mr. Keyes. Why don't you talk to the principals about it in the morning, and we'll see?" Keyes said: "What if too many people want to withdraw? Will there be some sort of picking and choosing going on, or will they call a violation of the agreement and get an injunction to force busing on us?" At this, talk rippled through the room, and Wilkes got it only under control with some gavel-rapping. "This is something we don't know," he said. "Of course, the only way to find out is to ask. Yes--Inga?" He motioned to another woman who had stood up. "Inga Witzlisch. Mr. Wilkes, I've heard that City schools are to be closed tomorrow," she said. "Will our schools be open tomorrow?" "Yes." "How do we know they'll be safe?" challenged Inga. "What if more attacks are planned?" The talk returned, louder. With some difficulty, Stan gavelled the meeting down. "Chief Gepitulan has measures on hand, is that correct, Chief?" The officer--neatly-suited, but not in his uniform--stood. "Yes. Armed officers will be on hand, with instructions to watch--" "What if a bomb goes off?" a male voice shouted. "What can cops do then--when it's too late?" The chief turned. "Sir, I assure you ... " Yells and jeers broke out. "That's all we've heard on the news all day," someone else shouted. "Blaming who knows who--blaming, that's all! No action plan!" Someone again called: "And who--? The UPF? What's that all about?" There was more tumult, punctuated by staccato bursts of gavelling as Stan Wilkes tried to restore order. An older man stood. He looked calm, so Wilkes pointed to him. "Bud Frazier," he said. "About the UPF, there's a bunch a' BS. I'm in it myself. There's a few a' us around. My brother in Idaho belongs, too. We're a veterans' organization. We don't work against nothin'. We have barbecues and square dances, and help out givin' homeless vets meals and clothes, and tutor poor kids and raise money for schools!" A current of excited talk sprang up, and the man pulled a Confederate flag bandanna out of his pocket and waved it. "Y'all know where to find me. I'll take names of anyone who wants to go see what we're really all about." "Sir--" Voices rose. "It's just plain crazy!" roared the old soldier. "What the hell are they about over there?!"Stan Wilkes hammered in vain as six hundred-odd voices broke out into tumult, the meeting rapidly disintegrating into a number of groups, large and small, arguing, expostulating, and discussing, and few paying any more attention to the chair. After a few minutes, Wilkes laid down the useless gavel, cursing and looking around the stage at his fellow board members, who were also talking away; all but one. Rhys Macklin wasn't talking. He was--Stan noticed--standing; something he hadn't done for several years except when it was time to leave. It took a couple of minutes, but other people noticed him, and the talk died down as curiosity began to get the better of wagging tongues. Eventually, it got quiet enough so that Stan said: "Dr. Macklin." "Thank you, Mr. Chairman," he said. "Before I begin, I have a question for all of you. This is a very unusual school board meeting. We have ten times our usual number of citizens here, so take a rare opportunity. Look around you. Look carefully. Is there anyone here that may be a visitor? Someone not known to you or any of those near you that you do know? Take a few minutes. Chat. Get acquainted with everyone around you. Shake hands and introduce yourselves," he invited. "I'll start. I'm Dr. Rhys Macklin, a school board member for six years, and I live on Beach Drive." He then descended from the stage to talk with those in the first row. It didn't escape his notice that a couple of people hurriedly made for the back doors. After about ten minutes, Rhys reascended, stood, and said: "Thank you. I see we lost a few people, I'm sorry to say, because I have some news. From my own analysis of evidence from the site, I could tell you a few things--but I'm not ready to gainsay any of the authorities at this time. But I will tell you that there is, I believe, no cause for immediate alarm. I'm not ready to lay a charge specifically, but, as Mr. Frazier indicated, the talk about the United Patriots' Front is patently false. It can be easily disproved by facts ... if anyone cares to look at the facts, or is willing to accept that facts might disprove the message--the message that the media and their political controllers have decided to give you. "City Manager Sarah DeJong will be appearing on a daytime show tomorrow; not a daytime show, rather, but the daytime show, watched by fully half of North America and millions more around the world. The message she'll give, we've been prepared for. We've already heard its essentials. It will be a pack of lies from beginning to end." A collective gasp went up; voices began