zzambrosius_02: (Default)
[personal profile] zzambrosius_02
CHAPTER ELEVEN: Eh, What’s Up, Doc?

Ambros sat, teetering on the edge of a straight-backed chair, his hands still behind him. He’d been awake since seven or so on Wednesday morning. “It has to be nearly 5 AM on Thursday,” he said, loudly. Maybe someone would hear him, now that the graveyard shift was over and day-shift cops would be in the building.

“Okay,” he said, a little less loudly: “I need to pee, and I need sleep. I’ll get neither while I’m bound like this.” The need to piss was becoming urgent. He set to work, lying down on the floor, working his bound hands downward. It was trick they’d all practiced, in his affinity group: “Get your hands in front of you, at any cost. Even cuffed, you’re better off that way.”

It took a while, but he knew he could do it. He kept the pressure on: push, rest, push. Finally he was there, pushing his legs between his arms, and then slumping in exhaustion.

Not for long, though: “Piss. Piss, piss.” He wasn’t cussing; he was obsessing. He dragged himself over to the trashcan and lifted the hem of his kilt.

“Aahh,” he said. He sat back on the floor, relieved.

He looked at his wrists: he was bound with a plain zip-tie. “Like one you’d use to gather up wires or something.” It was tight enough to be digging in to his skin and chafing his wrists badly. He shrugged: the plastic was thicker and tougher than he’d hoped, but the solution was the same. “Chew, gnaw, bite,” he said, unhappily. He began the job, jawing away at the plastic.



He awoke suddenly, and realized he must have passed out from exhaustion. He was on the floor, shivering. His wrists were near his face, still zipped together, and there was a puddle of drool around them, with little flecks of blood mixed in. He sat up, rolled to his feet and began to stretch and limber. “Warm up, get loose. You need to be ready to act. Stretch harder!”

When he was done, he sat on the chair. Then he shrugged and went back to work on the plastic tie.

To his surprise, it parted easily. “I must have been nearly through it when I fell asleep,” he said. He rubbed his chafed and bloody wrists. Then, with no other option, wiped his hands on his kilt. “Oh well, at least it’s a black and red kilt.”

He looked up at the little window, now bright with late summer sun. Morning or afternoon, he had no idea: he wasn’t even sure which side of the building he was on.

The renegade cops who had kidnapped him had taken only the Shifter. The rest of his stuff was still in the pockets of the kilt. When he considered the implications of that, he got really worried: “They left me with two knives, one of them a weapon. They aren’t coming back for me. Either I get out of this room on my own, or someone finds me by accident, or…” He shook his head, turned his attention to the door. With his ear against it he could hear people in the hall outside, but barely. ‘My hearing is preposterously good, though, since my treatment in the Commonwealth.’ He pounded and kicked at the door, anyway, to see if he could attract attention that way. Nothing doing. He got out his small folding knife.

“Fucking hinges are on the outside, but that’s not a heavy-duty doorknob.” He set to work, trying to disassemble it from the inside. He cursed and grumbled, then, when he got frustrated, he thought of his other option. He sat down and touched the spot on the back of his left wrist. Up popped the holographic image of a Shifter.

He could now see where he was: the west side of the building, and that window was at ground level. “Maybe I slept six hours?” A check of his watch confirmed that.

Back to the Multiversal Positioning System: a few quick voice commands and he found the location of his actual Shifter: in the crime lab on the same basement floor that he was on. It was de-activated, of course: it had shut itself down as soon as Riggles touched it.

However…the MPS indicated that someone was handling the real Shifter. ‘Oh shit,’ he thought: ‘I gotta get outta here.’

He used the MPS to look for duct work or tunnels. There was an HVAC grate near the one electrical outlet, on the wall near the door. There were ducts all over the building, but there were none big enough to crawl through anywhere near his prison. He growled. He was beyond cursing.

An alarm went off. “Shit! Shit!” He was kicking at the door, trying to draw attention to himself. To no avail: smoke began to enter the room, through the too-small-to crawl-through duct. He could hear people running up and down the hall outside, but no one, it seemed, could hear him. The smoke got thicker, and he began to cough.

He lay down on the floor. “Helluva way to go, after all my recent good luck. If there is an afterlife, after all, I’m gonna kick some deity’s ass.” He was coughing again, helpless to stop. He felt his mind shutting down, one piece at a time: finally he passed out.



“O-o-o-oh.” He pushed himself to his hands and knees. He coughed: enormous wads of black phlegm spewed from his lungs and bronchii. The air was clear, or at least clearing. He crawled over to the grate, found that it was sucking the smoke out of the room. He turned to the door, lay down in front of it, and took huge gulping breaths of the sweet cleanish air that was rushing in under the barrier. Then he coughed up more gunk.

When he felt somewhat recovered, he stood up and reeled over to the chair, and sat down. His mouth was dry; his throat felt sanded. He wondered how much longer he could last, thirsty and hungry and alone. The window above him was black, and his watch said one. It had stopped, though. ‘What,’ he thought: ‘you forgot to wind it? Have something else on your mind, eh?’

Hours passed; his mind slowly went blank. He found himself staring at the wall, mindless, foolish. He shook himself into action again: “Get up, do something!”

The window was now lit, but dimly. The light was fading. “It has to be about nine PM,’ he thought: ‘maybe 8:30.’ Of what day? He didn’t know. It didn’t matter.

He was so thirsty that he could barely think of anything else. He knew then what he had to do. “This sucks pond scum,” he croaked. But he rose and went over to the wastebasket. He stood looking into it, at the urine he’d deposited there—how long ago?—it didn’t matter. He took off his tee shirt, shredding it with his teeth and nails until he had a piece about ten inches square. Only after he’d done that did he remember his little knife. He pulled that out and went to the chair.

