Authors: Mark Souza
“Lemmings?” Moyer replied.
“Go to the library and look in the encyclopedia. You’ll understand.” As he hugged Moyer, Hawthorne considered his decision, and for the first time it seemed a mistake. Was he ready to give up his life so soon after it had become his? Couldn’t he spend just a little more time in the library with its treasure trove barely explored, and with the bright eyed children that hung on his every word when he read to them?
In the distance, the rumble of the train grew louder. Hawthorne pulled away from Moyer and waved feebly knowing what he must do and why. There was no point in striking the iron if it wasn’t hot. In a few more months, no one might remember the name John Hawthorne, and why seeing him alive in Freedom Circle had any significance.
Against a sea of gold maples and through the shadows, the train was almost invisible, betrayed only by the churning swell of fallen leaves caught in its wake as it approached in the dim evening light. The train slowed with the piercing, metal squeal of automated brakes. Hawthorne lifted a bag containing a smoked venison sandwich Mrs. Connors had prepared for him, a black market transit card for the tube, and a book Moyer had picked out for him. As he stepped into the railcar behind Nastasi, he patted his coat pocket to reassure himself his pistol was where it should be.
He sat by the window nearest the crowd on the landing. As the train slowly pulled away, his cheeks began to ache and warm tears spilled down his face. He opened the window, pushed his arm outside and waved goodbye until he knew no one could see him. After raising the window and facing Nastasi, he dried his face with his hands. “I don’t know when I became such a sentimental fool,” he said. Nastasi nodded without raising his eyes from the floorboards. Hawthorne sensed Nastasi was fighting back feelings of his own.
“It’s ironic I guess. That stupid bomb actually did kill me. It just took a few months.”
Nastasi raised his eyes, “It’s the same for everyone. The fuse is lit the day you are born and you never know when it’s going to go off. If you are lucky, you go out on your own terms and your life has some meaning. I don’t think it does for most.”
“I suppose you’re right,” Hawthorne said. “Have you ever been married?” For a moment he regretted asking, but it was one of the last conversations he’d ever have. The time for worrying over crossing boundaries was over.
Nastasi furrowed his brow and for a moment Hawthorne thought the giant might not answer. After a thoughtful sigh Nastasi said, “No, but I was in love once.”
“What happened?”
“She died in prison. She was more passionate about the cause than me. I regretted bringing her into it. I asked her once to marry me and she wouldn’t. She thought it might soften us, or allow our enemies to work one against the other. How about you, Judge?”
Hawthorne wagged his head. “No, I never married and was never in love. I thought I had to devote myself to the law and that there would be time later. What an idiot I was.”
“You have regrets?”
Hawthorne looked up and nodded. “More than I can carry. I see what the Winfields and Connors have and I would trade places with them in a heartbeat. If I could do it again, I would live simply; love and be loved, have children, and be buried anonymously in a field when it was all over.”
“It sounds tempting,” Nastasi said, “but I don’t think that is our destiny. We were chosen for something else and have the opportunity to change the world.”
Hawthorne nodded as if he agreed. There was little point in arguing with a man entrenched in his beliefs. To Hawthorne, it seemed as if their destiny, their opportunity, was the penance for having squandered their lives and placed selfish goals above love.
Outside the car, it grew dark. The rattle of steel wheels over track provided the only sense of speed, momentum toward their chosen destiny and their destruction. Hawthorne felt drained. He curled onto his side, pulled his feet onto the seat, and tried to sleep.
Wednesday, 18 October
A hand jostled Hawthorne. He opened his eyes and saw Nastasi’s albino face and weariness settled over him again.
“Hurry, we only have a few minutes before the train leaves for the return,” Nastasi said.
The station was dark and the air frosty. Hawthorne stretched to loosen kinked muscles knotted by the unforgiving bench. He buttoned his coat, picked his bag off the seat and checked his pocket for his pistol before climbing onto the landing.
He followed Nastasi down the stairs and along the path away from the station. They marched along the trail bordering the edge of the solar panels and behind the cement buildings on the Ring of Fire. Nastasi pulled back the chain link blocking the way to Michigan Street, and they both slipped through.