to sussurate around the auditorium. "Alder Island is already watched. It will be watched even more carefully. Our guests there were doing that very thing. You see, this is an election year, and once again we're going to be asked to vote. Not that that means much; votes above the local level are held merely to ratify the choice of leaders already made. It's always been true in this country that the parties own the election process. It's not much of a step from there to owning the candidates themselves. Politics, after all, is nothing more than show business for people too ugly and mediocre to become 'vidstars. They are actors, and not very good ones, but they know how to stick to a script. The notion that a politician ought to be some sort of independent voice wasn't written into this country's or this State's foundational documents, and, in fact, was never more than a sort of golden-age myth propagated by the parties to make you feel faith in the morally debt-saddled, deal-mongering hams and hacks that they want in power. It's all about control, after all. As a scientist, I'm an expert on control. I recognize it when I see it. "You will be asking, 'Get on--what has all this to do with schools and terrorism?' That's a fair question, and I'll answer it now. Alder Island hasn't been part of King County for very long, but was transferred into that jurisdiction because the neighboring county couldn't control what went on here. We've made deals with the County and the State, dozens of them, and every one has been broken except for the one where we fork over double and triple the tax rates of any other community around. We have a world-class school system only because we refuse State money and pay for everything ourselves, even while we also pay school assessments that are redistributed throughout the region. We've managed to stay free because we've been paying cash on the barrelhead--so the common wisdom has it. But part of the bargain was agreeing to hew to State laws, at least in appearance. So we were never free; we were only buying ourselves a longer leash for a time. Well, that time is coming to an end. "This incident comes at an opportune moment for the power-brokers in the County and State who've been watching us. I know them from personal experience. We are everything that most of the region isn't; prosperous, family-oriented, economically sound, and individualistic, and we pay our own bills. Yes, I'm well aware of how we got that way. So are all of you here. It's our policies and practices by which we build families at a time when the society all around us is working to destroy them and foster total dependence on the Party and State. You see, families and land and personal wealth engender personal independence. With them you have a place to stand and others to stand with you--you're surrounded by what you know. You're less prey to the unknown, to fear--and fear is what they peddle: fear of racism, sexism, bigotry, prejudice, homophobia, ageism, lookism, genderism, nativism, jingoism, particularism, creedalism, have-ism--there's even fear of being afraid, and who knows how many others? "Many of the fears they sell you are incompatible. There's fear of want, but also fear of having too much; fear of dependence, but also fear of too much freedom; fear of morality, that is, seeming sanctimonious, but also fear of being thought a hypocrite--so you're allowed to have a moral code, but forbidden to practice it. There's fear of seeming judgmental oneself, but a thirst for judgment from others; fear of violence and terrorism, but also fear of facing up to them and taking measures to avert them; fear of being thought unthoughtful, but--last of all--fear of thought itself. To them, a good citizen isn't one who thinks; it's one who pays up, shuts up, and does whatever those nice, handsome, well-groomed people on the vidscreens tell them is 'in' this week. The penalty for speaking up with any kind of idea not approved by the Party and its media hacks and groupies in entertainment, and their scores of millions of fans, is to be shouted down--deliciously, because I like irony--as a moron and a bigot, that is, someone who doesn't think. The worst insults they know are 'overachiever' and 'zealot,' which are their names for the two human traits, achievement and zeal, which built the civilization which they're devoting themselves to looting right in front of your faces. Alder Island--we here--are a standing rebuke to everything they preach, even as we smile and shake hands and pretend not to notice how much we're hated by the cultural, political, and media elites. And so they're selling this bombing as an attack on them by someone who looks very much like ... like us." A babel of voices broke out. "What do we do?" shouted a woman near the stage. "Another fair