He cut off as large a hunk of the plastic seat as he could get, and bent and cut and twisted and folded it until he had a sort of cup or bowl. He grimaced and refused to think ahead.

He tipped the trashcan to one side, saw that he had about a cup and a half of fluid. He arranged the cloth over the ‘cup’ and slowly, carefully, poured the piss through the improvised filter and into the plastic container. He threw the rag against the wall, lifted the cup to his lips and drank. ‘Don’t think, just swallow,’ he thought.

He kept it down, barely. He sat for a bit, cross-legged on the floor, working at not gagging. “Calm, relax,” he meditated, getting his head straight again. After perhaps an hour, he stood up. “All right,” he said aloud: “One more try.” He picked up the chair and walked towards the door, preparing to smash the damn thing to splinters against the barricade, in hopes of being heard. He drew back his arms, the chair high above his head and a little behind his shoulders. He was ready to twist and swing and deliver the blow.

The doorknob turned.

He dropped the chair. One of its legs shattered.

The door swung open. There was Deputy Daniel Samuelson, with Donald Castle, plus Luisa and Kim and Marie close behind him.

He took a deep breath, then said, in a dismal croak: “Hey, nice to see you all. Can we go somewhere and get a cheeseburger, and maybe a straight shot?”



He was sitting with Dan at one end of a downtown bar/burger joint, nursing a whisky. His lips were swollen, the lower lip split, and both eyes were black. He could feel the bruises around his ribs and abdomen. “I’m pretty sure they didn’t break anything this time,” he said, rubbing his sore sternum.

He was replete, for he had dined well. He’d made them stop at the Salon, so he could get his Pismo. It sat humming, almost tunefully, on the table to one side of them, doing the jobs he’d asked it to do.

The women were sitting at the bar, which he’d asked them to do. “I have to talk to this Deputy Sheriff about some crimes and some potentially incriminating stuff. I’m not keeping this secret from you, but if you are sitting with us, he won’t talk.”

“So when Ms Amundsen came to your Salon for a lesson for her children, she found the broken door and no sign of you,” Deputy Dan said. Ms Amundsen was Jonie, Ambros knew. “She had the number at the Rosefield Avenue house, and she called to check on you. Ms Milonacci called me, since you’d given her my cell number, and she also called Castle.”

“Let me guess,” Ambros said: “Castle insisted on a search of the Jail, then the cop shop at City Hall.”

“And I was able to expedite that. So it all worked out, I guess.”

Ambros growled: “You guess? You won’t be coughing up blood and ashes for the next two days. Your ribs and chest won’t hurt every time you take a deep breath. Crunch situps and stretching exercises won’t bring you to the verge of tears. I guess that works out, for you.”

Dan sat silent, aware of how angry Rothakis was.

Ambros let the silence grow for a while. Finally Dan started to say something and Ambros interrupted: “See, I know how to do this stuff, this psychological manipulation, too. Now I need to find out some things from you, and I need you to answer straight. I already know the answers to some of these queries, so if you BS me, I might call you on it. Or I might just walk out. Got that?”

“Usually I am the one interrogating a suspect.”

“This is not a usual sort of situation.” Ambros stared with lowered eyebrows: “Now pay attention, eh? Morley and Riggles clearly intended to kill me.”

“Now, hold on there…”

“Stop. Full stop. When was the last time that room was used for anything?”

“Well…” Dan was on shaky ground, and knew it.

“It was two months ago. That’s what the desk sergeant told me. Did he lie?”

“I don’t know, maybe, maybe not,” said Dan, looking morose.

“Is there any chance those two will lose their jobs?” asked Ambros.

“After this? With them on video kidnapping you? Locking you up to suffer for days? Messing with that ‘phone’ of yours, and setting the crime lab on fire?”

“Not coming to get me when the fire started…” Ambros snarled: “When nobody else in the building knew I was there? Eh?”

“Yeah that, too.” Dan sighed: “There is a good chance they’ll lose their positions for that stuff. Their union will defend them, though. They’ve gotten away with some bad shit before. Not as bad as this, but.”

Ambros growled: “So there’s a chance that they get fined and demoted again, and get to keep playing cops and robbers until they actually kill someone. And they are out on bail again.” Ambros’ expression was beyond sour. He looked like he might spit. He didn’t.

Ambros took another sip: the Irish tasted wonderful, charcoal and vanilla and a touch of oak. It burned at his soft palate, raw from smoke and thirst. He swished it around, felt the burn, reveling in the sensations of life. Finally he spoke again: “Can you do anything about those two? I know you are not in their chain of command, but…”

“I’d love to,” Dan said: “I can’t. If anything gets done about them at all, it will be by the State Police. The Chief has turned the whole investigation over to Salem.”

“I was afraid of that.” Ambros pondered some more: “Okay, I am gonna take matters into my own hands, then. I promise you, they won’t die. Not by my hand. But they are going to be put out of mischief, before they succeed in killing me, or turn their attention to my associates.” He looked over at the women, then back at the deputy: “Do you understand me?”

“I do understand. I am also not hearing this, do you understand that?” Dan was practically whispering.

“Good. Now pay attention again: Riggles and Morley are going to vanish from the face of the earth.”

“Like Clotarde?” the Deputy laughed.

“More or less exactly like Clotarde. Except they won’t have the foggiest idea what happened to them. Clotarde probably had a very foggy idea what he was doing, you see. Our boys are gonna be in the dark, way up a creek without paddles or even boats.”

“You really believe that you can grab two cops, one of them twice your size, and make them vanish, don’t you?”

“Oh, I don’t just believe it, Deputy. I know I can do it. And I will, too. I most definitely will.”

“Well, good luck with that. Fellow officers or not, I wouldn’t mind seeing the last of them.”

