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zzambrosius_02From an Adjacent Timeline
Ambros deplaned at LaGuardia, groaning from the discomfort of six hours in a confined space. His left leg tingled and cramped briefly; multiple wounds demanded an accounting.
‘It wouldn’t do to arrive in New York by Shifter, with the damned Intelligence services watching the airport.’
It occurred to him that he could have Shifted to Cleveland or Pittsburg and suffered from a shorter flight: ‘I’ll do that next time...and there’s sure to be a next time, more’s the pity.’ Then he thought: ‘You know what? The hell with that nonsense. I should mark a restroom stall while I’m here, and just drop in there. Let all of the spies worry about how I get to wherever I am...’
His briefcase and shoulder bag were all he had for luggage, so he passed through the checkpoints without undue delay.
He detoured to a nearby restroom and marked the stall nearest the door by creating a Path on his Shifter.
That task complete, he exited and looked around. He followed a series of signs that said: EXIT or TO TAXIS until he saw daylight and doorways to the world outside the terminal.
A man in a chauffer’s uniform stood among others similarly dressed, holding a sign that read “ROTHAKIS”.
Ambros shook his head and limped slightly on a beeline for the fellow, who glanced at a photo and spoke:
“Mr Rothakis? This way, please...”
Ambros watched a man in an Airport Security uniform finger his radio headset. The guy turned and walked in the opposite direction from the chauffeur.
“I am not even gonna bother to figure out which of these people is the next tail,’ Ambros thought: ‘I can always shake one if I have to.’ It occurred to him that there might be others trying to keep track of him: ‘The tails I notice might be feints...the real ones could be better hidden...Humbug!’
He was getting a little bored with all the games that the manifold different “Departments of Spies” loved to play:
He gave the driver directions, and not to the UN, which flummoxed the man at first. He quickly recovered, and headed into the city as instructed. The limousine wove slowly through the April wind and rain, impeded by heavy traffic that often seemed not to move at all.
At great length they arrived at the hotel he’d arranged: not the one that the UN man had suggested, but one where he knew the innkeepers, and thus could be assured that his privacy would be respected. It was six-thirty already; the sun had set and the wind picked up, whipping his coattails around his knees.
“I’ll wait for you here, sir,” said the driver: “Your first meeting is at...”
“I know. I’ll be back out here as soon as I can be.”
He checked in; his rooms were ready, as he’d known they would be. He refused any help from the bellhop, tipped him anyway, and rode the elevator to the third floor.
He carded his way into the suite and entered the bedroom, stripping off his travelling clothes as he went. He walked through the shower, rinsing off the sweat from sitting in an overheated compartment with sixty other travellers.
He checked and found that the heavy hooded cloak he’d left in the keeping of the hotel manager hung in the closet. ‘As expected.’
He put on a full-body undergarment of Commonwealth Kevloid, reinforced panels covering all of the vital organs. Over that he donned a pair of brand-new very heavy silk trousers, black shot with red; these he bloused into his fanciest boots, the ones made by Magistros Votos in Athino.
He slipped the Commando sidearm out of his travelling pants and into its special pocket in the silk ones. His Shifter went in the other side. He looked in the mirror: “Perfectly balanced...Doesn’t show at all. Good.”
He pulled a ‘River Boatman’ shirt from his shoulder bag, and shook it hard so that all the wrinkles disappeared: “Commonwealth materials science is the bomb,” he said.
His single concession to the styles prevalent among New Yorkers for important meetings was a necktie of sorts: an ascot (or ‘day cravat’) in a black so dark that it made the red of his shirt look even more intense.
He combed his hair, adding a wider elastic band to make the topknot more impressive. He tied a wide red cloth belt around his waist; it gathered in the shirt and trousers and made for a bit of piratical style.
He grabbed his briefcase and cloak and shut the door firmly behind him.
The driver made no attempt at small talk as he piloted the ridiculously large automobile through the streets toward UN headquarters.
Ambros had to show his identification and the ‘summons’ to an armed and armored guard at the front entrance. Several like her stood around, looking in all directions, backing each other up.
After a careful examination of his features the guard ushered him through the door and directed him down a long hallway.
Ambros’ hood and cloak covered him from head to knee; his boots made no sound as he moved from carpet to marble to utilitarian tile floors. He fetched up eventually at a checkpoint, guarded by a man in the dress uniform of the UN security force.
He presented his documents; the soldier examined and returned them, saluting as Ambros passed within.
The metal detector that he passed through did not react to his Commonwealth pistol. A teenaged female page met him and escorted
him down hallways and through other checkpoints.
She ushered him into a large room, brightly lit. Whiteboards and maps alternated all the way around the circuit of the walls. The whiteboards showed a muddle of military acronyms of the sort he’d recently become accustomed to: ‘That seems to be a universal aspect of technologically advanced militaries.’ He had no clue what most of the ones he could see meant; his experience had been in Rational Hellenic not English: ‘Or...Is that French?’ He couldn’t tell.
The people in the room all turned to look when the door opened.
Ambros flipped the cloak off of his shoulders and spun it through a graceful arc before hanging it on a convenient chair back. He sat in that chair and said: “Why the hell am I here?”
The cluster of military uniforms standing near the largest map untangled itself into individual high-ranking men, with two women similarly garbed.
From the midst of them ‘Roberts’ appeared.
Ambros smiled cynically: “Mr Spooky Roberts.”
“Mr Rothakis. Nice to see you again.” Roberts wore his usual dull tan business suit, and his facial features still defied description: ‘The best I’ve ever done is “unremarkable”,’ Ambros mused.
