. . . ..... Chapter Fourteen <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" /> Harold rose about ten o’clock in the morning. Whatever other faults that the Leaders could be charged with, they expected no more than a reasonable day’s work from each Laborer—and they fed their charges well. There were always a few empty cottages among the married Laborer’s quarters; and as a Master Chief Stable Hand, Harold could have had one of the small cabins assigned to him. Each cabin had a small kitchen, and the married couples, along with their children, usually took their meals apart—though there was no rule prohibiting them from eating at the main mess hall if they wanted to avoid cooking for a day, or even indefinitely. Harold hadn’t been chosen to marry. He preferred to sleep in a converted tack-room to be closer to his charges should his services be required. And he had no desire to cook for himself. He wandered over to the main mess hall for a late morning breakfast. He selected a half-dozen pancakes with maple syrup; several small links of sausage along with about that many thick slices of jowl bacon. He grabbed a couple of peaches and an apple. He got himself both a cup of very strong coffee to help wake him and a big glass of rich whole milk to wash everything down with. If he had been a Field Hand, he might have made himself several sandwiches to take into the field with him. Of course, if he were a Field Hand he’d long since have been out in the fields. The Field Hands started at first light. They worked hard, but they got breaks and no one begrudged them their snacks. They took a relatively late dinner, brought to them into the fields, and when they came in for supper, their day’s work was done. The Leaders had researched the subject. Men tended to become over-worked and far more susceptible to debilitating disorders and sicknesses, if they were given much more than fifty or sixty hours of hard manual labor per week. On the other hand, men of borderline intelligence grew rowdy if they weren’t occupied with something for at least thirty hours per week. Work on the plantations was rather seasonal, but averaged over a year’s time; the Laborers worked about forty hours per week. (More intelligent workers could have used the extra leisure time for constructive pursuits like hunting; fishing; reading; or hobbies—but they were just as likely as not, to use the idle time to ferment revolt.) Harold had snacks in the stable and he was free to come back to the mess hall whenever he chose, so there was little point in preparing “take-away.” A Stable Hand was more than a mere groom, but generally less than a Veterinarian. As a Master Chief Stable Hand, Harold knew as much or more than any Veterinarian—though a Veterinarian would, by definition, have been a member of the Leader caste. Harold was unlikely to ever butt heads with a Veterinarian over treatment for a sick or injured horse. He’d only seen a Vet a couple times in his life. However, in the unlikely event that he ever did, he had little doubt whose suggestions would prevail. Good horses were expensive, and Harold was as good at his job as anyone got. One reason that the Stable Hand’s day started rather late was that most of the draft animals would be out in the fields. There were horses in the stable though—extra draft horses; convalescing sick or injured horses; and riding horses that weren’t being ridden at the moment. Harold was mainly a Horse specialist, but he was perfectly capable of treating a whole host of other animals—or even his fellow Laborers for minor complaints. As a supervisor, he put in more hours than any of the lower Ratings, but he mostly watched while others sweated—plus he could distract himself in any number of ways when the work was going smoothly—from shooting the breeze with this one or that; to whittling; or reading a book. He did take care of a number of the Boss’ prize riding horses himself—feeding them; grooming them—even taking them out for rides to make sure they were properly exercised. Not only was it a labor of love. It kept him from being too bored—or worse yet, going soft—and it was excellent job security. Boss put a lot of stock into his fine riding horses. When he saw his old friend and cousin, Jared walking up, he thought perhaps that one of the Boss’ granddaughter’s dogs had gotten sick again. The Boss doted on his granddaughters. They in turn, were very attached to the Walker Hound they’d raised. And truth be told, when the chips were down, Harold was the best Veterinarian in Southern Indiana—whether he had a fancy degree, or not. “Just came to shoot the breeze,” Jared said. Harold waited silently for more. He hadn’t been close enough to Jared for more than a casual shouted greeting, and a raised hand in passing, for several years. When they’d come of age at thirteen, Harold hadn’t been selected as a