“Well, I expect I’ll have to bring them back, eventually.”

“Right. Of course you would.”

At that moment, a man in a floor-length black cloak came out of the restroom. He was a cadaverous fellow, with high cheekbones that made him look rather alien. Ambros knew him: one of the Techs who worked in the basement at the War Guilds’ HQ.

The man walked over to the table where Ambros and the Deputy were sitting, and handed Ambros a new Shifter, black like the first one.

“Efaristae Xilia,” Ambros said, nodding.

The man nodded in return, turned, and left, going back into the loo. Ambros attached the new Shifter to his Pismo, and looked at Dan challengingly. The Deputy frowned, then forebore to comment.

Instead he said: “What will you do with those bad boys once you’ve got them?”

Ambros smiled, a huge grin: “Why, Deputy, I thought you’d never ask. I am going to try to school them. Do you think they can learn empathy?”

Dan laughed again: “Doubtful. Why bother?”

“Well, as an anarchist, I am supposed to believe in the worth and value of all of my fellow humans. These men are not stupid or cruel by nature, or so the theory goes, but ignorant and thus educable. So any good ideological anarchist would aver.”

“You are not an ideological anarchist.”

“You’ve been reading my essays online.” Ambros was amused at that.

“Yes.” The Deputy was smiling, too: “They’re very interesting.”

After a long silence, Ambros said: “Do you perchance know the story of Nasruddin and the Caliph’s horse?”

“As a matter of fact, I do. I read it, on that site you linked to.”

Ambros grinned again: “Well, then…” He stood up to leave, and the Deputy also rose.

“And I didn’t hear any of this, Mr Rothakis…”

Ambros interrupted again: “Call me Ambros, Deputy,” he said, holding out his hand.

The Deputy grinned: “It’s Dan to you, then. So we are friends now?”

“In the handshake mode. See you around, Dan.”

“I’ll look forward to some news, Ambros.” Dan paused, then went into the men’s room.

Ambros picked up the laptop and Shifter. Then he went over to the bar, sat between Kim and Marie, and spoke quietly to them for a few minutes. “I can’t explain how I’m gonna do it,” he said, “and I promise not to kill them. But…”

The women all nodded: Kim worried, Luisa concerned but somewhat trusting, Marie adamant.

“Let me know if you decide to poison them,” Marie said. He realized that she meant it, and approved.

“You’ll be the first one to hear,” he promised, smiling.

“Y’know,” said Kim.

“You are going to have to explain yourself, soon…” said Luisa.

“Where you go when you disappear,” said Marie.

“And how you get from ‘another City’ to here so fast,” continued Kim.

“I know,” he said. “It’s hard, though. I met you, Luisa, and Kim as well, before any of this weird stuff started to happen. We were all supposed to be NSA, but things keep getting more serious, and…”

“And?” Marie was obviously more than a little peeved by his reticence.

“The people I’m dealing with are serious, and dangerous. The people on the other side are evil, and very dangerous as well.”

“How do you define ‘evil’?” asked Luisa.

“In this case, concentration camp type evil. Slaver type evil. Try-to-take-over-the-world type evil.” He glared at the bar, pounding his fist lightly on it, then said: “And I’m pretty sure that the more I tell you about what is going on, the more danger you’ll be in. So…”

“So what?” Kim asked, more thoughtfully.

“So give me a couple more weeks, and think about how deep in you all want to get, and I’ll consult with my friends in the Commonwealth, and then, we’ll each decide what each person wants to do.”

The women looked from one to the other; at length Marie said: “For now, I think that’ll have to do. But two weeks may be longer than I am willing to wait.” Luisa and Kim both nodded in agreement with that sentiment.

“Fair enough,” he said: “I’ll keep that in mind.”

They finished their drinks. “Let’s go home,” said Luisa.

Dan came out of the men’s room, rubbing his chin and looking very thoughtful. He watched silently as Ambros paid the tab and he and the women left the bar.




Two hours later, Ambros Rothakis Shifted into the War Room and stepped off the receiver. Voukli was there, awaiting him. She was somewhat taken aback by his grim demeanor. He tipped his head towards the door and strode off towards the locker room where his armor and weapons were stored.

“So, you needed a replacement Shifter? What happened?”

“Morley and Riggles happened, that’s what happened.” He stopped and turned to stare at her.

“I remembered making a joke about not wanting to make you angry,” she said: “It doesn’t seem so funny just now.” She thought: ‘At least it isn’t me he’s mad at.’

“Not funny at all,” he said: “And now they’ve started a war, a war with me,” he pointed his thumb at his chest, “and I’m about to happen to them.” He gave her a quick version of the events, and outlined his plan: “They’ll be out of reach of me and m’friends, and where they’ll be nearly harmless. But I’d appreciate it if you’d keep an eye on ‘em, y’know, just check on ‘em now and then. ‘Kay?” He was speaking American, with the heavily elided accent of his native Ohio. Voukli realized that he probably didn’t even notice.

“Sure, I could do that,” she said: “Do you want backup on the mission?”

By that time he was putting on his armor and checking his weapons: “I need to do this myself, thanks. If I don’t check in by Dawn Bell tomorrow, come and rescue me.”

“Right,” she said, knowing full well that that would not be necessary. “Maybe slow down a bit, just a bit. Let’s run some scenarios on a Strat-tac machine, okay?”

He agreed, reluctantly. But he saw the sense of it, to plan a bit for contingencies. She led him off towards the Strategy Wing of the War Guild Complex, where the best machines were kept.




It was early the next morning. ‘Very early Saturday morning, perhaps two AM.’ Rothakis thought. He was lurking in the shrubbery near the low-life dive where Officer Riggles habitually drank. As far as he could tell, Riggles hit this joint three or four times a week, depending on his schedule. Usually he slugged down about three pints of cheap American beer and finished off with a shot of something distilled.