question," he said over the din, which sank as he went on. "We do whatever we want to--whatever we must. But we make sure that we're doing it for a positive reason--a will to achieve--and not out of fear of anyone or anything. The bombers, whoever they are, wanted to create terror, and in the city they succeeded. Ironically, the very place they hit is the home of their most devoted--if unwitting--friends. Thanks to those people, Queen City is now doing their will. As a community we must make sure we do our own will, whatever that might be. It's not our qualms and scruples that we will bequeath to our children but our achievements; and if they learn nothing else than the power of achievement, in school or anywhere, they've learned what is most needful." He turned to resume his seat as a commotion started. A man stood and shouted out: "Right on!" A woman in a red outfit yelled in a football-fan bellow: "There's an election--why don't you run for Council??" Others stood up, and there was some stamping and shouts of: "Run!" "Elect Macklin!" "Macklin's the man!"He turned again and gestured with both hands, like an umpire calling a runner 'safe,' and said: "Thank you, but I've got a government job already." Then he went and sat down, and it was some time before Stan Wilkes was able to be heard calling for a motion to dismiss the meeting. >< >< >< The evening clerk at the Motel 9 was getting tired of cops. He'd never been fond of them, which was why he'd made the effort to get a job at a quiet travelers' motel, but through his life they seemed to crop up like canker sores, and so it was, naturally, only a matter of time. He noticed that the one dick--Crowley--had a friend along, a slightly creepy-looking guy in a grey trenchcoat who looked like a cop out of an old movie, except for the hair hanging down to his collar. He gave them a businesslike nod. "Evenin', Tyrone," said Detective Crowley, who was a greyish, middle-aged man himself. "You mind if we go up and have another look at 408?" "Help yourselves, Detectives--I should warn ya, it ain't been made up," said the clerk. He didn't need to hand over a key, as there was a police e-lock on it. Jack Crowley gave a little cop ha-ha; his companion smiled thinly. Tyrone looked to the latter. "You are--um, I haven't had the pleasure," he asided to the QCPD man. "This is Agent Marlowe," said Crowley. "Kirin Marlowe." Tyrone gave the tiniest eyebrow-lift which in his neighborhood meant: Great ... another comic. But Marlowe had a badge out, and said in an unusually-inflected but pleasant voice: "I'm over from Washington--the Department's taken an interest, I'm just here to observe. Pleased to meet you, Tyrone." He offered a gloved hand for a shake; his grip was firm. "You'll be available, in the unlikely event that we have a quick question or two? Great--thanks." He turned to Crowley. "Shall we go up, then?" Crowley nodded. Tyrone watched them go, and then turned to look at his manager, who had appeared from the office door. "Aren't they done yet?" she asked no one in particular. He ran his hand over his head. "It just gets weirder and weirder," he muttered. "Ya think?" she said. "Who's the new guy?" "Some Fed. So they say." She shook her head. "I got a bad feeling about this," she confessed. "Yeah," he said. "Me, too." >< >< ><
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Post by Aedh on Nov 17, 2008 13:24:33 GMT -5
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Post by Aedh on Nov 17, 2008 14:03:11 GMT -5
031[/b] At the social hour after the school board meeting, Rhys had avoided the attentions of would-be supporters by joining Colonel George, Stan, Regina, and a few citizens with questions about Alder Island's Civil Defense Force. Holly was there with some other teachers--he recognized them as Bernd Behrens and Janine Sandoval--though Mayor Joy and Chief Gepitulan had had to duck out. "So, tell me," Stan had said, shifting his wheelchair toward the veteran, a solid-looking man--not the first sailor from his local Native American tribe, but the first Annapolis man among them. "I always wondered: the CDF isn't any sort of official militia, is it?" "No," said the colonel. "We're strictly an unofficial community group, self-constituted and one hundred percent locally funded. We have no connection to the U.S. armed forces, or the State National Guard, or any other organized branch of service." "So, how do you activate, then?" asked Holly. "Or do you activate at all?" "Sure--Yes," said Malcolm and Regina together. The officer gestured to Regina, who was looking sporty, as usual, in white chinos over flat paddock boots and under a dark brown hunting-style vest. "We--they--have activated a dozen times or more that I've known. It's usually been to help recover from storm damage, digging out snow or clearing