
If Not Liberty

# Table of Contents

Title Page

If Not Liberty

PART 1

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

PART 2

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgements
by Jack Teng

If Not Liberty, copyright (C) 2017 by Jack Teng

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

If you enjoyed this book, please return to your favorite ebook retailer to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support!

To my partner, ever the supporter of my dreams and my wackiness

"Is life so dear or peace so sweet, as to be purchased at the price of chains and slavery? Forbid it, Almighty God! I know not what course others may take, but as for me, give me liberty or give me death!"

\- Patrick Henry, March 23, 1775.

|  |

---|---|---

# PART 1

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 1

Security Checkpoint 4. Denver, Colorado. July 21, 2065, 7am.

Peering down the line, I see we've been held up by a spot-check marked out by the surveillance drones. I curse, guessing some asshat is trying to bring contraband through the checkpoint again.

Sure enough, a half dozen steel-jawed prowlerbots scamper past us, their titanium chassis bristling with primed tasers and crowd-control ordinance. They stop a mere hundred feet away, where a Chinese soldier has grabbed a white-boy by his dirty shirt, pulled him out of the line, and forced him onto the ground, screaming:

"What's this? Don't you know the rules? Stupid inbred redneck bai gui!"

The solider, encased in the mechanical skeleton of a military hardframe, is holding out a battered smartphone with a cracked screen, found after rummaging through the white-boy's bag. It's crushed into plastic and glass splinters by the soldier's augmented grip.

"No digital electronics! It's strictly forbidden!" the soldier says, far louder than necessary, pressing the muzzle of his rifle into the cringing white-boy's face.

"But it doesn't connect to the network anymore! It only does playback! You were letting people through with deactivated devices last week," the white-boy protests.

The "boy" looks to be a sun-beaten forty-year-old, but it's more than likely he's a decade younger than that. Judging from his overalls and wiry arms, he seems to be some kind of day laborer.

The soldier darts a nervous look around and delivers a swift kick to the worker's face.

"No we didn't! We've never allowed any electronics through!" As he signals to have the unconscious man taken away, the soldier yells out to the rest of us, "No digital electronics will be allowed through the checkpoint! Nothing! Get rid of any contraband immediately!"

There's a clatter of plastic objects being tossed to the ground. We get the message. What was tolerated a few days ago is now forbidden. Luckily, I have nothing to get rid of, as I'm wise enough to keep my limited gear at home. You never know when the Chinese soldiers will suddenly decide to enforce the Occupation rules to the letter - or arbitrary ones they make up on the spot.

"On edge today, aren't they?" Eliza mutters from beside me. I look askance at the pale-faced, short-haired woman by my side. She's my "wife."

I keep my eyes ahead and answer in a neutral tone: "He should have known better. The rules say they don't let anything with a data port through, not even if it's a rinky-dink USB 1.0 port. No matter what they used to let through, he should have known better than to risk it."

"Whatever. Something is up. That's the third spot-check this morning," Eliza grunts. Nudging me in the ribs, she adds: "Watch your arms, Pat. You're holding them tight again."

I'm about snap back at her, as I've told her numerous times not to touch me that way. Getting jostled in the side, and more specifically in the unwelcome rolls of fat around my torso, is an unwelcome reminder of how gross my body has become. But she's right. Without realizing it, I'd been pulling my arms into my chest, one hand holding my canvas bag in a death-grip. Seeing someone assaulted and then dragged off to be pummeled to a pulp tends to somewhat activate my instinct for self-preservation. It's pathetic that it's only at times like these that I act as if my Black ass is worth something.

I force myself to let my arms drop to my side, while slowly letting my bag swing on my shoulder. Not that there's anything in my bag that's remotely threatening. All that's in it is my kitchen whites and a few energy drinks. And yet, it's always best to appear as if we're not hiding anything. This means the ideal behavior is a form of relaxed cowering, with your back slightly hunched and your eyes steadily on the ground, while your hands, arms and chest remain totally visible and ready to be inspected at any time.

With the commotion settled, the prowlerbots return to patrolling the line, swiveling their multi-directional sensors as they sweep us for any trace of explosives or pathogens. As they walk by, we're required to open our hands and put them within an inch of their steel muzzles. It's a nerve-racking experience. Any hint of anything suspicious causes them to clamp their jaws around your hands and drag you to the first available soldier. With a full five hundred pounds of force being applied by their pneumatic jaws, it's very far from being a harmless catch-and-release inspection program. It's more like a "you're obviously already guilty so not only is your hand going to be crushed, but you're never going to work again and your long term life prospects don't look so good either" program.

I remember to breathe again when the prowlerbots pass us over. I reach out with a sweaty hand to grab hold of Eliza's. She squeezes back.