Mr. R was dressed in full Hellenic battle kit, and thus was bullet-proof and nearly blade proof. He was also a fearsome sight, if anyone had seen him. He’d put on black cargo pants for this mission, his black Free Walkers, and the black gambeson and dark blue armor of a Sacred Band Commando. He’d also adjusted the face shield on the helm to black, making him look like a Spartan Hoplite from hell. His stance, loose but ready, would have made anyone who saw him wary.

Of course, no one saw him. ‘The only people who will see me tonight are Riggles and Morley,’ he thought. ‘If my appearance scares them, well, that’s good. They oughta be scared.’

Since Morley and Riggles were suspended, Riggles had been drinking in there for hours. ‘Still, the sonuvabitch will have to come right by here to get to his car,’ thought Mr. R. He hefted his APS, which he had set to three feet long and about 10% power.

At last the cop came staggering out toward the vehicle. His uniform was absent, but he was carrying some of his equipment—including a pistol! He was singing some kind of country song, fumbling with his keys. Rothakis waited till Riggles had the car door open, then extended the blade of his weapon to about twenty feet, and flipped the end around and hit the cop with the flat.

The electric shock from the flat of the APS’s ‘blade’ coursed through the officer and he fell to the ground, writhing and flopping. Ambros held the sword against the cop for a few seconds, making sure he got a good shock out of it.

Ambros turned off the sword. He walked over and stood there looking at Riggles. The policeman eventually rolled over, half-conscious, and stared blearily at him.

“Just like a Taser,” said Ambros. He pulled out his Shifter, did the mental command needed to set up his Salto, then Shifted the two of them into the Alcatraz Quiet Timeline, though not to the island itself.

He stepped from the cop’s side and put a match to the kindling he’d prepared that afternoon. The flames licked upwards, seemed to hesitate, then seized the tepee-shaped stack and flared dramatically, lighting the scene. The alley and the crumbling buildings nearby leapt out in stark relief in the bright light of the fire.

He rolled the cop over onto his belly, and used the man’s own cuffs to restrain his hands behind his back. He pulled out the officer’s pistol, stripped out all the ammunition and put it back in its holster. He searched the man and found three more clips, which joined the other bullets in his belt pouch. He found a Taser and slipped it into his right thigh pocket, and buttoned that shut. He stepped away and stood staring.

Riggles kicked and flopped and rolled over, glared at him. Then he got a good look at the figure looming over the scene: lit by fire, the ceramic armor glittered, and the darkened faceplate showed only the reflection of the flames. Ambros drew out his APS and activated it, letting the blacklight colored blade make an impression. Then he reached out with the extended blade, and carefully cut a section of brickwork out of the corner of a nearby building. The liberated bricks slid to the ground with a thump and clatter, the section breaking into two segments as it hit the ground. Riggles’ expression turned from anger to dismay. The fear showed clearly on his face, and in his body language. After about thirty seconds, Ambros took off the helmet.

Riggles realized, after a moment, who he was looking at.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“Yeah,” said Ambros, “you are in deep now. You fucked with the wrong hippie, and now you are gonna pay. How’s it feel?”

“You are the one who’s in deep, hippie. Wait till I get on the radio and call for back-up…” Riggles looked around: “Where the fuck are we?”

“We’re out of your jurisdiction, and you are out of your league.” Ambros grinned, pointing: “Also, you’re on suspension, so at the moment you are just a civilian. And your cop radio wouldn’t reach anyone you’d want to talk to, even if you had it with you.” He went over and sat on the chair he’d set there earlier, then cocked his head: “I repeat, how’s it feel?”

“How’s what feel?”

Ambros just stared for a long time. The cop started pulling at the cuffs, grunting and getting more frustrated by the minute.

“You ought to know you can’t get loose without a key.”

“Huh.” Riggles’s shoulders slumped; he hung his head. “Are you gonna let me loose?”

“Soon…maybe.”

“How soon?”

“How long did you leave me cuffed, ‘officer’?” Ambros let the sarcasm flow, sweet like cheap wine.

“Oh, God.”

“God won’t help you. See you in a bit, ‘dude’.” He donned the helmet, then strolled away, drawing out his Shifter and heading home. He let Riggles watch him Shift, and hear the pop of air when he vanished.



He Shifted into his own Line, laughing, at a spot about ten blocks from Officer Morley’s home. He knew exactly what Morley was doing at that moment, because he’d used his MPS to check him out. Morley was sitting at the small table in his tiny kitchen, hung over and slurping coffee. ‘These cops are all drunks,’ he thought, ‘especially these one-in-twenty brutal thug types. I guess I see why: this way they suffer from their drinking, but not from their consciences.’ He wondered idly whether his project was even possible: ‘Can I really install a sense of empathy in these cold, constricted, angry men?’ He noticed that Morley was dressed sort of like a policeman, and he was carrying a lot of the usual cop equipment on his person. As Riggles had been. He let a trickle of suspicion drift along his mental horizon.

‘It’s three AM,’ thought Ambros: ‘Where’s he going at this hour, dressed almost like a cop, and armed?’ After a moment, he realized: ‘Out to spy on me, or maybe worse. He’d expect to find me at the Rosefield Avenue house tonight, I bet.’ He grinned: ‘Surprise, Sergeant. You’ll be seeing me sooner than you expected.’

Rothakis geoShifted to the cop’s driveway just as Morley was starting to unlock his car. Before the policeman could react to the sudden presence in his rear, Ambros had the cop’s collapsible baton out of his belt and deployed. He swung hard and snapped his wrist, like he’d learned in SCA combat. Morley stiffened, the blow to his kidney temporarily paralyzing him. Rothakis stepped forward, right behind his target, and Shifted them both into the alley where Riggles lay. He pushed the cop away, swung the baton over his head and threw offside at the man’s other kidney, struck with a thump. Morley fell beside Riggles, and soon began to groan.