away downed trees. There was the ferry stranding a few years ago, and also once or twice to help look for missing children." The colonel said: "Regina wouldn't say this, but four years ago when Scotty Nichols went missing,"--everyone remembered the three days' search for the fourth-grader--"it was Regina herself at the head of a CDF search team who found him." Everyone looked at the tall woman, who assumed a mock-shocked look. "Oh, you--! a good deed? Now what am I gonna do? There goes my 'wicked woman' rating down the crapper!" Stan said: "Don't worry, Regina. Your bad name is safe with us." Everyone joined in a chuckle, including Rhys, to whom the Scotty Nichols item was news. "But what if there were some--some security emergency?" asked another citizen, a young man in khakis. "Like ..." He gestured. "Like today in the city?" asked the colonel, and the man nodded. "Our charter covers this," said George. "We don't draw weapons except at a regular armed drill, and those happen once a month. But our members can bring up a resolution at a meeting to have armed drills more often, or a resolution that the membership believe that there is an emergency which merits armed vigilance, and it's put to a vote. If the officer commanding--that'd be me at the moment--agrees and judges that the situation merits, he can authorize an armed muster. However, even then, to actually take them off our grounds or authorized training areas requires that the OC obtain the approval of the Mayor of Alder Island, working in conjunction with the regular police officers. And after that still, members are required to cooperate with civilian authorities on the Island, as well as police officers. We supplement official efforts. That's all we do." "Could you arrest anyone?" asked Khakis. "All that members can do is a citizen's arrest, the same as anyone else. Everything's in our charter." "Who belongs?" asked Holly. "Or do you not share that out?" Behrens, looking lankier and geekier than usual in this company, spoke up. "It's not published, but it's not secret. You wanna find out, you can come to a drill and sit in. Anyone can. Who you see there might surprise you." "Meet our adjutant and information officer," said the colonel, indicating Behrens. Janine, the high school's lower-level IT instructor, spoke up with a smile. "I'm a member." Holly looked at Janine. With the ripening curves of the mid-thirties on her, and her fondness for skirts, heels, hose, lacquered nails, and inch-long false eyelashes, she didn't seem a good match for a set of combat fatigues. "Really? What do you do?" "I'm the armorer--I'm in charge of keeping the weapons," she said, with a glint in her dark eyes. "I'm also an assistant machine-gunner." She held up her hands, displaying her trademark scarlet nails. "Some Sunday nights I'm up 'til midnight getting the oil off these." "You have machine guns?" asked a second citizen, a man in an Irish sweater. "We're local," said the colonel. "We're part-time volunteers; we don't have age limits, other than the minimum of seventeen; we're small; we're community-oriented, self-governed and self-financed. All that doesn't necessarily add up to mean we're a bunch of goobers with squirrel rifles. We are an up-to-date force. As a Marine for twenty-eight years and a training officer for twelve of them, I know what training is, and I can tell you, we train, and anyone who joins will train. Would I favor our odds against a crack professional military unit? No, but that will never happen. I would favor us to keep the peace in the face of anyone else aiming at civil disturbance." "How fit do you have to be?" asked Khakis, as a woman came by and handed the colonel a completed signup form. "Depends on what you wanna do. Obviously we can't enroll anyone who has serious health problems. On the other hand, unlike Marines, we don't have to train for extreme environmental conditions, and there's no question of twenty-mile slogs. The island isn't that big. We train smart rather than hard. If you're in peak fitness, like some are, we have a slot for you. And if you're more like the rest of us, we have a slot for you then, too. Clinton Duarte's one of us." "Clinton?" asked Irish Sweater. "But he's--isn't he that Mideast vet with prostheses for an arm and a leg? I thought you didn't take anyone with serious health problems." "We don't. Clinton may have a metal leg and a plastic arm, but he's got clean checkups and he gets more done with those pegs than most people do with their own natural limbs. Give him a chainsaw and some rope, and he can have a fallen sixty-foot fir tree off the road in twenty minutes flat. Could you do that?" The man looked down. The talk continued, but people were starting to thin out. Rhys went for a starbucks and was wondering whether he should risk a cookie, when