The streets were dead. Nothing stirred in the sallow light raining down from the streetlamps. And why would there be? The tube was shut down for the night and wouldn’t start up until 4 a.m. when the day would begin again with laborers making the long trek into the city.
Nastasi grabbed Hawthorne’s arm and pointed down the street at a shiny black sphere mounted to the top of a tall metal stalk. “Cameras. We need to stick to the shadows. Security will dispatch agents if they spot someone on the street at this hour, even if they aren’t looking for us anymore.”
Hawthorne sized up Nastasi and doubted they would ever make it to Freedom Circle. How could Security Services possibly miss them? Hawthorne blended in easily enough, but not in the company of an albino giant well over two meters tall. This was a mistake, a zealot’s ill-considered fantasy. And for this he had left his library of books, and a clutch of wide-eyed children waiting on his every word.
Nastasi edged as far toward Michigan Street as he dared and slumped to the ground dragging Hawthorne with him. “We’ll wait here until the commute begins and then blend in with the crowd. It won’t be long now.”
Blend
, Hawthorne thought,
right
. That he wanted to see. Sitting with his back to the wall, he dug through his knapsack and pulled out the sandwich Betsy made him and peeled back the wrapping. He offered half to Nastasi who declined. He retrieved his book and read, nibbling at the sandwich. As last meals went, it wasn’t what he might order in the city, but it was good and made him happy.
After an hour or so, people started filtering out of the housing blocks to queue up for the tube. Hawthorne guessed they were at least half an hour early. Early guaranteed the first train and maybe a seat for the long ride in. Nastasi pulled his brown tunic off over his head. Underneath he had on a khaki military uniform with the name Johnson stitched across his chest in black letters. Hawthorne now understood how Nastasi would
blend
. Being soldier class was out of place only if the clothing didn’t match expectations.
Nastasi bundled his tunic into a tight ball and stuffed it in his rucksack, then beckoned Hawthorne to follow. Hawthorne tossed the last of his sandwich into the grass and dog-eared the page to mark his place in his book.
They walked briskly to match pace with laborers trying to secure a place in line for the tube. The first train came and went putting them near the front for the next. On the next train, Hawthorne found a seat while Nastasi stood nearby holding a handrail.
Hawthorne cracked his book to where he’d left off and Nastasi nudged his leg. When he looked up, Nastasi subtly wagged his head. Hawthorne scanned the car. Not a single passenger besides him was reading. It made him stand out. For a moment he considered defying Nastasi and taking his chances. This was, after all, the last book he’d ever read. It was wrong to deprive him of that. Reluctantly he closed the book and stuffed it inside his coat. He liked this mission less and less with each passing minute.
At Freedom Circle, Hawthorne followed Nastasi who moved at a brisk military pace. Light shone out on the dark bricks from the windows of the few businesses surrounding the Circle that opened early to pull in revenue from labor commuters.
Nastasi went inside a restaurant named The Red Eye Café and took a corner booth at the back. A young black girl wearing a red tee bearing the café logo approached. Her smile practically glowed against her coffee-colored skin. Nastasi asked if he could use the remaining credits on his transit pass. “Better they go to you than expire,” he explained.
She smiled again. “Of course.”
Nastasi ordered Buffalo wings and coffee off the video menu wall. Hawthorne had the BLT and a Coke, and paid double to have real bacon.
“You can read now if you wish,” Nastasi said. “Just keep your book low, and stay alert. We don’t want to draw attention, not yet anyway. We have a couple hours before the commute peaks.”
Hawthorne opened his book below the level of the table, and was so distracted he jumped when the girl brought their plates. Nastasi ate heartily. Hawthorne picked at his food still full from Betsy Connors’ sandwich. In his book, the one Moyer had picked for him, Randall McMurphy was undergoing a lobotomy. He hated the way the story ended. He had come to like McMurphy and felt pangs of guilt. When he had been a prosecutor, and later when he sat the bench in district courts, he had put a great many Randall McMurphys in jail. The world was decidedly short of them now, and it seemed as though a McMurphy was needed to lead the world away from the crushing oppression of corporate dominance.