Riggles was twisting and grunting: “C’mon, man, uncuff me. I need to piss. Really bad!”

“Remember what happened to me? Rather, what you did to me?” Rothakis was amused, and allowing it to show. He unbuttoned the pocket where Riggles’s Taser was stowed, drew it out.

Morley rolled over and began to unsnap his holster so as to draw his pistol. Ambros was perfectly calm, of course. No bullet fired from that pistol could do more than bruise him. Still, he made sure the Taser was aimed and armed and triggered before the pistol was out. Officer Morley’s mouth opened and he made a high-pitched squealing sound. Rothakis remembered that sound: he’d made it himself, when the second Taser had hit him. He counted to ten seconds, not rushing, then de-activated the weapon. He cuffed and disarmed Morley, built up the fire a little, then took off the helmet, so Morley could see his face. As soon as he saw the recognition on Morley’s countenance, he smiled. Then he began gathering up the officer’s gear. He changed his plan, then, and took all of their weapons with him. He prepared to depart.

“Here’s a handcuff key,” said Rothakis, setting it on the seat of the chair: “If you two co-operate, you can probably get those cuffs off before you piss yourselves. ‘Course, one of you is hung over, and the other is drunk, so maybe not. At any rate, I’ll see you in a couple of days, or a week.”

“Why are you doing this?” Riggles whined.

“Oh, come on, Officer. I have several motivations for this project. You can’t possibly be so stupid that you don’t understand revenge. In addition, you are being schooled. I hope to teach you two some lessons.”

“What lessons?”

Mr. R shook his head: “That would be telling. Figuring out what the lessons are is part of the learning process. And meanwhile, during your schooling, you are in a place where you can’t do anyone any more harm. Except each other, of course. See ya.”

He Shifted.

Three or so hours later, with the sun just coming up, he Shifted from the Commonwealth Timeline into his Salon. Showered, shampooed, and shaved, he felt entirely relaxed. He was also ridiculously sleepy: he’d slept for six hours on a cold floor since early Wednesday morning. He was glad he had gotten a mattress for the second back room in his building. He laid himself down, wrapped a wooly thrift-store blanket around him, and fell asleep with his boots still on.



He awoke into the same light level, but the sun was setting, not rising. The Pismo was flashing a light in his eyes and hooting a soft alarm. He sat up and handsigned to the machine, which went silent, but showed him an icon that meant “Intruder, back lot, Salon”. He signed for a look, and saw a holographic image of a uniformed cop poking at the chain and padlock that shut the gate on the alley side of the back lot. This image came from a transmitter he’d placed across the alley, high on a pole near the mid-point of the narrow way.

After a few minutes, the man gave up, and slipped a paper bag under the chain-link fence near the corner.

“Transform that holograph into a Webz-compatible video, then send a copy via the Webz to the police chief. Do that anonymously, and cover my tracks. I don’t want there to be evidence that I sent it.”

“Dhulyéna.” The machine was working on the job. He knew that the police would know that he was the one who sent the video. He just didn’t want them to be able to prove that. He waited until the officer was out of sight of the camera, and then slipped out the back door. He retrieved the little paper bag and took it inside.

When he opened it, he found a baggie of marijuana, and a chunk of what just had to be crystal meth. He shook his head. “Clumsy,” he said aloud. Then he drew his Shifter out and sent the dope to the Alcatraz Quiet Timeline, dropping it onto the head of Riggles as he was pissing against a wall. “At least he got the cuffs off,” Ambros muttered, amused. He spun his POV and found Morely, also free of handcuffs and morosely tending a little fire of broken furniture and construction debris. Each man had a hunting rifle, probably looted from shops along the main drag. Well, he’d known that they would re-arm themselves, there was no stopping that. He considered how to deal with that problem, then stood up.

He stretched and did his exercises, wincing occasionally. He was yawning some, and considered going back to bed. ‘But it’s Saturday night,’ he thought. “And besides, I need to re-set my sleep schedule. I’ll hit Samuel B’s.”

It was short way, so he decided to walk. It being the third weekend in August, it was quite warm, even with the sun setting. He walked slowly, not wanting to get too sweaty. He approached the bar, and saw Patrick-Jonie-and-the-kids approaching from the other direction.

“I’m really sorry I wasn’t there on Thursday,” he said as they came in earshot: “I had a bit of an incident.”

“With the cops again?” asked Allie.

“Not officially. Morley and Riggles are suspended, so this time they were acting as private citizens when they kidnapped me.”

“Oh, wow,” said Jonie, “what did they do?”

He left out the worst parts, for the sake of the kids. ‘There’s no use not telling, though,’ he thought. ‘It’s all going public when Castle files the amended lawsuit.’

“So, we can show up tomorrow at ten, like before?” asked Gustav.

‘Yes, certainly,” said Ambros: “Sundays and Thursdays, 10 AM. Remember your homework: study the Postae in Fiore’s book, and try to approximate them when you practice.”

“Okay!” “Sure!”

It being Saturday, the music was scheduled for a little later in the evening than on weekdays. After the band did its sound check, there was a space of two hours before it would become difficult to converse, so he talked to everyone who came to the communal table. He pushed his fiction a little, chatted with some Fair Family folks, and refused to be drawn into more arguing with Bill about Gandhi.

“Did you read my essay on Gandhi, and follow the links to my citations? No? Then this discussion fails to interest me. We could talk about something else…”

“All right,” said Bill: “I am curious about how you think the reforms that we need can be enacted, by means of violence. Regardless of what needs to be done, or how urgently, I don’t see how a violent revolution can get us anything but death and destruction.”