He did not reply to Roberts’ greeting. Keeping his eyes on Roberts, he slid his chair back from the table, placed his left ankle on his right thigh and his hands behind his head. He leaned back in a posture of extreme relaxation. He waited, showing no emotion.
After a moment, Roberts looked away.
A white-haired man in a uniform that Ambros recognized as US Navy, with enough medals and gold braid to guarantee that he was an admiral, spoke up: “You are here because we want your advice. Mr Roberts seemed to think you had some information...”
Ambros looked closer: “Admiral...Jones?”
“That’s correct.”
“Let’s get to it, okay? I’m supposed to be at a reception downstairs in an hour, I have another meeting in twenty minutes...Information about what?”
Jones looked aside at one of the women. Her nametag said ‘Ropsley’.
Jones said: “Captain?”
“We have a very curious problem, Mr Rothakis. Look here...” Captain Ropsley rose and approached the largest map. She produced a
laser pointer.
She pointed the red dot at a spot on the map; the map suddenly resolved into a particular place, one that Ambros was familiar with: ‘In theory anyway...’
“Shit,” he said quietly, and cursed himself silently for doing it.
“You do know something about this area, then?” Captain Ropsley asked.
“Never been there in my life,” Ambros replied, in a sense truthfully: “I was in a village north of Bangui for an afternoon recently, but...Burt already knew that. He was there, too.
“Our problem is big piles of dead bodies,” said another man: “All of them, so far as we can tell, are dead of gunshot wounds, or shrapnel consistent with explosive devices such as grenades.” Ambros raised an eyebrow.
“I am Kurtan Singh. General in charge of Indian peacekeeping contingent to the Central African Republic.”
Ambros’ chin rose a bit. He realized that Singh probably wouldn’t get that, so he said: “I see.”
Roberts said: “He does know where the bodies are coming from. I am certain of that.”
Jones gave Roberts a side eye glare.
“Hey, he knows, I don’t. You see, Mr Rothakis, there are way too many corpses for them to be from that area. It’s deep jungle near the river, surrounded by farms and half-abandoned villages destroyed in the CAR’s ongoing civil war. The area is very sparsely inhabited. Plus, there are no hostilities currently occurring in the neighborhood.”
“I know. I want to help you, but...”
“Just tell us!” Admiral Jones said gruffly.
Ambros stared right into the admiral’s eyes: “I’m not in your Chain of Command, Jones.”
Jones didn’t look away, apparently competing in that way for dominance.
Ambros didn’t look away either: “I’m not.”
He pondered for a second or two, thinking: ‘I know I promised myself I‘d try not to act so “arrogant” around people from my own Line...but these bozos sure make that difficult. I bet it’s been decades since Jones has had to deal with “insubordination”.’
Captain Ropsley broke the tension by smacking the map with her palm: “We have at least a quarter million corpses in Lobaye prefecture. It’s a rain forest, bordering a desert. It stinks to high heaven of rotting bodies, and wildlife and the local population have fled in disgust.”
“Except for the carrion eaters...” Roberts chortled.
“I have no desire to be dismissed as a lunatic,” Ambros said: “I’ll tell you the good news, though. There will be no more deaders dropping into your theater.”
“That’s great.” Jones said bitterly: “What do we do about the ones we have? And where did they come from?”
Ambros sighed: “You won’t believe it, but who cares? I can tell you a little bit here, without too great a risk. The corpses came from a pair of alternate Timelines. Because of the odd way that United States Imperial Timelines split off from their original Line, there’s a series of pseudo-Gate-like structures that occasionally suck people or objects through. Pretty unpredictable, and nothing that we know how to mitigate, either.”
He looked around. The military men stood mute, stunned, disbelieving. Roberts grinned sarcastically.
Ambros continued: “There’s an electro-magnetic anomaly there, right? Centered on the capital, what’s its name?” He could feel himself walking a tightrope in his mind, a future Split Line one wrong word or phrase away.
“Bangui. The Bangui Negative Magnetic Anomaly,” said a different uniform.
“Whatever,” Ambros said, waving a hand. He continued: “As far as what to do...? I’d recommend cremating them from the air.”
“The fuck...?” asked one of the other uniforms.
“Surely you thought of that?” He suppressed his amusement, he hoped successully.
“He’s got a point,” said Roberts.
Jones looked to one side, and locked eyes with a woman in the uniform of a USMC major.
She nodded: “Sure, we can do it. Napalm and white phosphorus...if we don’t have enough, the Army does. The Russians might even be willing to help out...”
Ambros rocked his chair forward, putting both feet on the ground with a muffled thump: “I gotta go. The High Commissioner for Refugees wants to see me. I don’t know what about.”
The usher who had guided him to the room full of brass stood waiting outside the room. She studied the itinerary in her hand: “You are a busy man, sir.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” he grinned.
She smiled back and said: “This way, please.”
After a long walk through several hallways, she led him into an elevator.
He had the distinct impression of a very high-speed ascent, which lasted for a full five seconds.
At a gesture from his guide, he passed through an open archway into a sumptuous suite fronted by a gigantic room: wool carpeted, silk wallpapered, leather wainscoted, and luxuriously furnished in Late Twentieth Century Modern, the place was a showcase for the best materials and finest craftsmanship that the world could produce.
A woman stood at the other end of the huge room, frowning down at an electronic clipboard. She was dressed as if for a formal affair, in an ankle-length dress of black silk and a single strand of pearls. He knew her immediately: ‘Of course. I knew she worked here...I should have anticipated...’ He gave up thinking of all the things he should have done and concentrated on the situation at hand.