"No wonder this is taking so long. Looks like they've got a new officer in charge," Eliza jerks her head towards the front.

As we've been slowly moving forward, the checkpoint's main gates have become visible underneath the hulking concrete gray of the Denver Wall. The checkpoint gates and the tunnel beyond it are over ten feet tall, but they still look like tiny mouse-holes with the hundred-foot tall Wall towering above it. The scale of it is, as always, is equal parts mind- and soul-crushing.

Within those "mouse-holes," and behind several layers of bomb-resistant ceraglass, are the bulk of the Chinese soldiers. Typically, they're bored and barely paying attention, often even playing games on the linkernodes implanted into their temples, stimming a direct net-feed into their optic and aural nerves. Monitoring us downtrodden saps is an easy duty.

But today, they're rigidly alert. As Eliza noted, the reason for this appears to be the presence of a new sharp-eyed officer standing with her arms crossed as she alternates between barking orders and pointing irritably at slackers. It's difficult to tell her rank from this distance, but I'm guessing she's the district sergeant on an inspection tour.

"A lieutenant," Eliza corrects with her better eyesight. "Weird that they've sent a lieutenant here. She must have pissed someone off to get this posting."

"Just shut-up, ok? We're nearing the gates," I hiss. "Do you want them to think you're some kind of spy?"

"Right. Like knowing who's commanding their checkpoints is a state secret. No one cares. They keep us penned in. Doesn't matter who does it." Eliza snorts. "Besides, you should be worried about the time. At this rate, we won't be inspected for another half hour... which probably means you'll be late for work. I hope you have a good excuse lined up. If you get fired, I'll have to divorce you and find someone else to accompany me outside of the Wall."

I have nothing to say as Eliza voices the very thing that's been on my mind. Even as a fake wife, she's pretty good at figuring out what my worries are and sticking rusted, jagged needles into them. If we don't start moving soon, there's a good chance we'll miss the 9am bus to Boulder and I'll be late for work - very potentially setting me up to be fired. And I can't lose this job. It's my only way out of Denver, not to mention my only hope to pay off my debts.

The Denver Wall - or the "mutual security enclosure" as the Chinese Occupation propagandists put it - is a reinforced concrete barrier that's twenty feet thick. It circles the entire city. To discourage anyone with the bright idea to try climbing over it or driving a speeding car to bomb it, there's a five hundred foot exclusion zone on both sides that's mined and sentineled by auto-gunturrets. For those thinking of tunneling underneath it, the ground is criss-crossed with a sonar net that pings anything larger than prairie dog. Meanwhile, hovering above is a flock of surveillance drones permanently stationed the length of the Wall, ready to unleash their full complement of explosive flechettes at any moment. You'd think that given all that, it would be obvious nothing can get past the Wall. It still took about fifty or so attempts that ended in a variety of grisly and well-publicized deaths to finally convince us.

I should point out that the Wall doesn't just go around the city. As any good barrier and demoralizer, it both encircles and divides the city. Initially, the Wall only ran around troublesome neighborhoods where Resistance members were thought to be hiding. But as those areas began to proliferate, the entirety of Denver became encircled and walled off. And since that wasn't enough, the walls within the city were systematically extended around vital areas such as grocery stores, government buildings and work areas. This made satisfying our basic needs, like getting our water ration, day-long ordeals at the very minimum. With much of our time spent lining up in queues and being scanned and re-scanned, few have the luxury to contemplate such distant thoughts as freedom and liberty.

That's why I can't lose my job in Boulder. After two lost jobs already, losing a third would permanently end my chances at getting a work permit outside of Denver and effectively condemn me to the city.

"Next! You! Fat fuck and ugly bitch! Get over here! Guo lai! Kuai yi dian! Tamade!"

Eliza and I shuffle forward and step into an empty booth where a soldier is waiting with his hand outstretched. He's towering over us in his hardframe even though I'm six foot two. Wordlessly, we hand over our passports, opening them up to the page with the appropriate transit permits and work stamps.

The soldier scowls as he passes a scanner over them, and scowls again when two approving blips are emitted. With a disgusted grimace, he reads off,

"Pat Dunes, male, black, 28. Eliza Dunes, female, white, 32. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir," we answer.

"You're a cook at Mike's Diner in Boulder," the soldier says pointing at me, and then points at Eliza, "And you're a housekeeper in the Guan Yin Hotel. Is that correct?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you're married?"

"Yes, sir."

"How long?"

"Almost one year now," Eliza answers for us, hooking her arm into mine.

"Oh, really?" the soldier says, his lips curling. "And you can handle him this whole time?"