“Okay, now you are jumping to conclusions. When did I advocate a violent revolution? In your presence, I mean?”

“Well, if non-violent protest is so repugnant to you, how else do we move forward?”

“I don’t find non-violence as a tactic to be repugnant at all. I think it is ineffective when it’s the only tool in the box. I am opposed, in short, to Ideological Pacifism, and that’s what I complain about vis-à-vis the progressive movement, which is dominated by that ideology.”

“We’re making progress, though, don’t you think?” Bill was grinning now. Ambros got the impression that he rarely had the opportunity to test his ideas against someone like him: more or less on the same side, but completely different on questions of style and strategy.

“Yes, some progress,” said Ambros. “Mostly on the ‘personal is political’ end, though. We have made a lot of progress addressing racism, sexism, ageism, all of those personal isms. Although I think there are still a lot of nasty racists in the world, and sexists, and so on. They’ve just learned not to broadcast their beliefs.

“Have we made much progress on the environment, though? That looks to me to be a net loss for our side. And if we ever completely end racism and etc., but find the working class and poor-folks of all races and genders and so on entirely under the thumb of a fascist regime, would that be a good outcome? A global system, with equal oppression for all non-ruling-class people? Cuz that’s where it looks like we’re heading, to me.”

“Sadly, you may be right about that. I still wonder what strategy and tactics you advocate. I mean, to get us there.”

“Where?”

Bill grinned: “Wherever you think we’re going, of course.”

“Where I want to go, and think we ought to be striving to go? Or where we are headed if by some miracle the Progressive Movement organizations get themselves together and begin to make real headway toward their goals?”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Sometimes. I have no interest in arguing about a goal that exists in a very different form in your head than in mine. Talking past each other would be a waste of time, right?”

“Okay. Then suppose you actually answer my question, beginning by telling me where you want to go, and then finishing by explaining how we could get there.” Bill seemed really interested.

Ambros said: “Gonna take a while…”

“I have time. What are you drinking?”

“Jameson’s.”

Bill went to the bar, came back with a fresh shot for Ambros and a beer for himself.

Ambros took a very small sip, and savored it. Then he began, speaking quietly, just loud enough to be heard:

“First I’ll say where I don’t want to go, OK? I have no interest in struggling for a slightly kinder, gentler version of the current System. That’s the Liberal’s project, and it leaves way too many people impoverished and powerless. It would, that is, if it could be done. Part of why I’m not interested is that it seems to me futile to struggle for small reforms in a System stacked against the struggle.”

“I see your point. Go on, please,” Bill was obviously working hard to remain patient.

Ambros abetted his learning experience: “I am not interested in struggling for ‘Socialism’, either. At least, not as it’s defined by the ‘Socialists’ of modern times. That is, it would be just like Capitalism, except your wages and benefits would be a trifle better and your boss would be a semi-competent government bureaucrat instead of a ruthless capitalist thug. And your straw boss would be exactly like the one you have now.”

Bill laughed: “Okay, I’m with you there. Where do you want to lead us?”

“I don’t want to lead anyone anywhere. I am a non-ideological (as much as I can be) anarchist-syndicalist with Situationist leanings. Remember? And that’s where I want to go: I call it ‘Widespread and generalized local self-management in a moneyless economy.’”

“That’s a mouthful.”

“Yup. Not really suitable for sound-bites, and fairly difficult to misrepresent or co-opt. But it means I have to get people to really listen, before I can explain it.”

“I see, or I think I do. How do we get there?” Bill was actually into the lecture, or appeared to be.

He shrugged: “I say we head in that direction, by starting to do it. First we get together with our closest friends and form affinity groups where we relate directly, abolishing money as a mediator among ourselves. Then we gather these affinity groups into neighborhood Assemblies, which make the New Way a priority. The Assemblies could then federate into Polisae, or city-sized organisms, where decisions would be the consensus of the Assemblies. Every decision would be taken at the most local level possible, not because the Polis ‘allowed’ that, but because the Assemblies took and held the power themselves. The Polis is the servant of the Assemblies, as each Assembly is the servant of its Affinity groups, and the individuals within it. Polisae could Confederate into ecosystem sized organisms, and we could have some kind of worldwide organization to decide those things that truly need to be done on a global basis.”

“Gets pretty hard to make a decision at all, when it’s done that way.”

“Decisions made by small groups of elite deciders always lead to the impoverishment of the many for the benefit of the few. Anyway, there’s more to it.”

“Okay, say on!”

“Right. The Polis is where you live. We need to do a whole parallel organizing drive at the workplace. Your job, and the people who do it beside you; the shop where you work, however that’s configured; the whole factory, or farm, or garbage-hauling business, or bookshop; the entire industry that you are a part of. Call that a Guild. Organize, and re-organize, our worklife so that the decisions are taken at the most local level possible, and so that we accomplish production as close to consumption as possible. By the way, the Syndicalist part of me cautions that it is when we begin re-organizing the workplace that we will meet with the most violent response from our Global Masters. We would be taking their profit directly away from them, possibly abolishing money, and demanding that they vacate their social function.”

“Yeah, I can see how that would irritate them,” Bill said.

“Yeah. Then there’s all the stuff you do when you are not ‘Working’. Hobbies, religion, service to others, a multitude of other things that people do. To the extent that such activities must be organized, we should organize them. Call that the Deme, and make it work like the other two things, but even more localized. I think it would work best, and keep power from becoming concentrated, if we agreed that Guilds, Demes and Polisae stayed out of each others’ affairs, except in emergencies. And of course, every individual has to hold on to her own agency: by which I mean, the fundamental right to say no. No person can allow herself to be directly coerced, or the entire system would collapse into something like Stalinism, or Maoism.”