potential breeder—thus condemning him to a lifetime of bachelorhood. Jared had not only been selected as a breeder, he’d been selected as a house servant. Harold understood that Jared was a sort of Personal Secretary for the Boss—part butler, part data entry and retrieval; part confidant. For some reason, Jared had never taken advantage of his breeding status to marry. Harold had often mildly wondered if Jared might be gay. That didn’t matter though. Jared was a friend. He wouldn’t approve of him being a deviant, but on the other hand, it wouldn’t strike him from Harold’s list of friends either. A friend was a friend—with all their faults—until they unambiguously disavowed you, or until one of you died. “How old are you Harold? Thirty-eight?” Jared began. “You should know. I was born three days before you. We always celebrated our birthdays on the same weekend,” Harold offered. “Yes I know. I’m trying to make a point. What are the days of man?” “Once the days of man were three-score and ten. Now a Laborer’s days are two-score and ten; but a Leader’s days are seven-score and ten. Do the Leaders truly live so long?” Harold asked after the schoolhouse catechism answer. “Actually, their average life expectancy is closer to one eighty than one fifty nowadays—and they’re working to lengthen it all the time. But finish the catechism…” Jared Said. “But a man is fortunate if he reaches two score and five before the darkness claims him,” Harold finished. “How does that grab you Harold? You’ve worked your way to the top of your profession. Leaders bring their horses from all over Southern Indiana and North Western Kentucky for you to heal and mend. You’re a Master—but you’ve got about seven years at most. You’ll almost certainly be slipping up, and put on restricted duty the last three to four years—Master Chief only by courtesy.” “What can I say? I’d like to live longer—maybe even to the full fifty, with my mind intact. As long as we’re phantasizing, hell I’d like to have the old three-score and ten. But what can be done? That’s simply the way life is,” Harold asked. “That isn’t simply happenstance. The Leaders—or their forefathers—set it up that way, over a century ago,” Jared stated calmly, but with a certain emphasis. “No Jared, you’re getting it wrong. Don’t you remember what they taught us in school? God chose the Leaders and their descendants to be our caretakers—our shepherds, as it were…” “The lessons you learn in school are lies. God didn’t have a thing to do with it. It was all man’s doing. If they didn’t vaccinate all their children when they were young; they would start going senile in their early forties—just like us. “Their longer life spans are the result of genetic engineering, and certain treatments,” Jared continued. “Trust me, I work in the Big House. I know things.” Harold had to absorb all that for a moment. For the first time in his life, he felt cheated by events beyond his control. “Even if all that is true, why tell me? What can be done?” “Have you ever heard of the Underground? Bill Perry? Bill Elder? The Yakuza?” Jared asked. “No. Never heard of any of them,” Harold responded. “If I could put you in touch with some people who live hidden in the Boondocks; people who can give you a cure for your impending senility—albeit at a certain price—and give you a life span that a Leader would envy—assuming that you don’t meet a violent end—which is all too likely—would you be interested? Would you be willing to give up what you have here—for a shot at life, and more importantly, freedom?” To his credit, Harold didn’t answer immediately, but took the time to mull the question a bit. “Don’t answer me now. Think about it for three days. If you decide to go through with it, come see me in the big house after dark. You know the small cellar entrance, in line with the woodshed? Come there and knock SO”: Jared demonstrated a simple tapping rhythm. ********* ************************************ ********** Harold was a certified hunter—the Leaders enjoyed fresh venison, and other wild meat occasionally. And while many of the Leaders enjoyed hunting, they didn’t always have the time. The Leaders had a firm hold on their situation, and little if any fear of an uprising. So it wasn’t that remarkable that Harold had a double barrel twenty-eight gauge. The shotgun was good for small game and loaded with the brass shells that had a single fifty-five caliber round ball over a stiff charge of powder; the Gun was good for deer or black bear inside fifty yards. Harold had screw-in rifled inserts for the double barrel, that lengthened its accurate range by at least half—but there was seldom time to screw them in against targets of opportunity. He also had a bolt action .22 and a .357 Single Action Revolver. The .22 was for small game. The .357 was supposed to be more a badge of office when he went on a big hunt