She looked up and saw him.
They walked towards each other, and as she walked her expression went from welcome, to suspicion, and on to certainty, finally making it back to welcome. When they were ten feet apart she put the first and second fingers of her left hand on the tip of her nose.
‘That’s our old family sign language for “We can’t talk about (whatever) right now”.’
He watched her carefully; her eyes went to the corners of the room. He guessed that there were surveillance cameras there. He winked, which meant: “I hear you”.
“Mr Rothakis? I’m Andrea Scharffen, executive assistant to the High Commissioner. Welcome to the HCR, sir,” she said, as though she’d never before seen him. She offered her hand and he shook it.
“If you’ll follow me, sir, I’ll take you to the Commissioner.”
All he could do was nod.
She led him towards a doorway near a window. At least thirty feet tall and almost as wide, the window looked out on the City of New York.
Before they could reach that door, someone opened it.
Ambros stopped dead for a second, about to smile widely at the humor of it. He banished that and allowed only a trace of a smile to show: ‘He’s a dead ringer for Jay Hussein Barrie, the Secretary of Espionage in the President Tom Paine Line...that’s hilarious.’
The High Commissioner stood a little taller than Ambros, perhaps a bit over six feet. He looked fit and healthy; he had a short afro and wore a blue suit that shouted ‘Brompton Road’.
“Mr Rothakis,” he said, smiling in his turn: “It is very fine to meet you, sir.” His accent had touches of Spain and Cuba in it.
“Pleased to meet you as well, Mr Ozuna.”
“Oh, call me Benjamin, please. I insist!” Ozuna pronounced his name Ven-ya-mín.
“Thank you sir. Ambros.”
“Come, sir, and we will speak together. Andrea, will you join us, please.”
“Certainly, Benjamin.”
Ozuna led the way through an office even more luxuriously appointed than the anteroom, where multiple functionaries labored at computers or consulted over stacks of printouts and detailed maps, and into a smaller room.
‘No desk,’ Ambros noted. A knee-high coffee table sat centered in the room, surrounded by five comfortable chairs, each expensive looking but not at all matched in color or style. Some leather folders, a carafe, and coffee cups made up all the items on the table.
At a gesture from his host, Ambros chose a seat. Andrea sat beside him, and Ozuna across from them. Ozuna poured the coffee and handed Ambros a cup and saucer.
Ambros sipped; his eyes opened wide.
“It is good?” Ozuna seemed amused.
“Very good,” Ambros replied.
Andrea sipped her own coffee and cleared her throat.
“Yes, Andrea, of course. Ambros: do you have any idea why we asked you to visit New York?”
“None whatsoever. Were you the original inviter?”
“Yes, of course. Has someone else importuned you?”
“Several. It is no inconvenience, sir, so you need not be concerned. I am here, so I may as well meet with all the people who...wish to see me.” He carefully avoided Andrea’s sharp glance.
Ozuna sighed: “Very well. I have it on good authority that you have access to some...uncanny sources of information.”
‘Roberts,’ thought Ambros: ‘I’m gonna dope slap that rat bastard next time I see him alone...’ It occurred to him that Roberts nearly always met him in public or semi-public places: ‘Makes assaulting him a bit difficult. Also...he may not be as useless as he looks, if it came to a fistfight.’
Roberts had held his own with that Legionnaire.
He spoke to Ozuna: “I don’t believe in the occult...”
“No, no, no,” said Andrea: “Benjamin is referring only to...unusual informants. Nothing spooky.”
“Absolutely, my friend!” Ozuna spoke urgently: “I wish only to know if you can help me aid some refugees. We cannot discern their country of origin. It is very puzzling.”
Ambros felt a sinking feeling. Nevertheless, he said: “Tell me more...”
Andrea opened one of the large leather binders, which turned out to conceal a video screen. Two men in UN Peacekeeper uniforms faced a man in semi-military drag.
Ambros’ innards finished sinking: ‘That’s just like the outfit René Clotarde wore when I first met him.’
At a touch from Andrea, the video began. The UN men asked ordinary questions in ordinary French. Their prisoner answered in pidgin Rational French, and of course none of his answers made a lick of sense in the context of USIT Seventeen-slash-One.
“They speak a very strange dialect of French,” Andrea said.
“I know it,” said Ambros: “It’s not this guy’s mother tongue, though. You’d like to repatriate him? And others? How many of these fellows do you have?
“Twenty three,” said Ozuna: “Several others died when they attacked an aid convoy in Cameroon.”
“Do you have their bodies on ice?” Ambros touched his wrist and manipulated his MPS, turning the invisible holographic disc counterclockwise.
“In refrigerated storage? No. And yes, we would like to repatriate them...”
“You can’t. I can. I can arrange it, anyway. To make that easier, please cease all interrogation of the prisoners and isolate them from all but one another.”
Andrea looked at him as if he were insane. Ozuna narrowed his eyes and said: “You will make this problem go away? But you will not simply tell me where to send them?”
“Trust me,” said Ambros: “I can make your problem vanish. You don’t want to know how. I swear they will come to no harm and we will return them to their homes.”
“I am not happy with this solution...” Ozuna seemed to be calculating.
“If you had another solution, you’d have used it. Yes or no?”
Ozuna leaned back and stared at the ceiling. Andrea cleared her throat.
Ozuna looked at Ambros and said: “Andrea wishes to remind me that we—she and I—are meant to be at a reception in the main Ballroom now. Already, we are late.”