“I don’t find much to object to in the basic idea,” Bill interjected: “But why can we not get there non-violently?”

“We absolutely could,” Ambros replied, smiling: “Presuming that we ever got started. I ain’t holding my breath. But if we got started down that road, and if the Emerging Global Ruling Class (and their lackeys in the military and police forces), if they laid down their weapons and joined the New Way, there wouldn’t need to be any violence whatsoever.” He grinned again, wider: “Again, I ain’t holding my breath.”

Before Bill could object further, Ambros said: “We’d need a completely different educational system, of course. Kids would have to learn logic, and emotional honesty, and how to empirically truth-test the premises in a syllogism.”

“That’s a lot for high school.”

“To hell with high school. People ought to have those lessons under their belts by the age of twelve. With those tools, they could then learn to think for themselves, understand a code of real Ethics, and live together in (relative) peace.”

“I can think of a lot of problems with that system…” Ambros could see that Bill was on the verge of dismissing the whole thing, as the ravings of a lunatic.

“Sure. So can I. I can think of solutions, too, which is what we should be doing. Rather than, you know, nit-picking. Problems can be solved, after all. By people, if they talk to each other. There would be lots of details to work out. I expect it would be a vibrant and constantly changing local scene, for quite a while, and different in different cities or parts of the world. We’d be re-writing the Social Contract on the fly, wouldn’t we? But it’s not like the current Global System is working very well, is it? And that’s partly because that Emerging Global Ruling class that I mentioned has torn up the old Social Contract and tossed the shreds to the wolves.”

“Well, there you have a true statement. I don’t see much hope for your ambitions, though.”

Ambros laughed, uproariously, a real belly laugh. When he was able, he said: “Haven’t you listened to me? I have almost no hope at all. Close to zero. Some days, less than zero. And without some version of what I’ve described, I see no future for this planet’s population of the human species at all, beyond a century or so. The wealthy and powerful are driving the world toward a cliff, with overpopulation, ecological stupidity, and increasing concentration of wealth. Extinction may not be their goal, but it’s where they are leading us.”

“Some version?” Bill was smiling again.

“Yeah. I mean: people have to do this revolution voluntarily, and collectively, and co-operatively, and ethically. Once that starts, do I think I can predict where it will go? No. Not at all. Good luck to you if you think you can.”

Bill pursed his lips and nodded: “Okay, what you are saying makes sense, internally anyway. I’m not sure I agree with a word that you’ve said, but you are not contradicting yourself. So, how far along are you?” He grinned again, crooked but friendly.

Ambros laughed again, not quite so hard: “Fuck, man, I am not even at the first step anymore. I was in an affinity group until recently, but we were forced by dangerous circumstances to break it up. I am just at the ‘make some new friends in a new and strange environment’ stage right now.” He leaned back and took a sip, just the second sip from that shot. The attitude of the Sacred Band operative settled over him. It was not just in his face, or his expression. His whole being exuded it: sardonic, knowing, wry and self-deprecating, but confident. He knew, after all, that he had a personal exit strategy now: he was a citizen of the Commonwealth. “At least I have a way out,” he whispered. Bill raised an eyebrow in curiosity, but Ambros did not elaborate.

He knew, from RNA sessions, that if USIT Seventeen collapsed into chaos or tipped toward Quiet, that he could bail out, and take as many as a hundred friends with him. He felt that reality flowing over and through him, saw the reaction it elicited from Bill. He knew what Bill was feeling, having felt it himself: when he stood beneath the Halo and regarded Arrenji and Voukli in their natural habitat for the first time.

Ambros said: “To a person of shallow thought, I’m sure I would appear smug and sarcastic right now. I hope that you see things deeper and wider than that. To the man who bought me this drink: Kalá epitixio!”

“Prosit,” Bill said. They drank.

“Next time, I get to demand a plan from you,” said Ambros: “I’ll buy.”

“You’re on.”

The band began to tune up, and the men rose and stretched.

They exited the saloon, and Bill strolled off to meet his wife at a local eatery. Ambros looked around. ‘It’s only ten o’clock,’ he thought. ‘I should go somewhere else.’

The bakery next to Samuel B’s looked bright and cheery and inviting. He already knew that they had good tea. ‘Good food, too. So that’s settled…’ He walked in that direction, humming a little tune.

He got a chai and ordered some food: ‘I haven’t eaten enough in the last few days,’ he thought. He went into the main dining room and saw Kim at a table with some of her friends.

He also noticed that Matthew was there, sitting with a woman who looked a lot like Kim.

Ambros ignored them, and went to join Kim. There was a little girl sitting next to her, about eight years old. She looked like an eight-year-old version of Kim, but blonder.

“Hi, Ambros,” said Kim. “This is my niece, Aspen.”

“Hey, there, how are you. I’m Ambros Rothakis.”

“I’m Aspen Mallory Roth. Are you my Aunt Kim’s new boyfriend?”

He laughed: “Maybe, sorta, not exactly. What makes you ask?”

“Aunt Kim always has a new boyfriend and Mom says they never last and she should settle down and Daddy says it’s her business and…”

When Aspen trailed off, Kim said: “Aspen is staying with me for a few days, in my room. So…”

“Okay,” said Ambros, nodding: “You two have plans for tomorrow, I bet.”

“Yeah, we’re going to the Fairgrounds and look at horses.” Aspen was now very enthusiastic.

“Ah, that’s right, the County Fair is on. I was thinking I’d like to cruise through that. Maybe I’ll see you there.”

“I gotta go, Aunt Kim.”

“It’s right back there, behind the big plant.” Aspen hopped up and ran back to the restrooms.