with the Bosses, than anything else. Bosses wore Double Action Revolvers in the field—and generally a Lever Action .30-30, if they were after big game. The Bosses’ Bosses didn’t like the idea of even Bosses having Semi-Auto weapons—even those plainly designed as hunting arms—so one seldom saw Semi-Autos afield, though that didn’t apply to shotguns as much. Higher Ratings like Harold could own and carry a Single Action. It could only be safely carried with five chambers loaded, and it had to be thumb-cocked for each shot. As a practical matter, it was still a deadly weapon—but in the status and caste conscious Leader’s eyes, it was a nice step-down to reinforce class distinctions. Young Boss David—(Though now in his early fifties, he had lived longer than Harold’s maximum life expectancy—but he was still two generations away from running the Plantation) had come across the writings of Elmer Keith somewhere. He’d grooved on the idea of handgun hunting. He’d loaned Harold some of his books, and encouraged him to be a rival shooter and handgun hunter. So Harold knew quite a bit more than even the average Rating did about handgun use. What Harold couldn’t come across very easily, was a large number of rounds of ammo. Of course if he’d started some time ago, he could have put back a little at a time, with little fear of discovery. Going to the Armory and asking for several thousand rounds—or even several hundred—would raise a few eyebrows. He did go and ask for a five hundred and fifty-five round brick of high speed .22LRs; one hundred rounds of .357 Lead Semi-Wadcutter Hollow Points; Two dozen 28 Gauge single ball loads; a dozen of the nickel-plated buffered BB shot in the 3 ¼” Shells; along with three dozen of the 2 ¾” #6s and four dozen of the 2 ¾” # 7s. That shouldn’t arouse much comment. It was about enough for a good practice session, or two, and a hunting trip to follow. With less than a million people in what had once been Indiana; and half or more of them living in the small cities, there was little need for hunting seasons. People went when the urge struck them, assuming that they could get time off. As a senior Rating, Harold could take off a few days almost anytime he pleased. Besides, he told himself, he had about all the ammunition that he could conveniently carry… ************** ***************************** ************ Harold went to the small cellar door and knocked just as Jared had instructed him. Jared met him without any undue delay. “Come with me,” he said without preamble, turning away, and leading Harold up a hidden stairwell. Harold followed him. He began to wonder if he’d done the right thing by coming unarmed. It was quite conceivable that Jared might betray him. After all, Jared had worked many years in the big house. His motivations were largely obscure. As Harold saw it, he had little to lose. If there was folk hiding in the forest, with the means to stop his brain starting to devour itself shortly after his fortieth birthday, well and good. If not, Jared’s assertions had ruined any pleasure and satisfaction that he might have taken in his duties over the next few months. Striking out on his own, and alone, to inevitably lapse into mindless senility in a very few years was just as futile. No, if Jared was leading him to his doom, so be it. When Jared led him into a small hidden room, and he saw Young Boss David sitting behind a small desk, his hair stood on end. So it was a trap after all. For the barest instant, he wished that he’d brought his .357. But it passed. Jared’s words had rung true—whether he was a Judas or not. He’d permanently taken away purpose Harold might have felt in life. He didn’t really mind dying. Taking the Young Boss, who he’d once counted as a friend—despite their differences in station, wouldn’t have made dying any sweeter. In fact, he could have carried his Revolver. Then he could have—quite possibly—have killed the Young Boss. But the Young Boss had no more created this reality than Harold had, and was no more to blame. Harold had loved this man. David’s life—from this moment on—would be gift of friendship from Harold to one he’d once looked upon as a mentor. That would be a bond of friendship that neither time, nor Young David ordering Harold’s execution could ever erase. .....RVM45