Outside, the sun had risen. Golden rays cast long shadows across the Circle through the gaps between skyscrapers. People crowded the walkways zipping past the windows going this way and that, as if the café had been transported atop a giant ant mound. Nastasi stared at Hawthorne, a small grin on his face, blue eyes placid and calm. And why should he be scared? In his mind he was headed to Valhalla, or whatever idea of perfection his strange beliefs promised. Hawthorne wished he could believe in something so improbable, wished he could attain that kind of peace.
“Are you ready?” Nastasi asked.
“As I’ll ever be, I guess.”
Nastasi removed his tunic from the rucksack and pulled it on. He then affixed a black plastic band around his neck and handed one to Hawthorne.
“It’s an amplifier,” he said. Hawthorne strapped the contraption to his neck and Nastasi straightened it for him.
“Let’s go,” Nastasi said.
Hawthorne’s intestines felt weightless, as if he’d crested the big hill on a roller coaster. His mouth was dry and vocal chords tight. A nervous nod was all he could manage.
Outside, Nastasi moved quickly toward the center of the Circle towing Hawthorne by the hand. People took notice of the strangely dressed albino giant. They scurried out of his path. Trouble was brewing; they sensed it, like ozone before a lightning strike. Nastasi climbed the steps of the Soldiers’ and Sailors’ Monument, stopped at the first landing, and raised his arms.
“Viktor Perko tried to murder Chief Justice Hawthorne. Then he lied to you,” Nastasi screamed, his amplified voice echoed off the building facades. “He told you the Judge was dead. But he is not!”
A few passersby stopped to watch and listen, but most kept on with their routine, trying to avoid being late for work.
Hawthorne knew well what drew the attention of net browsers and people alike. He pulled his pistol from his pocket and fired into the air until the gun was empty. The onlookers closest to him dropped to the ground, frightened. Even Nastasi was startled. But Hawthorne now had the attention of everyone in the Circle, and possibly the world.
Chapter 40
T
he largest screen in Viktor Perko’s array flashed as the image switched from stock market reports to a scene in Freedom Circle in front of his building. When he saw the giant standing on the steps of the monument among the crowd, he felt a familiar sense of dread. But this was the last time the white freak would interfere with his business. This time he had murder charges to answer for, a Supreme Court Chief Justice at that. If he resisted arrest, and Perko hoped he would, security agents would have authority to kill him on the spot. Begat without its powerful leader would no doubt die in short order.
His showing up alone was a definitive sign Begat members were jumping ship. Being implicated in an infamous bombing was probably more than they had bargained for. A wave of glee warmed Perko’s skin. His old heart accelerated. This was the most pleasure he’d experienced in quite some time. Better even than the day he pushed the bomb into Moyer Winfield’s hands. The fulfillment of his dreams was coming to fruition.
He picked up the phone to call Security Services. Then he noticed the little man next to Nastasi. John Hawthorne, another face he dreaded. He turned up the sound.
–
Perko’s lies. He tried to kill me with a bomb and then blamed it on Begat. And why? Because he wanted control of the only thing he didn’t already control – the Supreme Court. Now he owns that too. He wants to control you. He wants to control me. He wants to control everyone. And how does he get away with it? He does it with a promise. The promise that if you work hard enough, or maybe get lucky enough, you too can have it all.
It used to be called the American Dream. But that’s all it is anymore – a dream, an illusion. A promise unfulfilled. A lie. That promise, that hope, keeps all of you working, and keeps you from revolting. But the reality is the game is fixed. You have to play by his rules with his cards, and they have been stacked against you from the start.
But it’s the illusion of possibility that keeps us moving in step to his drum, like a donkey chasing a carrot on a string dangled just out of reach. But even a donkey will stop chasing eventually, unless he gets a taste of the carrot once in a while. And it doesn’t have to be much, just the smallest of nibbles. So every now and again someone wins the Lotto, or someone advances in their job – just enough to show it’s possible.
Well I’m not a donkey and I’m not dead. And neither are you!