Ambros took advantage of her absence. After an embrace and kiss, he asked: “Who is the lady with Matthew?”

“That’s Diana. He took up with her after we broke up. They’ve been together ever since, almost five years now. She…rather dislikes me.” Kim smiled sarcastically: “I can’t blame her too much, either.”

“Oh?”

She shrugged: “We have some mutual friends. Apparently, Matthew never stops comparing her to me, unfavorably. That would get on anyone’s nerves.”

“Yeah, but she should blame him, not you.”

Kim grinned: “Yes, that would be logical. And emotionally honest.”

He laughed. Aspen came running back. The waiter brought his food. He chatted with the other couple at the table, friends of Kim’s that he’d met at Samuel B’s.

“We have to go home now, sweetie, it’s past your bedtime,” said Kim, helping Aspen gather up her things. “Will we see you tomorrow, Ambros?”

“I teach from 10 to noonish. After that, I’ll come over to the Fairgrounds. If you’re there at that time, you might see me.”

“Cool,” said Kim, leaning down to peck his cheek. Aspen giggled: “I knew it,” she whispered to herself. Ambros just grinned, amused.

Once Kim and her niece and friends had left, Ambros applied himself to his food. As he was finishing, he realized that Matthew and Diana were snarling and spitting at each other like angry cats. ‘I’ve never understood that kind of relationship. Oh, well, not my affair.’

Matthew said something exceedingly rude and stormed out of the place. Ambros shook his head.

Someone tapped his shoulder: Diana, wiping tears: “Can I sit here?”

“If you like. I’m not staying much longer, though. I’ve been short on sleep.”

“Kim keeping you awake?” Diana was now sarcastic.

“Not the last few days. Other, less pleasant, company has imposed itself on me.”

“Are you really dating Kim?”

“‘Dating’?” He was more amused.

She made a face: “Are you having an affair?” She was sarcastic again.

He waved a hand dismissively: “Euphemisms. You want to know if we are ‘involved’, ‘sleeping together’, ‘having sex’, ‘seeing each other’, whatever.”

“Well, are you?”

‘I don’t see how that’s your business.” That was as good as a confession, he knew.

“I’m trying to warn you…”

He laughed: “Is she dangerous?” There was a long silence, as they stared at each other. ‘I am not reacting at all the way she expected me to,’ he thought: ‘This could get nasty.’

At length, she asked: “How much do you know about her?”

“Not that much, actually. She’s nice, she’s polite, she’s good in bed. Her dad is a big-time Christian do-gooder, one who actually does good things, as far as I can tell right now, anyway. She works at the big thrift-store and used bookshop her pop runs on 11th Avenue, near the UO.” He grinned, somewhat sardonically: “She is not too curious about my background and current job status, which is handy. And she likes me and I like her, so that works for both of us. Marie and Luisa both like her, too, and for some reason I trust them. What else should I know?”

“I don’t know . . . Do you realize what a slut she is?”

“Define ‘slut’.”

“Yeah, maybe you don’t care. She’s just a piece of ass to you, so her total slut thing is just your good luck.”

“I do feel lucky to know her. What is it that makes her a slut, by your definition? Which you haven’t given me, by the way.”

“What, should I just tell you all the stuff she’s done? All the guys she’s sucked off or fucked?”

“I’ve met a few of them, Diana, they all seemed nice enough to me. Except Matthew. He was an ass.”

“Right. You should ask her about her twentieth birthday party.”

“Maybe I will.”

“Maybe I should just tell you . . .”

He waited to see if she would, not really caring whether she did or didn’t. It looked and felt like she was getting really angry, though, and might create a scene. He looked over his shoulder at his escape route.

“Okay,” she said: “she invited about eight of her girlfriends over, and exactly ten guys, and she sucked the guys off one by one in a back room, and then fucked them, too. The rest of the girls were having sex all over the house, with different boys and with each other . . . it was a totally disgusting slut fest.”

He frowned, feigning puzzlement: “Something doesn’t fit here. KIm led me to believe that her roommates were all prudish Catholics girls. That was the impression I got when I met them, too. They didn’t seem like the sort of women who’d…”

“It wasn’t at her house, where she lives now. It was at her dad’s house when he was in India after the floods.”

“Ah, I see. And what were you doing there?”

“I wasn’t there! I’d never go a party with her, or her slutty friends!”

“Ah, I thought you were telling me what happened at Kim’s twentieth birthday party. I didn’t realize you were just repeating gossip.”

“Just repeating . . . ooh, you are one shitty guy.”

“Y’know, if you weren’t there, then you really don’t know what happened. That’s gossip. I don’t ever believe gossip. AND, how Kim chose to celebrate two decades on this planet doesn’t really trouble me.

“Furthermore, you tell that story with a lot of gusto for a woman who claims to be offended by it. I wonder if you are not just angry because you didn’t get invited.” He was suppressing a belly laugh, and he realized she could see that.

“Ooh, you…” she growled. Then she abruptly stood up and left, positively flouncing. Matthew had been lurking in the doorway, outside the large window. He followed Diana, glaring at Ambros.

He let go then, and laughed loudly for a few minutes. He drank down the rest of his tea and carried the debris from his meal to the bus tubs by the end of the coffee station.

He headed for home, walking briskly towards Rosefield Avenue.
This account has disabled anonymous posting.
If you don't have an account you can create one now.
HTML doesn't work in the subject.
More info about formatting

Profile

zzambrosius_02: (Default)
zzambrosius_02

February 2024

S M T W T F S
    123
45678910
11121314151617
18192021222324
2526272829  

Most Popular Tags

Style Credit

Expand Cut Tags

No cut tags
Page generated Jul. 11th, 2025 06:56 pm
Powered by Dreamwidth Studios