Ambros reached in his bag and waved an invitation: “I am to be there too, it seems.”
Ozuna sat up: “Very well. I will follow your advice, and I will also communicate the prisoners’ location to you, and I will think no more on the subject. Andrea, please escort Mr Rothakis to the Ballroom; I shall join you shortly.”
“Certainly, Benjamin.”
Ambros drank the last of his coffee and rose. Andrea led him out of the private office and through the larger outer office. She touched her nose again as she opened the door to the large anteroom.
As they exited into the hallway she said: “We can stop by my office, and you can leave your cloak and briefcase there. It is a very secure location...”
“Sounds good to me.” He dreaded the encounter that was coming: ‘But there’s no sense putting it off.’
She turned to her left and approached a door; the keypad sat at eyelevel. She placed her palm on a sensor, which beeped. After about five seconds, the door opened. She gestured him in. He passed into a sparsely furnished room, an office that said: “All Business”.
He put his briefcase on a chair.
He had hardly turned to face her again when she grabbed him by the shoulders and spun him around, slamming him into the door.
“How DARE you let me think you were dead! Where’s Momma? Where are Stanley and Tanya? WHERE?”
He shook his head, speechless.
She drew back her left hand and swung at him, palm open for a painful slap. He brushed the blow aside, then allowed her backhand return to strike his cheek. He relaxed his neck and rolled with the blow, making it nearly harmless. He allowed her right hand to touch his cheek when she slapped again, but seized her wrist and held it tight: “Stop, Andrea. We did what we had to do. For the sake of the others, don't blow my damn cover.” He spoke calmly and did not raise his voice.
She wrenched her arm free and stormed around the room, furiously punching at the air: He recalled so many things, all in a rush: teaching her to punch and kick, and to defuse a tense situation with a jest; picking her up from public school after she decked some hapless lout for yanking on her ponytail...
He kept his face deadpan.
She began to speak again: “That stupid hop-head Willie called me and said he’d heard you were dead. Nobody could find the rest of them...it was like you’d all vanished into thin air!”
“That’s what we had to do.” He shook his head: “We never intended that any of the younger parts of the family would see any of us until...unless it was safe again.”
She looked at him: angry, defiant. He recalled her in such moods as a tween and as a teen: ‘She’s a grown woman now. Thirty-five years old, and as strong a person as I could have hoped for. So strong...But...’
He repeated: “It’s what we had to do.”
Her face fell and she ran to him, weeping. She pummeled his chest with her fists as she had often done as a tween: when her first romance broke up, when Willie and Alice moved out.
“Daddy, oh Daddy, please, I...” she broke down completely for a minute.
He embraced her as he had done then, comforting her as well as he could.
She pushed off and walked away, drying her tears. She turned to face him, leaning against the desk.
He smiled sadly: “So. Down to business, is it? I can’t tell you much. A lot of what you probably want to know I don’t know myself.”
She looked at her watch. She drew a breath and held it; she expelled it in a sigh: “You have five minutes. Tell me what you can.”
He made a face: “Last you heard, we were going to Guatemala City for a visit with an affinity group there, right.” It wasn’t a question and he gave her no time to answer: “It took too long to get there, and we wound up in the middle of some deep trouble.”
He told her of the kidnapping of one of the Guatemalan anarchists, Consuela, and how rescuing her had clued them in to the CIA/Mafia/LAPD drugs-and-slaves operation.
“We couldn’t turn our backs on that. We blew up their operation, and stole a shitload of money from them. But...spooks and the Mob are a bad combination, Andrea. We knew we had to disappear, completely and thoroughly.”
She glowered at him: “But now you’re back here, in NYC, using your pen name, acting like some VIP and waltzing into my boss’s office to...”
He interrupted: “I wouldn’t be here at all if the High Commissioner hadn’t asked—practically demanded—that I come. That asshole Roberts...”
“Burt Roberts? You’re mixed up with him?”
“Not by choice. I’m...acting as an operative...” He slowed way down, feeling the first soft hint of the possibility of a quantum Line Split manifesting: “...for a group of people who are trying...to save...this world from the stupidity of its ruling class. And...the...the ignorance of the...” He stopped. He covered his face, briefly, then showed her a bleak expression: “Fascism and poison.”
She nodded: “Sorta what I am doing, too.”
He nodded: “More or less what the whole family has been up to for decades.” He smiled, tentatively: “Your mother is alive, and likely way more deeply hidden than it turned out I could be. Keep your ears open, she will surely contact you when it’s safe to do so.”
She drummed her fingers on her desk. She looked at her watch again: “We have to go to the damn Ballroom, right now. Chop chop!”
He laughed at the phrase, one that she’d picked up from Molly, and had often used as a child. He doffed his cloak and left it on a chair; she led the way out of the office and down the hall.
The sound of inoffensive background music reached them as they approached the Ballroom doors. A UN Security man inspected Ambros’ invitation and checked a list; Ambros could see a photo of himself next to his name.
‘I don’t like it that the UN has a photo of me...the chauffer had one, too...I thought I was a little more obscure than that.’ Looking closer, he could see that it came from the back cover of Mathilde, which he’d recently published as fiction. He felt a trifle better about it, then: ‘At least they didn’t get a picture of me in public that I didn’t notice.’
Security Man passed Ambros’ invitation to a page, who nipped in and out of the Ballroom itself in a flash. Security waved Andrea by; ‘Evidently knows her well,’ thought Ambros.
A woman in a tuxedo with a badge on her lapel opened the door. They stepped into the Hall.
