Phoenix Rising (Book Two of The Icarus Trilogy) (10 page)

“Nah, the less is said about it the better.  The day before I’ll let you know the specifics, but we don’t want any information like that getting out.”  Eric looked at the man and put both of his hands behind his head.  Douglas watched Eric reacting to the news and marveled at the difference between this ragged celebrity and his onstage presence.   The celebrity looked back up at Jaime and put his hands on his hips.

“So, what?  I’m just supposed to go back to my room and think about this for two weeks?” Eric asked with a tone of frustration.  Jaime laughed and walked up to the man and put his hand on the celebrity’s shoulder.

“Well, right now we should probably get blind-stinking drunk,” the producer said with a mischievous look in his eye.  Eric looked at him in complete puzzlement and backed away from the man.  He couldn’t quite get that leap in logic.  Jaime looked back at Douglas and laughed.

“C’mon, drinks are on me, guys.  It’s pretty suspicious if we get together to talk and then don’t do anything.  No one would look twice if the three of us just go out and get plastered.  Just keep your mouth shut about the EFI and we’ll be fine.”  Eric looked at the producer like he was speaking a foreign language.  Even Douglas had a hard time comprehending why the man would want to go drinking after all these revelations.

“You’re insane,” Eric said while looking at the black-haired resistance agent.  Jaime just laughed and walked backwards to the door.

“Guys, I’m treating these last two weeks like they are the last two weeks of my life.  And I’m fairly certain both of you,” he said before pointing at the two of them, “need a stiff drink.  I’m paying for it.  You should take advantage of that,” Jaime said before walking to the door and opening it for them.  Eric glared at his boss and started heading to the door.

“If nothing else, you make a good point,” Eric said before heading into the hallway.  Douglas continued to sit on the bed and looked at his boss.  Just a few weeks ago Douglas was destined to live in a studio apartment for the rest of his miserable life.  He could have had an average looking woman for a wife and continued to go by “Sean” while he spoke about the sponsors for that day’s programming.  He would hate himself, but he would be alive.  Just a few weeks ago Douglas was safe and he didn’t have to worry about whether or not he would be in prison or killed for treason.

He looked at Jaime and tried to remind himself that this was the right thing to do.  The resistance movement probably wasn’t going to use his voice for anything, but he could help in some small way.  Jaime was right; the system was broken and drastic measures needed to be taken.

What the hell
, Douglas thought. 
It could actually work
.

-

Maxwell Garrison was anxious as he sat in the comfortable leather arm chair.  He wasn’t particularly pleased to be on Earth; this was never his home.  Garrison had grown up on Midgard and after thirty years of learning the ropes he had been placed on Eris as just one of the many bureaucrats in charge of corporate warfare.  On the odd occasion he took trips with his family to Solaria or Elysia to recharge.  He only came to Earth for business and usually it meant business was not doing well.

The aging, balding and overweight middle manager was sitting in a well-furnished and decorated room.  The walls were made of nice, dark red wood and the end tables seemed to be made of real mahogany.  It didn’t surprise Garrison; he didn’t expect anything less from the CEO of War World Entertainment.  Jasper Montgomery had always been a man of taste.

Garrison could feel the pit stains forming underneath his arms.  Eris was always much colder, especially when Earth came between it and the Sun; the heat was not suiting him well.  It didn’t help that he was worrying about what the elderly CEO would confide in him.  If it was a small problem he would have just called or sent a message, but the old man had asked for Garrison’s personal appearance.  It was just past a day’s travel on the fusion-powered transport, but it was quite inconvenient.

As he sat in the decadent armchair and occasionally glanced at the young secretary by the large double doors, Garrison tried to figure out what could possibly have caught the elder bureaucrat’s attention.  Garrison had done just fine as the director of his quadrant of Eris.  Profits had been down, but that was just because of advertising and cost of living adjustments.  It wasn’t his fault if the television program and the toys weren’t selling well.  He just made sure the real people had something to eat and something to live on.  As far as the soldiers were concerned Garrison had done everything he could to cut costs.  He had signed off on a few agreements which allowed their food to consist of ever-increasing amounts of cardboard and artificial flavoring.

