zzambrosius_02

Epilogue: Some By Dint...

Ambros dropped in to the Country Fair site in the Alcatraz Quiet Line. He had his tent, salvaged from his camp in the Swamp, and a pack full of food and drink. He walked slowly along the muddy or flooded trails, until he found an elevated booth, with what must have been a sleeping room well above ground level. He climbed slowly up, shoving his tent before him and following, grimly.

He set up his camp, laid out his sleeping bag and made himself a meal. While eating it, he contemplated: “I’m here, I told everyone, to get away from things for a while. I need some alone time, and a bit of deep meditation. Bloody PTSD. Fucking Squids.” He thought about what he’d said to the Ant when he’d upbraided it: “…raped my brainstem.”

“Yeah. This is probably something like how a rape victim feels. Can’t get the feelings out of my mind, little things set me off. Always lookin’ around for a damn Gate to pop up. Lose track of what I’m saying.

“I was good as long as I was busy. Armored up, with weapons in hand…Now everything feels scattered; I feel like I’m flailing around, and I’ve certainly seen some personal failures lately.

“Time to assess my strengths and weaknesses, and by extension the strengths and weaknesses of my side in the War. Probably spend a deal of time crying my eyes out, as they say. We’re gonna start, though...with a little trip.”

He extracted the little lump of mushroom sporoid he’d carried around for years. ‘It’s marvelously potent stuff, a mind-blowingly powerful hallucinogen, but the effects last only a couple-three hours. Or a day and a night, if I take enough. I better do that.

“Been about ten years since I took a trip into my subconscious, and I could sure use some insight about now. Fungus, don’t fail me this time...”

With his pocketknife, he carved away a hunk of the stuff. He’d got it so long ago that he couldn’t recall the date, from a fellow named Steinetz, a mycologist of some renown. In the thirty-some years since, he’d tripped on tiny bits of it about eight times: ‘About eight? I should check my journals, once I’m home again.’

He rubbed the sliver between his fingers to break down the fibrous mass a bit, rolled it into a pill, and downed it with a drink from his canteen.

He crawled into the tent and then into the sleeping bag. He wrapped a silk scarf around his ankles, and put his hands in the patch pockets on his thighs, maneuvering the velcro partway closed, so he couldn’t pull his hands out without concentrated effort. He closed his eyes.

He waited for the stuff to take effect. He felt himself drifting, and slowly fell asleep.

 He could not tell whether he woke or not. He could not ascertain whether his eyes stood open or stayed closed. He seemed to float, in a sea or atmosphere of red.

CHAPTER NINETEEN: Various Ceremonies, and that Hearing

Ambros pulled his socks on, and then donned a pair of Commonwealth-issue harness boots. He checked himself in the mirror: All in dark green and gray camo, black boots, and a dark green balaclava.

He reflected on his appearance: “Better. Not good. But Better. A mostly good night’s sleep helps some.”

Kim came out of the women’s room into the main hall of his Salon, similarly dressed.

“Ready?” she asked.

“I’d better be. Don’t want to be late.”

It was the Eve of Winter Solstice; it would be a day of unpleasant errands, he knew, to be followed by the Ceremony of Darkness and Light in Athino.

Ambros drew Kim close and got out his Shifter. He concentrated on the spot he’d scouted earlier that morning, and then Saltated the two of them up into the south hills of Eugene.

“This way,” he whispered, taking her hand. He led her down a little ways, on a seldom-used path near the cemetery.

He stopped. She stayed behind him, waiting.

“Right here,” he said, still whispering.

“Okay.”

They waited; he scanned the scene with his binoculars. He could see, about forty yards away, the gravediggers making their final preparations for the graveside service.

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Chiefly about Swordplay

Ambros dropped in to the courtyard at Canada Prison in the Guatemalan countryside. It was just sunrise, full light perhaps fifteen minutes away. Arrenji and Voukli appeared moments after he did. A quick glance at the other two, then Ambros Shifted into the corridor where their spycam was hanging out.

He heard a series of explosions and a rattle of gunfire from out in the yard: Voukli and Arrenji beginning their combination distraction and destruction plan for the prison proper. He looked up and down the hall; he stood alone, for the moment: “So far, so good.”

He started his part of the operation: ‘This is a simple plan. One, two, three. Hit fast, get out.’ He had his Commando sidearm out, preset for microwave projection. He fried the mundane security cameras at either end of the hallway and put the pistol away. He dropped a marker on the floor where he was standing, then ran down the corridor, counting cells.