A fellow dressed like a soldier from the Nineteenth Century stood there with their invitations in hand. He bellowed out: “The honorable Ms Andrea Scharffen, of the High Commission for Refugees; Mr Ambros Rothakis.”
Andrea took his arm and they descended the stairs. Ambros scanned the room as they descended: ‘Almost all of the Westerners, from whatever country they come, are dressed more or less alike: men wear tuxedos or military uniforms; women wear gowns, mostly black or white.’ He noted the presence of a few women in military garb, scattered across the room.
People from other parts of the world dressed more variously: some in western traditional, some in uniforms more resplendent than was usual for Europe or North America. He could see a fair number of saris and other sorts of wraps, as well.
By the time they’d reached the bottom, he’d spotted the final person he had come to New York to meet. Even from all the way across the enormous Ballroom he recognized her: ‘She’s quite distinctive,’ he thought.
She had not moved or looked at the entrance when the herald called his name, continuing to chat with some fellow in a tux, but her ear flicked in his direction, like a cat’s. She moved smoothly around the man, until he was forced to turn, and she could look over his shoulder at Ambros.
She did not wink, but she gave the impression that she just had. Her dress looked a lot like Andrea’s, except that it was red.
She was the person who’d gotten him an invite to the reception.
Andrea subtly guided him around the room, introducing him to various people from a large number of nations. He laughed and jested, acting the diplomat. Eventually he got what needed.
“Mr Abbot...” Andrea paused while the woman in red stepped back a bit. The tux-clad man turned to her.
“Mr Abbot: may I present to you Mr Ambros Rothakis? Mr Rothakis is a writer, among other things...Mr Rothakis, Mr Abbot is the Deputy High Commissioner to Mr Ozuna.”
Mr Abbot bowed slightly, and spoke in an Australian accent: “Very pleased to meet you, sir.”
“The same,” said Ambros. He glanced sidelong at the woman in red. She smiled stunningly and said: “I am Chandarit Jey.” She offered a slight bow, which he returned.
A page approached Andrea at that moment, and handed her a slip of paper. She frowned.
“Mr Abbot, Mr Rothakis, Ms Jey. Forgive me, I must go see to my daughter.”
Ambros raised an eyebrow. He thought: ‘First I heard of that. Not too shocking: I’ve been out of touch for a while.’ He contemplated being a gandfather.
As Andrea strode away, Abbot quizzed Ambros: “A writer, eh? What have you written? Have I perhaps heard of it?”
“I’m self-published, and without a lot of time to spend on marketing. My latest book is a novel, Mathilde. You can find it...” Ambros handed over a card, but watched Ms Jey from the corner of his eye. She drifted away, exchanging pleasantries with various other guests, until she stood near an unassuming door near the podium. Then she gestured to Ambros and opened it. She stepped through and left it slightly ajar.
He made his excuses and mingled more, trending ever towards that door. When the moment seemed right, he stepped quickly to it, and through.
Jey waited for him there. She held out a hand and he took it; she led him down the corridor.
“Where are we,” he said, in a whisper, reaching down to find the handle of his pistol: “Where are we going?”
She laughed silently and spoke in a normal voice: “This is a maintenance access hallway. We are going to a room where you can meet our comrades.”
She released his hand and opened a door.
He spoke sarcastically: “I’m supposed to just step into a dark room, no idea who or what is in there?” He drew the pistol.
She laughed again: “Here...” She reached around the doorpost and flipped a switch.
A table about ten feet in diameter appeared, illuminated only by a set of spotlights that shown on the six chairs around it. Four had occupants. Ms Jey took his arm and led him to one of the empty ones.
“We will not use true names in this meeting,” Jey said, as she sat down: “You will address us as our countries of origin.” She gestured at each, counterclockwise: “Mr Vietnam, Ms Thailand, Ms Burma, Mr Laos. I am Ms Cambodia.”
“I understand. Call me Mr Commonwealth.” He placed his pistol on the table, and kept his right hand near it. They glanced each to each; no one objected. “Tell me why I am here.”
Mr Vietnam said: “A certain red-haired phù thủy from among the American Syndicalists asked us to...brief you.”
“...on our current state of readiness for a General Strike,” said Ms Burma.
“Or something similar...” Mr Laos trailed off.
“And she said you would have information for us as well.”
Ambros mused on this for a moment: “I do indeed have information and advice for you. You first. I am all ears,”
Ms Cambodia spoke: “Overall, Indochina is receptive to our message. Fully eighty percent of the population would accept a change of government, except in Vietnam.”
Mr Vietnam said: “The Vietnamese people are, overall, not dissatisfied with the Communist Party’s rule. The reforms of recent times...”
“Understood.” Ambros pointed at Ms Burma: “Your nation is the least democratic of the lot. What odds do you give on revolt?”
“Depends,” she said: “A revolt of what nature? Leaderless or authoritarian? Led by the working and peasant classes or by the merchants?”
“I get you. Here’s what I can tell you. Unless I miss my guess...and I could be wrong...but you should expect a global crisis sometime in the next year.” He raised a hand for silence: “It will be of an utterly surprising nature, and come from a completely unexpected direction. You will have no notice...I will have no notice that it is coming. Once it is here, it will be clear. Every government on this planet will have to make choices, and move quickly. They will all be exceedingly distracted. That will be your moment.”
“In the mean-time?” Ms Cambodia queried.
“Increase your efforts. Broaden the appeal of your newspapers and magazines. Cease all arguments with Leftists, especially people who mostly agree with you. Stand your ground on principle; state your positions clearly. But eschew any defense or defensiveness or argument that may sow seeds of disunity, when the shit hits.”