. . . ..... Chapter Fifteen <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" /> Young Boss David saw the look of pure horror on Harold’s face, and he hastened to hold up a hand placatingly. “Peace, I’m here to help with your escape—not to turn you in,” David said. Harold’s world had been rocked a couple of times already. He wasn’t quite able to assimilate it all at once; so he sat on one of the chairs in the small room, and amused himself by listening to his frantically beating heart gradually return to normal. “Harold, we’ve always been close. We’ve shot together. We’ve ridden together. We’ve gone on long hunting and fishing trips together. Have you never guessed why?” Harold shook his head in total bewilderment. He had never questioned his relationship with Young Boss David. It simply was. “I’m your father Harold,” David said. “That isn’t possible,” Harold managed to protest—albeit weakly. “Why not? They teach you in school that we’re two separate races and not cross-fertile; but I assure you that we are. It is just one more instance of them lying to you.” “But even if a Leader could impregnate a Laborer…” Harold began. “They teach you in school, that women are filthy nasty creatures, and that if a man has sex with one without some elaborate cleansing procedures, that he’ll almost certainly contact a venereal disease—a disease that is almost incurable in men; and will leave him sterile within a fortnight. That’s the rap, isn’t it?” Harold nodded mutely. “There is a certain element of truth in that. Almost all Laborer women are carriers of a disease that will quickly infect and sterilize a man—any man. We engineered the disease, so we wouldn’t have too much unplanned breeding—interferes with our Eugenics program, don’t you know? “Only the last couple generations we’ve pretty much gotten away from planned Eugenics. We’ve found that it simply isn’t necessary to insure control.” David paused to pour a large portion of Bourbon into glass and handed it to Harold. “Drink up! You look like you need something to ease the shock. By the way, that’s why you weren’t allowed to marry. You’re far too intelligent. That is one of the elements of our slave breeding program that we still adhere to—eliminate the top fifteen percent intelligence wise…” “Slaves!?!” Harold exploded. All his life, he’d been taught to carefully avoid the term “Slave” or “Slavery”. “You can call a turnip an ‘apple’ if you will. That doesn’t change the taste of it. It is still a turnip. You and the others are still slaves,” David said. After that had a few moments to soak in, and Harold had finished his drink—much faster than he ordinarily would have—with plenty of coaxing from David and Jared—David finally continued. “It is a myth that it takes all kinds of lengthy treatments to cure a woman—like they put them through before they marry. A simple shot of an anti-viral agent will cure it. I assure you that all the house serving girls are cured and triple tested before they assume their duties. “Having sex with the help is considered déclassé; but it is bound to happen occasionally…” David poured all of them another drink, and then continued. “I was only fourteen years old, but I truly loved your mother. She was nineteen. She died a couple years later, miscarrying her second child. I sent you to be raised by your aunt, but I resolved to give you every advantage.” “You’re my father? Then I shouldn’t suffer from early senility,” Harold hypothesized. “Sorry. There’s a vaccine, but it won’t work without the proper gene sequence—and unfortunately, you didn’t inherit that from me. If you had, we could have snuck you in as a Leader. Believe me, I had your genes carefully sequenced,” David said. “Well thanks. That’s mighty big of you,” Harold said bitterly. “Harold, it was a madman’s game, altering gene sequences that we didn’t fully comprehend; and turning custom plagues loose on the World. “I’ll give you an example. Leaders discourage extramarital sex, even as Laborers do—but it is somewhat more common, perhaps since the consequences are generally less dire. “However, if a Leader woman is caught fornicating with a Laborer man; they are both put to death. Yet a Leader woman did catch the sterility virus from a male Laborer. She didn’t bother to have it treated—though she could have done so under amnesty. “She didn’t bother to tell me—though it would have only been simple human decency. She gave it to me. Even though I promptly sought treatment, the virus had mutated into a new, non-treatable form. They haven’t found a cure for it, even unto this day. “Worse, although I wanted to publicly denounce her, and have her stoned, our families came to an accommodation—to eliminate scandal. “Scandal! What is scandal, compared to the futility of shooting blanks for the rest of my life?” David raged. “I thought that you claimed to love my mother,” Harold said. “I did. But your mother had been gone for four years when I met that slut. I never claimed to be a saint—or even particularly good. I have all sorts of warts and faults—but I am trying to do right by you. I love you,” Young Boss David said. “Okay, that’s a lot to absorb at one time—but I can mostly dig it so far.” “Harold, I want to give you my .357. My father gave it to me, before he was killed in a hunting accident. It’s a five-inch Model 27 Smith and Wesson. It is a grand Gun. The handling should be close to your 4-¾ inch Single Action. “I’ll give you a quick lesson how to shoot Double Action. You’ll have to do some dry-firing to completely master it. “But let me tell you what my father always said about thumb-cocking a Double Action revolver: ‘Son, thumb-cocking a Double Action revolver is nothing to be ashamed of—provided that you only do it in private; wash your hands thoroughly afterward; and never discuss the practice in the presence of ladies or impressionable young folk.’ “I have couple other Guns for you. This is a 2 ½ inch Smith and Wesson Model 19 .357; it’s what you call a ‘hideout’. And this is a Lever Action Marlin .357 that you can take apart into two pieces. “I also want you to ‘steal’ my best three riding horses when you leave tonight—and anything else that isn’t nailed down, if you think that it will help you.” The rest of Young Boss David’s talk was routes; signs and counter signs. Harold hadn’t even known that there was a resistance—or even that there was anything to resist, until a few days before. Consequently he wasn’t nearly as surprised as he might have been, that a Leader like young Boss David could be a high-ranking member of the underground. It was all new to him. Twenty minutes later, as Harold stood to leave, David offered him his hand. Harold ignored the proffered hand. He swept David into a tight embrace. “I love you father. It pains me to leave you.” He did his best to hurry and leave, because he knew the proud man wouldn’t want Harold to witness his tears. ************ ************************************* *********** Harold figured that with Boss David’s blessing, that while there was no time to shilly-shally around, there was no particular need to slip and skulk around either. He roused the Master Chief Quartermaster out of a sound sleep, to tell him that he was taking a few of the teenaged Leaders into the bush for several weeks, and that he had a grocery list. The list included bacon; beans; salt; sugar; flour and an improbable amount of coffee. The Master Chief Quartermaster never thought to doubt Harold’s word. Harold was a Master Chief himself, an A-one woodsman and quite capable of leading such an expedition. The Quartermaster’s main concern was to fill the order quickly, so he could get back to bed that much sooner. He didn’t even complain too much, when Harold added an expensive selection of spices; a couple five-pound blocks of hard baker’s chocolate, and a couple of the big half-gallon bottles full of twelve-year-old scotch. With three horses, Harold could have taken a lot more gear and grub. Truth was; he didn’t really need more. He was either going to hook up with his allies fairly quickly, and they’d have all the supplies that he needed—or he had less than a seven-year life expectancy. He could stretch his supplies to last over a year. He had more than enough ammo and gear to live fairly well in the woods for the next six years after that. His Aunt had always told him that sometimes it is the better part of wisdom to quit eating before you got sick—even if that left you open to charges of “Hoggishness”. He hated to be hoggish and leave good gear behind—but it was better to be thought hoggish than to let himself be overburdened through greed. Young Boss David—his father—he reminded himself with wonder, had told him to take anything he wanted. Thus emboldened, he saddled two of the horses. That way he’d have an extra saddle, if he lost one. He fitted the third horse out as a packhorse. He’d rotate the loads every couple days, so no horse worked harder—and was thus more likely to give out, than the others. He stopped by the kennel, and got two of his favorite hunting dogs. Then noticing that the rifle and shotgun scabbards were both empty on his spare horse; he roused the Armorer out of bed, and demanded a .30-30; ammo; and another Double Barreled 28 Gauge. Now he had a spare centerfire rifle and shotgun too. It was about 4:00 am as Harold finally left the plantation. He was glad that no one was around to see the tears run down his face as he left the only home that he’d ever known. He’d never considered leaving. He’d never heard of anyone running away—much less taking beaucoup valuable gear and saddle stock with them. His father—he stopped to roll that word around on his mind’s tongue a bit more—had assured him that there would be little, if any, effort to recapture him. Then in a week or two, the story would make the rounds that Harold had drown; or ran up against a mean black bear sow with cubs or had a horse fall on him and break his neck—or something. A few of the savvy Laborers—which Harold realized now that he had never been—might put two and two together. Most of them would take the report at face value. People nowadays were remarkably credulous. *********** ******************************** ************ They didn’t teach Laborers escape and evasion techniques. Nonetheless, Harold knew his way