he felt a touch on his elbow. “Hello, Doctor Macklin. I liked your speech. I wanted to tell you that." He turned to see Vonda Hoffman. “Oh, hi,” he answered. “I heard about Gary being missing ... any news?” She looked down, saying nothing. He let the silence go until she looked up at him, with her hands clenching at her skirt and tears rolling from her eyes. Her friend Merilee Brunett took a step over and put a hand on her shoulder. He put a hand on Vonda's other one. “I'm sorry ... whatever it was.” “They told me Saturday. I was afraid he'd run off. Now I wish that's all he had done." "He's dead, then," Rhys said gently. "Yeah." "How?" "I ... I don't know. That's the worst of it. They told me they found his body early Saturday, but they don't know how he--he passed. They won't let me come to identify him. I thought they always had you do that. They won't even let me see him--not even a picture. Nothing." "What was the first night he didn't come home?" "Wednesday." "When did you report it?" "Saturday, when--when I called in to report him missing," she confessed, her native twang starting assert itself; her 'I' sounded like 'Ah.' He frowned a little, and she burst out: "I know--I know, I should have called in right away. But I didn't want to involve the police. I thought something had happened, and he'd clear it up and be home. I just wanted him home," she said, the tears still trickling, smudging her makeup. "And you're feeling bad," he said softly, "because you think you might have saved his life if you'd called in right away on Thursday." Vonda threw her arms around him suddenly for a tight hug, burrowing into his chest as she sobbed, deeply, passionately. He was rather suddenly aware of her ample bosom pressing into his ribcage, but he patted her on the back for five seconds before gently disengaging her, with Merilee lending a hand. "I'm sorry, Vonda," he said. "But if no one said it, it would have eaten at you like a cancer." "I know," she said. "I'm sorry, too, for making an exhibition of myself. It's bad enough that he's dead. But even that ain't the end of it now--why won't they tell me what's goin' on?" "Can I do anything to help you?" She looked down again, and made a shrugging motion with her shoulders. “I dunno. You work in the court system over there. Do you … have some connection?” “Mmmmm ... well, of course, in my own line I know a lot of people, mostly lawyers. But I also know some lab folks in forensics. I’ll certainly keep an ear open. And I’ll have Ralna look in on it. She’s frighteningly efficient with stuff like that. I’ve never heard her say ‘I don’t know.’ She says: ‘I’ll find out.’ And she does.” “Thank her … thank you,” said Vonda, gathering herself and turning to dig in her purse. Merilee handed her a tissue, and she daubed at her cheeks, then wandered off to get a bux. “Is she … um--staying with you?” he asked Merilee. “Or is she carrying on with Laney and Tommy at home?” “Joe and Gretchen and the kids are coming over to stay awhile,” replied Merilee. “It’s no problem, they live on the island anyway.” “Good,” he said. And at that moment he felt a sudden stab at his vitals--an ache. How long had it been since a woman had embraced him like that? Simply turned to him as a man--leaned on him because he was just there? Jane had never done that. Jane was needy, because she had some deep personality problems. No man would ever be able to help Jane because she didn’t want a man. Not just a man. He thought back to his history readings, once a hobby of his … Gandhi. Something like that. What Jane wanted was someone with the ethics of Gandhi, the sacrificial spirit of Jesus, the looks of a movie idol and a bottomless bank account for her to raid to her heart’s content. She wanted a messiah, not a husband. So until that day, she made do with mere men. She would dole out affectionate gestures, carefully rationed; sometimes small and sometimes large, but always, control. Calculation. It was the same with her homemaking. She knew how to craft and cook and bake. She was often doing it for other people; for kid, meaning Zoey, or her relatives, or friends--but not for him. She’d never wanted to make a home for him. She’d wanted to order out and have a home delivered, while she devoted herself to doing homey things for others … carefully rationed, of course. Candee was different. Or was she? Younger, very much more so. Attractive and fit, a good ornament to be seen on his arm. Of course she slept around. They never talked about it, but he knew it without even having to check on her. And she knew that he knew it. She slept with him too, naturally. She knew all the tricks to please men, and for hours at a time she could make him feel happy in a way Jane never had. Candee didn’t ask for the moon; she seemed content for him to be himself … keeping the money coming in and toddling off to work every day. Unlike Jane, she put a dinner on the table for him every night. Like Jane, however, she was content to call out for it and have it delivered so she could just do the final touches. Unlike Jane, she had no homemaking skills, and she made little pretense of wanting them--and unlike Jane, too, she gave herself freely. She gave herself freely to anything that happened by in a pair of trousers. It wasn’t a problem, necessarily, but he realized that it was starting to bother him. She was twenty-five and he was forty-eight. He pictured, briefly, himself and Candee ten years from now, with her feeling she was starting to lose her chief assets, and him in his late fifties. It wasn’t a particularly appetizing picture. As he looked at Vonda, he realized that here was a woman … he groped for the thought … a real woman, well-adjusted, fully mature in body and attitude and wisdom, strong yet yielding; not afraid to let herself go. He knew from meeting Gary socially that Vonda put a real home-cooked dinner on the table every night, and packed him a lunch with a note in it in the morning; not gourmet … not Italian vegetables and pesto on focaccia—just cold cuts on Wonder bread … but made for him, Gary. For him. Just as that embrace, made not in lust but simple, raw, emotional need, had been for him, Rhys. Gary had said more than once that Vonda was a woman a man could grow old with. Her accomplishments weren’t showy, and would never win any prizes from women’s clubs … but they were for her man, straight from the heart. He realized that his trouser front was behaving in a way unbefitting a married man in a public place. He turned adroitly, buying himself a few moments by getting himself another cup of starbucks, and a few more by—uncharacteristically—adding cream and sugar. And mixing them in very slowly and carefully. >< >< >< Wrapped in his leather overcoat, Jason leaned on the guardrail on the Island ferry terminal's platform, looking into the restless night, disjointed spots of light floating in ink. Where waterside lights threw glowing paths on the harbor's wind-harried surface, black whip-lashings fought the orange luminescence as if trying to erase them, and at moments nearly succeeding altogether. It matched his mood. He'd had calls from Jenna over the last few days--lots of calls. How she'd obtained his PDA number he didn't know. At first he'd ignored them--he was used to crushes. Then she'd started texting him, and her texts didn't seem like the usual mooning. Finally, he'd replied, they'd chatted a bit online--though she'd never said how she'd tracked him down--and now he had agreed to meet her again. The ferry was docking, and after a minute there began the usual motley trickle of evening travelers: families, single parents with babies or kids, late businesspeople, young people, a few workers, a few people completing the last leg of a longer journey by air or rail, trailing suitcases--all ages, shapes, and sizes. Most of them had their faces set to avoid the last thin line of picketers with their flyers and badges. These were the really serious ones, older women with hard-faced lip-lifts that couldn't be called smiles. They were always there, day and night, them or lookalike replacements, doing eight-hour shifts, careful to speak never a word unless spoken to, keeping all their print a half-inch high or less, staying one meter out of the line of traffic but never stepping off the State property on which their presence was protected. They knew every law, ordinance, and regulation, and obeyed them scrupulously, watching Alder Island from its own shore. Jason watched them in turn, and also watched as Jenna came up the ramp near the end, marching past them at a regular trot, serious, blonde, and collegiate in her duffle coat, jeans, and lined nylon cold-weather boots. Only after she'd passed did he turn, casually, and follow her. Down the short walkway he trailed her, and into the car park, past a closed espresso stand and around behind a line of small trees that would screen them from any eyes in the terminal. She was waiting. "Hello, Zack," she said with a smile. "Or can I call you 'Jason' face to face?" "For now, I guess," he said, tossing his hair out of his eyes. "I did wonder about the name business," she said. "Well, I couldn't imagine most of your friends would be happy to hear about you palling up to a humod sperm-monster rape-o-matic," he said dryly. "Our type aren't liked over on your side. It's an ordinary precaution." "I understand. A lot of my friends won't be friends much longer." "Why not?" "My pregnancy." "Even though it's a revolutionary blow for choice--for real feminism?" She put her hands on his shoulders. "Most of them don't see it that way." He smiled. "But you knew they