Ms Thailand tipped her head to one side: “Our sources in Europe and Japan have relayed this very message to us, as coming from you. I want to know...”
Ambros interrupted: “I know what you want to know. You wouldn’t believe me. And I have to get back to the Ballroom before someone notices that I’m gone.”
“Yes, you do,” said Ms Cambodia: “Here is a paper copy of the report we prepared on the situation in southeast Asia. It includes our assessments of the situation in India, Japan, and China.”
Ambros look the folder from her and nodded: “If you had this ready...” He stopped, already seeing the answer.
She gave it to him anyway: “We wanted to see your face, hear your voice.”
“We needed to make an assessment of you,” said Ms Burma.
He grinned at them: “I won’t ask.”
Burma, Thailand, Cambodia and Laos all grinned back at him.
Vietnam looked sour: “You are a very good liar. It seems you have fooled the phù thủy. But Vietnam will not call your bluff yet.”
Ambros laughed, then tossed a handful of his thumb drives on the table: “these will help you, when the moment comes.
“I know my way,” he said to Jey. “See ya. All of you.”
Ambros sat in a corner of the nearly empty bar. He’d been drinking for three hours, but very slowly. The place had gluten-free “beer” on tap, so he sat quietly, thinking, nursing his fourth pint.
The only other drinker in the place was an old black man in the opposite corner. His head hung, chin on chest. His straightened hair hung in a hank over his face; his left hand clutched a shot glass with a trickle of liquor in the bottom.
Ambros wondered who the guy was: ‘Must be somebody special. No ordinary black guy could fall asleep in a joint this nice without getting the bum treatment.’
He let the events of the evening replay in his mind yet again. He shook his head: “Andrea...” He murmured aloud: “What am I gonna do about her?”
He felt eyes upon him; he looked up. The old guy stared at him.
‘Shit.’ Ambros recognized the fellow: ‘What are the odds that in a city the size of New York, I’d run into two people from my previous life, in one day?’
The old guy squinted across the room at him.
Ambros smiled, resigned.
The man shuffled across the floor, looking even older than Ambros knew he was. He stood a moment, uncertain, still squinting: “You look familiar,” he said, speech slurred a little. The man’s low baritone speaking voice gave no clue of the three octaves that he could sing.
Ambros smiled wider: “We may once have known each other, in a previous life. How ya doin’, Mr James?”
“Tolerably well. Considering.”
“Considering?”
“I’m seventy-five, and I have a weakness for scotch. Considering that, I doing okay.”
“You are also the hardest working man in show business. Have a seat, if you want...”
The old man sat, slowly.
“You do a show tonight?” Ambros queried, knowing the likely answer.
“I did.”
They sat there companionably for a while, the old man staring at Ambros occasionally. Ambros took a larger sip of his beer. He set the mug down, firmly: ‘Gotta keep my wits about me.’
Mr James leaned back: “Y’all got the advantage of me. I can’t quite place you. I think you played drums and your name was maybe Charles. Or somethin’ like that.”
“That’s okay. I’m using a new name these days anyway: Ambros Rothakis.”
“Please to meet ya, again.” They shook hands. Mr James said: “You still play?”
Ambros smiled, a combination of regret and nostalgia: “No. Not for decades. Don’t even own a kit.”
“That’s too bad. I seem to recall you could play a little.”
“That’s about right. I could play...a little.”
The front door of the bar opened and a woman entered in a rush. She looked around and spotted them: “Mr James!”
He looked over his shoulder at her, then gestured: “C’mon over here, babe.”
A large woman in every dimension, though solid and muscular, she strode across the room. Very classically pretty face, and she moved gracefully. He locked eyes with her as she approached, and felt the now-familiar shiver of recognition: ‘Must be a cognate connection there,’ he mused. Based on the feeling in his crotch, it was a close connection, indeed. ‘I’ve seen that face...Saphronisi! At the Thaskaliad! This lady is the image of her...’
She stared at him, apparently stunned. ‘I feel for her, I do. She can’t have any comprehension of why she feels the connection...’
“Hi,” she said, still staring: “Do I know you?”
“Not in this life,” he said, in a jesting tone.
Mr James sat there grinning. He said: “This is Miz Jannet Cherborg. She frontin’ the band that warms up for me. This here is Mr Ambros Rothakis.”
She offered her hand for a shake; he took it, prepared (as she couldn’t be) for the pseudo electric thrill of first contact.
He waved at the bar: “Another for Mr. James, and whatever Miz Jannet drinks.”
“Mr Rothakis played the drums back in the day. He an okay guy,” Mr James said, amused at Jannet’s reaction.
She smiled slyly: “Drummers are fun. Usually.”
He chuckled: “Been a long time since I drummed at all.”
“No guy has drummed me for a couple of months,” she said.
Mr James laughed out loud and sipped his drink: “Looks like maybe you gettin’ lucky, Mr Rothakis.”
“Sadly, I have other responsibilities right now. I need to get back to Oregon tonight.”
“That’s too bad. You have a night flight?” She seemed really disappointed.
He smiled: “You could say that.”
“What part of Oregon?” She was unabashedly flirting; he was powerfully tempted.
He said: “Eugene.”
Mr James said: “We playin’ Portland, Salem, Ashland and Yreka. End of of April and early May.” He reached into his suitcoat pocket and handed Ambros a card: “Print yo’ name right there, and sign it.”
Ambros glanced at the item, then did a double-take: “This is a tour-long backstage pass.”