around the woods. He was also very well read, by Laborer standards. There were still cities. Rumor had it that Chicago—just outside of Indiana—had over seven hundred thousand people. But Harold had never been to Chicago, or even Indianapolis or Louisville. He had very little interest in reading about the lives of the folks who had lived in boxes of glass and stainless steel before the plagues—whether the stories were fiction or biographical. It scarcely mattered to Harold. All the stories of city life seemed stilted and surreal. Harold had grooved on stories of hunters and warriors though—Cowboys; Indians; Vikings; Frontiersmen and Explorers. So Harold had an intelligent and well-read woodsman’s ideas of how to hide and be inconspicuous. He avoided open spaces when he could. He avoided silhouetting himself against the skyline. He was careful where he set-up his camp—and more careful how he set his fire. He covered every sign of his having been somewhere as well as he could, before he moved on. Whenever he hunted, he always limited himself to one shot—either passing up shots he wasn’t sure of—or far less often, simply writing off as lost, game that ran away after being shot—even when a perfect opportunity for a follow-up shot had presented itself. He often circled around to watch his back trail to see if anyone was following him. Living in the bush fulltime, along with the constant need for vigilance, sharpened both Harold’s skills and his powers of observation. Harold had never been a “People Person”—spending far more of his attention on ideas and activities than he did thinking of gossip. Nonetheless, Harold had never been anywhere near this alone for anywhere near this long. As the days turned into weeks, Harold started to change. The solitude was a part of it. Being in the woods fulltime was part of the experience too. Having had most of his comfortable illusions about life shattered by Jared and Young Boss David contributed. Reading—and pondering-- the only book that he’d brought—a leather-bound King James Bible—that contributed to the change too. And although he’d known before, now the thought that he was living under an immanent death sentence was never out of his conscious for long. So it happened that when he finally caught up to the Yakuza that his father had sent him in search of, that he’d already become much more a Warrior than he’d been the day before Jared had dropped a bombshell in his lap. Of course the Yakuza had training methods that could have sharpened almost anyone’s focus and awareness. Harold hadn’t eliminated the need—he’d simply prepared himself to benefit from his upcoming training that much more… .....RVM45
. . . ..... Chapter Sixteen <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" /> The dojo was underground. The Yakuza had built the vast room in the shape of an extra-large Quonset hut—a “D” shaped cross section with the flat of the “D” corresponding to the floor, and the highest part of the ceiling thirty-five feet overhead. The Sensei was an old man—who was nonetheless thickly muscled. He had thick white hair that reached below his waist and he wore several bead necklaces around his neck—including one with big round Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws. He sometimes paused to remove the beads before he skirmished. Unlike most of the students, who wore white gis, the old man’s gi was red. Some of the students called him “Inuyasha”—but never to the old man’s face. But it had been the same advanced students who’d gifted him the red gi. With the hair and the beads, it seemed a shame for Sensei not to have a flowing red gi. The Green belted judoka had no idea who “Inuyasha” was. He dimly gathered that he was an ancient cartoon character. It didn’t occur to him to wonder about it. Nor did he wonder what Sensei’s actual name was. He was far too busy worrying about his studies. Three hours of Judo every morning. At night—depending on the season of the year, they studied Wrestling, Boxing, Kung Fu and Karate. Judo would serve them well if their client was well clothed. In Summer, when a client might very well be half-naked, or wearing only a T-shirt, the Wrestling practice would prepare them to deal with grappling against bare sweaty arms. There were classes in Kendo, Western Style Fencing; Knife Fighting; The Modern Technique of The Pistol—as taught by the great Sensei Jeff Cooper, almost two centuries ago. There were also classes in lock picking, gunsmithing, computer hacking, and electronics. They learned anatomy and drawing and the psychology of clients and client wanna-bees. They even took time out to teach tracking, woodcraft, horsemanship and motorcycle riding. The Senseis often said,” Don’t tell me that you understand how this joint, or coupling or linkage works, and then tell me that you can’t draw it from memory. That is obviously a contradiction.” The