wouldn't." "I can't help it, Jason ... I ... just wanted you so damn bad. And I still do--more than ever. I had to see you again. I don't care if you've just come from one woman and you're on your way to another." She looked up into his eyes. "I'm sure you have others--many others. But I only have you. And I've been going mad." "What do you want to do?" he asked. She twined her arms around him and laid her head against his shoulder. "Lots of things. But one thing first. I want you in me. I want you to fuck me raw--right now. Right here, even, if it would take too long to find a place." He enfolded her in an arm. She did feel, literally, hot. "Luckily, ladies in a hurry are something we're used to," he said. He nodded toward a red light at the end of the car park, where amber illumination showed part of a small structure near another line of trees. It looked very much like an outdoor Insta-Bang booth. "There's--? I've never been here." "I have a card key," he said, "me and the other Bearers. Let me give you a warm welcome to Alder Island." >< >< >< In Room 408, NSPD Detective Jack Crowley pushed his hat back on his head and watched his unusual companion investigate. He was a Fed, that was true, but he'd never seen any cop in action quite like this. His methods consisted of ... well, sniffing, for want of a better word, though in his report he'd be sure to call it 'olfactory assessment.' He wasn't sure of how to categorize what were undoubtedly a few taste tests, and he gave up for later when it came to Marlowe--or whatever the hell his name was--kicking off his shoes and assuming the lotus position on the carpet. Still, orders were orders, and Crowley, a cop for thirty-one years, was too close to retirement now to kick against the pricks, as he liked to think of them. It. This wasn't his first 'vampire murder.' He'd been on the woo-woo squad for some time now, with only occasional breaks, like the matter of Rhys Macklin's personal assistant. He'd known both Louise and Walt as well as anyone. Something hadn't quite added up there. It wasn't like Louise to suddenly decide to end it all; she'd been a tough lady and had got through Walt's death. But then, he reflected, it's the tough ones who snap suddenly. Crowley took another look at his companion, whose eyes were closed; he might have been stone carving of a sort of sinister Buddha in his loose trousers, suspenders, and white shirt. Marlowe had given no indication of how long it would take, and any evidence there was far too stale, after three days, for Crowley to use himself, so he took out his PDA and checked texts. One was a link to a news story, the attempted bomber Bashir Moktazeri in Cincinnati. He went to the story. After six months' trial, the man found trying to blow up an Air Force installation had come to the jury refusing to enter a verdict on the grounds--the foreman explained--that they didn't feel that they ought to be judgmental. "It is awe-full," he'd said, spelling it out. "How can we take it on ourselves to order the fate of a fellow human being, one so different from ourselves in background and culture, yet kin to us through our shared passage on this frail ark called ... Earth?" That hadn't stopped him from going on lash into Red Partiers in the Federal government for failing to join the UN and NAE in abolishing the very concept of terrorism, which the jury found to be horrifyingly medieval, and called upon President Jefferson to award a post in the State Department to Mr. Moktazeri, through which he would learn to understand the United States and its ways, and even bring the benefit of peace through educating his fellow employees. Mr. Moktazeri's disappointment at the outcome had been palpable. His attorneys had for some mysterious reason allowed him to take the stand, and from it he had repeatedly declaimed that he had gone proudly about the bombing as a holy warrior, and was looking forward to execution for the greater glory of God. That had led to the foreman calling for Mr. Moktazeri to be made at least a deputy assistant Secretary of State, and threatening to return an indictment against the Government unless proper restitution were made to the unfortunate captive. Crowley snapped his PDA shut. He was, he felt, going to retire at a good time ... though last week would have been far better. The Department's resources, already stretched tight, were simply going to snap as a result of what politicians would demand in the wake of the bombing; unless, of course, they just quit dealing with other crimes altogether. He wasn't sure which option he liked less. He looked back at Evil Buddha, who was stirring, and thought of his hip flask. He wouldn't be able to get out of here and have a whack at it soon enough. >< >< >< >< >< ><
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