“Ain’t every day I meet a guy...a friend...from back in the day. Makes me happy. That’ll get you and a couple-three guests into any show on this tour.”
“Thanks...” He printed and signed, then put the thing away, safe.
Jannet said: “Were you in Mr James’ band?”
“No.”
“Hey, that’s not right...” said Mr James: “Didn’t you play in the band for a while?”
“For one night,” Ambros admitted, sheepishly. “Usually I sat in for sound checks. Johnny was sick one night, so...”
“Johnny was in the hospital after one of his stupid drunken brawls. You did okay.”
“Did I?” Ambros said, self-deprecatingly.
“Sure. Kept the beat on the one all night, just like I tol’ you.”
Ambros and Jannet both burst out laughing: Mr James was famous for, among other things, his insistence on funky drumming. James sat there grinning.
“So that makes you a former Famous Flame,” she said.
“Call me a ‘one-time’ Famous Flame, that would be more accurate.” He and Jannet smiled at each other.
Mr James said: “Maybe you come see a show, we’ll get you behind the kit again.”
Ambros waved his hand dismissively: “No chance, sir. Really, I’m so out of practice...”
“Sure,” said Mr James.
Ambros finished his beer, as did Jannet.
“Drink up, Mr James. Jesse sent me to find you. Bus leaves real early tomorrow.”
Mr James threw back the remains of his shot and rose: “You sure you don’t wanna jump on her? I would, if I was your age.”
Jannet laughed. Ambros said: “I’d have to clear it with some other women, back home. That would have to come first.”
“I hear you,” said the old man: “I sure do hear you there.”
Jannet looked at him speculatively, again: “Yeah I’d have to clear it with Jess, too. Maybe I’ll see you at one of those west coast shows...”
“If I can arrange it, I’ll be there.”
“I’ll look forward to seeing you...” She handed him a business card, with a Webz address and a bookings site. She pulled out a cell phone and took a picture of him: “...for Jess...”
He gave her one of his cards: “See ya,” he said.
A woman entered through the front door as the musicians left. She looked around and spotted Ambros.
He frowned.
She swished across the room to the bar, her formal gown rustling as she doffed a cape of some sort. She ordered a vodka drink of some kind and waited while the barman mixed it. She also pointed to him; the barman poured another beer. Drinks in hand she walked over to Ambros and sat across from him.
Belatedly, he recognized her: “Major. You’re in mufti. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Bartholomew.”
“Major Bartholomew. What can I do for you?”
“I’m not sure. Maybe nothing.” She stared at him.
He stared back. He sipped the beer, cautiously.
At length she spoke, quietly: “I am supposed to tell you some things. None of it is secret in any way. But it’s stuff you may want to know. At any rate it’s stuff my superiors want you to know.”
He felt surprise, and trepidation. He didn’t let that show. He asked: “What am I meant to do with this...information?”
She shook her head, wryly: “Above my pay grade.”
He smiled, equally wry: “You are following orders, then?”
“You got it.”
“If I walk away? Refuse to hear?”
She shrugged: “Then I fail.”
“We can’t have that, can we? Speak. Get on with it.”
“Right,” she said: “There is a fellow in DC whose actions we in Naval Intelligence are concerned about. His name—or the name he’s using—is Horátio Hercule.”
“I’ve heard of him.” Ambros was not about to tell a functionary of Naval Intelligence that Hercule came from another Timeline—Objectivist Prime—or how he knew that.
“Good,” she said: “That makes this easier. We...”
“By ‘we’ you mean your handlers at Naval Intelligence?”
“Yes. We have determined that the gentleman is not who he claims to be.”
Ambros waited. He wondered if Naval Intelligence knew that his own identity was dubious as well: ‘Roberts knows...And I wonder if he’s told anyone...’
Bartholomew continued: “He built his identity around a birth certificate which he obtained by fraudulent means. A baby boy who died in 1951.”
Ambros nodded: “If he did that trick back in the 70s it would have looked fine at the time. Nobody cross-filed birth and death certificates back then.”
“Exactly. They still don’t, you know.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Bartholomew narrowed her eyes: “But enough of that old information has been uploaded that one can search for it, and find it...”
“In a few clicks...”
Bartholomew interrupted: “It took about a hundred clicks. But I got what I needed.”
“You haven’t blown his cover.”
“We don’t intend to. You should know, though: we are not pleased with the influence he’s having on Congress.”
“Worried about your budget?” Ambros asked, sarcastically.
She waved the comment away: “If Objectivists get their way and cut the Pentagon budget, they’d also call home most of our troops and take a lot of our burden off of us. It’d be a wash, financially; maybe a disaster in other ways, but we’d balance our budget.” She leaned back and sighed: “We’re more worried long-term. Tax cuts. Benefit cuts. The VA. This whole nonsensical economic theory that Hercule puts forward...”
“Hmmm,” he hummed.
She gazed at him speculatively: “Somebody has been answering all of his columns and essays with contrary ideas, well supported by evidence...That person’s economics are equally out there, but less easily refuted.”
He shook his head: “I’m not that guy.”
She revealed a little disappointment: “That’s too bad. Anyway, we’re worried about his influence on Congress, as I said, and also his influence on President Romney.
They sat for a while, silent.
A woman in a black jumpsuit trimmed in green came through the door. She had a tattered army blanket wrapped around her neck, which she swept off and tossed on a chair as she approached the bar.
The bartender looked askance at her.
She dropped a hundred dollar bill on the bartop and ordered a whisky sour. The bartender’s attitude changed in a flash. She went to sit where her cloak had landed, in long earshot of Ambros and his latest ‘guest’.