red-clad Sensei had told them that in Japan they didn’t have colored belts. One was a black belt or he was a white belt—although they did recognize the different grades. However, Red felt the colored belts were a useful innovation. It had taken the judoka well over a year to earn a yellow belt and almost another year to move up to green. He’d been a green belt for about three months now and he was in for the long haul. Traditionally—at least in the Yakuza school of Judo—the step from green belt to the first level of brown was the biggest, most demanding and took the longest. Lately it seemed Sensei was picking on him. He tried to persevere, but his resentment was building up. Sensei wasn’t being even remotely fair. He was also overly free with slaps to the face. A slap across the face always sent the judoka into a berserker that he had to control. He’d almost lost his temper several times. Sensei didn’t slap most of his students. Only a few were singled out for this special treatment. The judoka did not appreciate being in the special group at all. He’d often thought about discussing his feelings with Sensei, but some vague misgiving always held him back. SLAP! “You call that a breakfall? Go stand in the corner and practice your falls,” Sensei scolded him. “I have had just about enough of you—you old SOB. If you strike me again, you and me are going to go at it for real,” The green belt raged. “I’ll be happy to quit slapping you—if you can answer a couple simple questions. Who is this red clad old man who torments you?” Sensei taunted. The judoka was about to solve that surprisingly complex Koan—or riddle—when Sensei threw his mind into total vapor lock. “And who are YOU?” His mind tumbled through a jumble of psychedelic and kaleidoscopic images. “You are Bill Perry. No you can’t be Bill Perry. I’m Bill Perry—no wait—you’re Bill Perry, and I’m Bill Elder—no but you’re Bill Elder…” He was down on his knees without realizing he’d fallen. It wasn’t a gesture of either worship or supplication. His balance had simply failed. He fell back to a seated position. “I am Harold—Master Chief Stableman, and the son of Boss David. You told me that allowing foreign memories to be implanted in my brain was part of the treatment to prevent senility. You also told me that my own personality would be submerged for a while, but that the chances for its eventual reemergence were excellent. Good Lord, I’ve been in a fugue for over two years…” “Take the rest of the day off Harold. Take a week or two. When you come back, tell the supply sergeant to fix you up with a brown belt. With Bill Perry and my Martial arts training memories available to your conscious mind, you’ll be a black belt in no time,” Bill told him. *************** **************************** ***************** “Here,” the old man said, handing Harold a necklace made of Mammoth Ivory beads and Kodiak bear claws. “Try to take care of these. We issue a set—and a couple of extras—to each new Bill Elder copy. They’re a badge of office—of sorts. Those Mammoth beads are damn hard to come by—or the tusks to make them out of are. We’ve considered going to Elephant or Walrus Ivory, but we’re traditionalists.” “You are Kogi. For some reason, my Bill Elder memories are much harder to access than the Bill Perry memories—but I recognize you,” Harold said. “Bill Perry was dead—so his memories had a sort of completeness to them. We took Bill Elders memories seventy-five years ago—including the Bill Perry sub-routine. Thing is, Bill wasn’t dead yet. He’s teaching Judo right now. He also censored a comparatively few of his memories. “Think about it. If we were recording your memories in seventy years—would you want someone to remember having sex with your beloved? Anyway, the censored spots, and the fact that Bill’s memories don’t have a clear-cut terminus—well, they take a bit more practice to use.” “Why do I have to have Bill’s memories anyway?” “We gave you several different kind of drugs. We drilled a small hole in your head—and introduced a mixture of mutated human embryonic brain cells, and millions fascinating little microprocessors that start out mobile, and shop for the best place to plug themselves into the biological matrix. It puts a stop to the Noveau Alzheimer’s but with out a big blast of loose data… “Well we don’t know why, but having to try to cope with a whole personality engram stimulates the embryonic cells and the nanoprocessors to settle down and tighten up their formation.” “So what role does you Boondockers play in the overall scheme of things?” Harold asked. “There are many issues of temporary expediency; but in short, we try to survive and keep our numbers and technology high enough, that when the Leaders finally fade away completely, that the human race doesn’t go the way of the dinosaurs and the dodo bird.” “I hate to break it to you and