They were going to die anyway; no reason to give them anything luxurious.

Garrison tried to think of the programs that had started in the last few months; even the last few years.  He had signed off on new weapons to be introduced into the games, but those had done well in market research; people liked it when the Commission mixed it up.  New weapons meant new tactics had to be developed.  Garrison had personally been responsible for the advent of the chainsaw gauntlets.  He wasn’t proud of the violence, but he was proud of the increase in viewership.  That all happened because he signed off on a few papers.  There was certainly power in the pen.

He turned his head to look out the window.  From this high vantage point in Babylon he could see the towering skyscrapers and the wide expanse of buildings for miles.  It was somewhat jarring to think that the city had only recently entered the history books.  After the Moonfall, too many of the United States’ population centers had been devastated.  Chicago had been obliterated; New York a shadow of its former self.  That’s what happens when thousands of high speed projectiles enter the atmosphere and cause the world to burn.

People were looking for a fresh start and the Trade Union gave it to them.  Babylon was built from the ground up in what used to be Nebraska.  State lines blurred as time went on and eventually the whole area had been abandoned except for those foolish enough to tend to the crops.  Then the Trade Union decided it needed its own capital and bought up most of the land from the government.  They built a sprawling expanse of magnificent buildings and tourist attractions and the people came in droves.  Now Babylon was bigger than any city on the planet and held virtually all of the wealth.  War World Entertainment was situated in the center of the city in Babylon Tower; a symbol of the company’s status in the Trade Union.  When Garrison thought about Montgomery he wasn’t just the CEO for War World Entertainment.

Jasper Montgomery was the head of the Trade Union.

Montgomery had the most clout and the most share in the system-wide organization.  He had the most friends and all the best connections.  He had all the dirt on weak politicians and all the say in the world.  He broke giants and raised kings.  He was the puppet master for Earth and her eight daughters.

And he had called Maxwell Garrison to a personal meeting in his office.

Garrison looked away from the window and tried to regain his perspective.  On all accounts he was a serviceable employee, so Montgomery couldn’t be completely dissatisfied.  Maybe the old man just wanted to implement some new policy onto Eris that Garrison would just have to approve.

When he thought about that he had to stifle a laugh.  As far as he knew he was the only regional director that had been called planet-side.  His three peers, Tiberius, Perkins and Ingersoll, had not been called to similar meetings.  It had to be something personal.  It had to do with some paper that had crossed his desk and left with his signature.  Garrison wracked his brain as the glass of water, which Montgomery’s secretary had poured, started to sweat in front of him.  He felt the creeping pit-stains under his arms and sympathized with the piece of glass.

For some reason Garrison’s mind revisited the day when Carver had last been in his office.  The veteran of the games had created his own little niche on the war-stricken world.  Jonathon Carver was a celebrity and a hero to billions of underprivileged children living in the slums on Earth and in the comfortable homes of her three residential satellites.  That kind of recognition gave him more power than the average soldier. 

The old Crow didn’t use that influence often.  Over the course of his more than thirty-year career as the leader of the Crows, Carver had been to Garrison’s office four times.  Twice it had been to renegotiate his pay; a foolish act which held little consequence.  Carver had received a five percent increase each time, which was a drop in the bucket in the perspective of a regional director.  Garrison smiled as he remembered how he had fooled the then-young soldier into thinking he had won.

But as the years wore on Carver lost interest in obtaining more money; the old soldier had become morose and lost in his own personal Hell.  Garrison couldn’t blame him; the veteran had seen his fair share of horrors.  It wasn’t completely out of the question that Carver had lost the taste for life.  He was a celebrity and a hero against his own wishes, by that point.