‘Simple plan, part two,” he said, deploying his APS. “Cut my way into Jaime’s cell...’

CHAPTER FIFTEEN: When in Danger or in Doubt

Ambros woke up, and almost immediately wished he hadn't. His head was hurting: aching, pounding, splitting. No cliché described it. He rolled over, grunting.

He could smell damp soil. He opened his eyes and saw nothing.

"Dark," he said: "Where is it this dark?"

He bit his lip hard enough to draw a little blood, by that means distracting himself from the headache: "Six. USIT Six," he whispered. "I was visiting the New York settlement..." His suspicions immediately went to Ed the bully: "Hit from behind, maybe." He began to feel like he wouldn't die right away, and his wits slowly returned. He explored the back of his head, tentatively. He felt a lump the size of a walnut: ‘Hit me right on the button.’

He had no armor, and that was wrong. He touched his crotch; his cup clung to the skin there: "I wonder how they got the rest of it off me," he said, grumpily. "Shouldn't come off without a touch from my hand...” No armor meant he didn’t have his weapons belt, with all of the other tools that Commonwealth Commandos carried: “Well, they can’t use any of that stuff, but...I oughta try to get all of that tech back before they hurt themselves trying to pry the cases open.’

”Let's see what we can find out, shall we?"

CHAPTER THIRTEEN: Bad Guys Multiply, But One Might Turn...

 

...and with that essay on Deep Flanking open, he got nowhere in a big hurry.

A man entered the pub, looked around, and spotted Ambros. The fellow tipped his cap—a baseball cap with some amorphous left-ish symbolism where a team logo might ordinarily be—and nodded knowingly at Ambros.

Ambros’ hackles rose immediately, and his instincts started yelling at him: ‘Cop! Cop!’

The man nodded at him again. He groaned internally: ‘Another interruption...? Well, I am in a public place.’

He reminded himself that he’d got a lot done already, in the times between interactions: ‘New Pismo says...twenty pages, approximately 8000 words. Really? Excellent!’

He looked away, but kept the man in sight peripherally. He could see the man buying a pair of whiskies, and beginning to weave among the tables in his direction. He looked over his shoulder, confirming that his bug-out route remained clear.

He heard the sound of two shot glasses hitting the table; he looked back and found the man standing in front of him, left hand on the back of the facing chair. Ambros sent a mental command to his laptop: ‘Record this encounter’. It beeped quietly, acknowledging the command.

“Ambros Rothakis? Hector Miller,” the fellow said, holding out his hand: “Friends call me ‘Heck’.”

“Mr Miller,” said Ambros, pointedly, shaking the proffered hand.

“May I sit down? I bought you a Jameson’s...” Miller pushed the shot across the table towards Ambros.

Ambros shrugged: “I’ll accept that. Sit down. Do you have some business with me?” He did not touch the glass.

“I thought you might be interested in a project I’m developing...”

CHAPTER ELEVEN: ...But Not Insane

Ambros woke in his tent in the swamp. He sat up, stretching, and rolled his shoulders. He crawled out of bed.

He stood and did an abbreviated set of stretches and calisthenics, then sat on top of his sleeping bag. He assumed the position he called ‘quarter-lotus’, which was an excellent passive stretch for his legs and hips.

As he stretched, he pondered: “I was never able to reach the Full Lotus position, however hard I tried...”

He tried it again, and, somewhat to his surprise, achieved the goal: “Ahhhh!” he cried out, briefly in intense agony. He had to use his hands to pull the upper leg off of his thigh before he could unwind himself.

He sat a while, stunned: “Okay,” he said: “I’ve been exercising and stretching a lot more lately...it’s not just something I do for myself. Now it’s part of my job...”

He sat nodding, adding up all of the little changes that he’d noticed over the past five months.

‘It’s not just that I’m exercising and stretching,’ he thought: ‘The Combat Medical treatments I’ve been getting are having more and more effects as time goes on. Each treatment adds stuff, and the effects are cumulative.’

He realized what that was leading up to: “I’m not Superman, and I won’t ever be...but with that armor, that tech…”

He shook his head, dismissing the disturbing train of thought. “Enough fantasies. I got work to do.”

He knew he was putting off an important insight: “Who cares?’

 He tapped his MPS alight and looked over the Calendars, separating and merging them and thinking about all of the things he had to do. A quick check showed him the time in the Commonwealth: “First bell plus fifty leptae...forty-five minutes past 7:30 AM...eight fifteen USIT time. I slept in.”