all—but the bosses ain’t aimin’ to pass away anytime soon,” Harold opined. “The Leaders and the Laborers are both headed for inevitable extinction. Between the rapidly mutating Noveau Alzheimer’s; the sterility virus; and a few other bonehead moves…Well, we couldn’t help them if we tried. “Thing is: they can’t help but know we exist; but we can’t afford to antagonize them too much. If they decided to, they could wreck the world’s ecosystem with their damned genetically engineered viruses and bacteria. They could rather easily do the same favor for plant and animal life that they’ve already done for themselves—if we antagonize them—which is to say, doom them to eventual extinction.” “How do you know all this?” “We have much better computers and mathematicians and programmers than they do. We run airtight simulations.” “What are the odds?” Harold asked. “At the moment, fairly hopeful. The Leaders won’t recognize the impossible nature of their problems for some time. Their numbers should slowly decline over the next couple millennia. We have room in the Boondocks to increase our numbers drastically. “So far, as the Leaders population has declined, they’ve looked at it as a good thing—and they’ve done a good job of putting deserted areas back into a natural, sustainable state. “And we learn more all the time. It is hard to increase knowledge with so few resources and personnel to devote to it. Human’s probably couldn’t…” Kogi saw the look on Harold’s face. “That’s right Harold. Even though we may have been born human, we’re no longer completely human here,” Kogi touched his forehead, “Or here.” He grabbed his crotch for emphasis. “We couldn’t side-step all the viruses without altering a few gene sequences. It’s dangerous to fiddle with things that you don’t fully understand. That’s what got the Bosses tails in a wringer. We had no choice though. “You’ve had the change too. None of your children—should you have any—will be subject to NA, Viral Sterility—or any human disease for that matter.” “So what can I contribute to this cyberpunk dog and pony show?” Harold asked. “Finish training. There’s long list of ill-considered projects we manage to steer the Leaders away from—by making the cost too high. Sometimes we fail. People get killed. And the work is important—if you want to sign on. “Go rest now, and take care of your beads. Wear them proudly—Sensei…” .....RVM45
. . ... When I’m inspired, I spend many hours per week working on “Fugue”—or whatever my latest story is. Typically, I might write between 9:00 am to 2:30 pm—up to even 4:30 pm. (When I work that late, then supper is late too—since I get a late start a fixing it.) This is Monday through Friday. Very little gets written over the weekends. <?xml:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-comfficeffice" /> I can generally write a 2200 word chapter in about five hours—no high-speed typist I. Some days though, I spend all day writing a chapter, only to decide that it’s crap and delete it. Sometimes I run out of ideas and have to spend a day plotting. And sometimes other affairs take me away from the keyboard and the CRT. Also, occasionally I’ll finish a chapter up at night, or carry a chapter unfinished from one day to the next—but either is rare. The point is, this is almost a full-time occupation for me. I need to take time away from “Fugue” for a few weeks to work on other projects. I would hate to leave it as it stands now—but if worse came to worse, it does have a sort of closure: The Yakuza settled in for the long haul, in the sure and certain knowledge that both the Leaders and the Laborers were irrevocably doomed to eventual extinction. And while Bill Elder may die, his personality—and more than likely Harold’s too—will continue to be passed down among the Yakuza. Be all that as it may. I do intend to come back and add to the story eventually. Right now, I need to concentrate on my health (You know, exercise, diet, that kinda thing; my art—before I loose my ability to draw and paint altogether; and trying to get one of my stories into publishable shape—to try and make some cutter(cash)). (If anyone cares—I’m going to be heavily re-writing and finishing “Parallels”. I think in its new incarnation, that it will be the most likely of my stories to be a commercial success. And as much as I hate to, I’m going to forego posting as I go—the reason being that when I do, my main emphasis shifts to pleasing my online readers; and getting something done by X O’Clock so I can post it and hear y’all’s praise.) .....RVM45
Cool, the story is interesting and hope it gets an ending at some point. Let us know how the publishing attempts go.
This is an awesome story so far and I can't imagine it NOT making a good commercial showing when you finish it. Thank you so much for the entertainment. I really do appreciate it. Where can I find Parallels?