Ambros let the idea of a heavily Objectivist-influenced POTUS—with a Congress leaning the same way—roll around in his mind: ‘I knew Romney was leaning towards the Libertarian...I hadn’t counted on Congress getting infected...The consequences of that batshit economic theory getting implemented...the number of Line splits that could cause...that’s terrifying. That could fragment the whole “family” of US Lines.’
After a bit, she handed him a card: “If you log onto this site with that password, we can talk in private. When we want you to hear something, it will appear there.”
“I am not your agent,” said Ambros: “I am not a ‘source’ for you. You can’t run me like you would an operative...”
“Oh, we know that. We’re pretty sure you are somebody’s operative, though. We just don’t know whose. None of the usual suspects, anyway. No foreign government, no big corporation, no dangerous terrorist group.
“But these facts we want you to have? Pure gifts. No response of any kind required.”
”As long as that’s clear...” Ambros took the card. He didn’t believe it, but he took the card.
Major Bartholomew rose and exited the bar, humming a jaunty tune. She saluted Black Jumpsuit sarcastically: “Your turn, Greenie.”
Black Jumpsuit snarled at her, but got up immediately and approached Ambros.
“What now?” he asked out loud.
“We need to talk,” Black Jumpsuit said, in a growl that sounded like years of mentholated cigarettes and hard liquor. She sat.
“If you insist...” Ambros let some sarcasm seep out.
“I do.”
Ambros waited.
“You are Ambros Rothakis. At least...”
“It’s the only name I have now,” Ambros said, forcing himself to stay calm. The hairs on his forearms and the back of his neck stood up; something about this woman was deeply disturbing.
She breathed slowly, seemingly calming herself. Ambros sense of implied violence faded. She had dark brown skin and eyes with a hint of the Orient.
She said: “You’ve been travelling around the world by mysterious means, having meetings with Syndicalists and Anarchists and other such behinders. We want to know what you’re telling them.”
“Why should I tell you? Who are you?” ‘Behinders’ clued him that this was someone in (or from) the pro-Situationist movement.
““My name is Fantóma Geraki. Never mind that, though. I’m here on behalf of Green World Revolution; we are an offshoot of...”
Ambros interrupted: “I got you now. You are anti-civ. So?”
“We been hearing rumors about some kind of...apocalyptic...thing coming. Those rumors appear to originate with you. Everywhere you go the behinders change their tune, start to unite, reduce their sectarian bullshit; they stop arguing over trivialities. You are having that effect.”
“Good to know,” he said, self-deprecatingly.
She shook her head: “Industrial society is poisoning the air water and soil. Soon there will be no drinkable water, no arable earth, no breathable air.”
“I don’t disagree.”
“But you waste your time talking to people who organize workplaces and the homeless. Why?”
He shrugged: “Everybody has their own thing. ‘There are many roads to the top of the mountain.’ “
She started. She looked at him differently.
‘That hit home,’ he thought. He realized why she’d felt dangerous, potentially violent: ‘This is a person who is expert in some martial art...and who has killed people with her hands.’
He watched her as she watched him, seeing her expression change as she realized what he had just deduced about her: ‘She’s a sharp one,’ he mused.
She made a decision: “Soon there will be nothing left to us but revenge.”
“Revenge...” he nodded.
“Revenge on those who are poisoning the planet. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” he nodded: “But sometime in the next year, a big...thing...will happen.”
“An apocalypse?”
“Pretty close. If you are ready, you might be able to...”
“Oh, we’re ready, dude. More than you know.”
“Well,” he said, grinning: “I can believe that, a little bit. You found me, here, where you had no business knowing that I’d be. You have to have been tailing me, and I didn’t catch on. I was watching for tails, too, so...you’re good. Not just you, as an individual. You are better organized than I’d thought anyone in the anti-civilization movement was.”
“What do you know about that?”
“Zazu Johnson and I have corresponded for years. We recently met in person.”
She waved as though to drive away a bug: “Johnson is just another behinder. He’s closer than some, but still behind.”
“Well...I’ve seen him fight Nazis. He’s not all theory.”
“Yeah, that’s an admirable aspect of his...career. But even fighting Nazis is a distraction. We must stop the destruction of the ecosystems on which we all depend for life. Punching Nazis is something you might do, if you find yourself face-to-face with one. But it does nothing to stop container ships or the extraction economy.”
“Container ships?”
“Look up ‘Bunker fuel’.”
Ambros nodded slowly: “I will, at the first opportunity I get.”
She leaned back and said: “Okay. Something apocalyptic is coming. In the next year. An opportunity for our group to act. Okay.” She drank down the rest of the liquor and then stood up and left, abruptly.
Ambros muttered: “I gotta check these people out, now. They may be a complicating factor come the incursion...like I don’t have enough to do.’
He sighed: ‘My life continues to get more complicated. I am not wasting any time flying back to Portland, though. Let Roberts and Bartholomew puzzle out my travel schedule for themselves.’
He didn’t finish the beer. Instead of calling a cab, he went into the restroom and got out his Shifter. He Saltated directly into his hotel room, where he picked up his shoulder bag and left behind his cloak.
He turned in his keycard at the front desk: “I left my cloak as before. Please see to it.”
“Of course, sir. Safe travels.”
“Thank you.” He retreated to the restrooms by the lobby doors, where he pulled the Shifter out again: “Home, James,” he said, and Jumped across the continent to the main room of his Salon.
He sighed as he headed towards the bedroom: “I’m too exhausted to do anything at all right now...”