The third time Carver had been to Garrison’s office had not been a good one.  The bureaucrat tried his hardest to remember the young soldier’s name, but it was lost to him.  All he knew was that it affected the veteran a great deal.  There was something of Carver in that youth.  Garrison remembered signing off on the man’s evaluation not once, not twice, but five times.  He had committed suicide each time, but Maxwell didn’t want to give up a promising investment so early.  His scores during the games were as good as Carver’s in his prime. 

It was only when Carver came to his office that Garrison agreed to let the young soldier fall into oblivion.  It was a terrible cost; a whole crop of clones had to be destroyed and repurposed into biotic compounds.  That alone had put a dent into the quarterly report.  The only reason Garrison didn’t allow the young soldier back onto the field was that Carver agreed to pay part of the cost.  The veteran was foolish with his money.  He could pay and still retire, of course, but it was something that Garrison wouldn’t have done in his shoes.

As he sat in the stifling waiting area Garrison remembered the fourth time that Carver had entered his office.  It had been four years after that first youth and very much the same kind of situation.  Now that he thought about it, Garrison recalled that it was only two weeks prior that Carver had walked right up to one of the battlefield camera drones and demanded Maxwell’s audience.  Garrison had cleared the new soldier, Jenkins, for return to the field.  He had killed himself but Garrison had looked over the file and it was clearly a situation that could be explained away.

After all, Jenkins had discovered his first clone’s body.  That would be a jarring experience for any soldier.

But Carver would not let it happen.  He had told the middle manager that the boy should not be resurrected.  Garrison had learned to trust the veteran; they had dealt with each other for three decades.  At first Garrison had thought the old soldier had meant for him to dispose of the crop.  He had almost done it, too, but Carver had volunteered the young soldier for the Hero program.

Carver hadn’t known the name of the program, of course.  Only senior officials knew the details of the program and how many times it had been implemented.  It was all highly controversial and experimental.  But Carver had known it existed and he had urged the bureaucrat to consider the suicidal soldier.  Garrison had been wary and unwilling to allow it, his job would have been on the line, but Carver eliminated the risk and offered to pay.

Garrison looked at the beautiful woman sitting at the desk in front of him.  She was a magnificent thing; perfect features around the face, curves in all the right places and a soft quality to her very presence.  Montgomery had chosen well for his assistant.  She was the kind of woman that men would fight for, would write poems for and would buy expensive houses and trinkets just to keep around.  Carver could have bought her with no problems.  If he had bothered to keep his money instead of spending it on these wasted youths he would have more in his account than Garrison himself.  Garrison had money enough to spend a few weeks a year on Solaria.  Carver could have lived there.

But now he was doomed to live out the rest of his days on Eris.  The veteran could have lived his last years with a beautiful woman like the one in front of Garrison, maybe even two of them, but he’d chosen to be surrounded by death.  Garrison couldn’t really understand the man; Carver was outrageously foolish and, really, too good of a man to live in a world like this.  Garrison shook his head.  He didn’t know why he was thinking about this when he could be thrown to the wolves by the most powerful man in the system in ten minutes.

“Mr. Garrison?”  The bureaucrat looked up to see Montgomery’s secretary looking at him expectantly.  The middle manager gathered his business coat around him and sat up in the chair.  He was about to say something when she nodded towards the double doors next to her desk.

“He’ll see you now.”  The woman gave a courteous smile and then looked back to the computer display on her desk.  She clearly had no intention to speak with the aging man in front of her; he was nothing of consequence.  Garrison picked himself up and walked over to the double doors.  They grew more intimidating the closer he came.  He breathed out, did what he could to calm his heart rate, and then pulled on the door.  When he had given himself enough room he stepped through the threshold.

The office was massive.  There was twenty meters between the entrance and the end of the room, where a sprawling collection of windows stared out on Babylon below.  There were scattered pieces of aesthetically-pleasing furniture throughout the room and even a few couches for relaxation.  The wall on Garrison’s left was filled with bookcases full of tomes; the bureaucrat couldn’t make out any of the titles on the spines but figured it was a random collection.  The wall on Garrison’s right was filled with enormous displays which showed a number of different channels of news programs, all on mute with closed captioning.  It was how the old man kept informed.