"Handle him?" Eliza frowns, not understanding the question. But I know where this is going. I gird myself for the nonsense to come.

"You know what I mean," the soldier snickers. "Xiao bai gui like you, I didn't think this chou hei gui's member would fit in you."

Xiao bai gui. Little white devil. Chou hei gui. Stinking black devil. Of the derogatory terms, they call us, those are the better ones.

For a nanosecond, I'm worried Eliza is going to say something unwise and flip out, but then I remember she can't possibly care what the soldier says to us because we're not really married. Neither of us particularly care for each other beyond these daily trips. I'm not even sure where she lives, let alone whether she has a partner, though I suspect she does - just not one that's state-sanctioned. The sole point of our marriage is to increase our gender normative credibility to improve our job opportunities and, in principle anyway, have an easier time getting pass checkpoints.

Eliza trills a well-practiced, flaky laugh, as she squeezes my arm and leans into me. "Oh, I see what you mean! In the beginning, big well-endowed man that Pat is, it was difficult, you know. But after a while things got stretched out down there and I got used to it."

"Disgusting. Get used to it? Stretched out? Hao exin," the soldier wrinkles his nose, but appears to be amused by Eliza's response. "And what about how fat he is? Doesn't he crush you?"

Eliza laughs again, as she pats my sagging belly, "What? This? This is the best part! He's my happy Buddha! But if you're wondering, I'm mainly on top."

"Fine, fine. I got it. Do whatever you people do. I don't need an image of that stuck in my head. Get out of here," the soldier dismisses us with a wave.

"Yes, sir. Xie xie," we both answer.

The pain in my chest reminds me I was holding my breath again. I release it in a slow, controlled exhale as we leave the booth.

Besides the unusual slowness, this actually went fairly well. At least this time, we didn't have to submit to cavity searches, nor did we have to do anything humiliating to prove we're together. Last week, we were ordered to make out and grope for a full five minutes before the soldier was convinced our marriage isn't fake. It was the first time I'd kissed Eliza, let alone a woman, but I managed to make it look convincing by remembering the distant time when the authorities weren't obsessed with what people did with their genitalia.

When we exit the tunnel and walk into the open area past the checkpoint, I'm relieved to see that the distinctive purple-painted buses to Boulder are still there. However, I'm concerned by the long line of people queuing to get in, as it means I'll have to pay someone to give me their seat. Someones, since I'll have to bribe two people so Eliza can come with me and keep up our image; and seeing as how Eliza is in no rush to get to Boulder, I'll have to use my own dwindling assets and pay-tokens for the spots.

With a resigned sigh, I look up and down the line, sussing out who may be willing to trade their spot, as I run a mental inventory of what I'll be able to trade and how many pay-tokens I can spare. For two goddamned spots, I'll probably have to pay up to a week's worth of tokens and throw in my still-functional Zgold-series tablet. Damn.

However, just as I spot two relaxed-looking Hispanic people in the line and begin to head toward them, loud yelling erupts from the other side of checkpoint from which we'd been released from:

"Stop! Stop right there or I'll shoot!" one soldier yells angrily, her voice amplified by her hardframe's megaphone.

"Everyone down! Where are the prowlerbots?" another agitated soldier demands.

Even though the commotion is happening on the city-side of the checkpoint, the wisest course for me and everyone around me would be to take cover. Very likely, some form of shooting or violence is about to happen and some of it could spill onto our side. Stray bullets and shrapnel have a way of lodging themselves into innocent bystanders. But instead of moving away, we shuffle forward, trying to get a close look at what's going on. Partially out of ghoulish curiosity and partially out of the hope that it may be a successful strike by the Resistance. I use my bulk to elbow my way to get a better view through the checkpoint gates.

Yet as soon as I can make out the action behind the layers of ceraglass, I'm immediately disappointed. It looks like some crazy woman is attempting to storm the checkpoint. With her arms flailing and her matted, reddish hair flipping around wildly, it's safe to assume that she's some malnourished freaker who's cracked from waiting too long. It's something to expect every month or so, but it's already happened a handful of times this week - likely due to the disorienting and maddening effects of the harsh summer sun, dehydration and despair. It's also why she hasn't been killed yet, since she's clearly not armed and the optics wouldn't be very good if a harmless, unarmed American citizen is killed by overzealous Chinese soldiers. Again.

But, she isn't unarmed. And she definitely isn't harmless.

As the prowlerbots approach her, the two hardframed soldiers try to talk her down with their hands outstretched. Briefly, it seems like the woman is responding as she's stopped twitching and looking around nervously. Her shoulders begin to relax and her arms fall to her sides. She's nodding now and even faintly smiling. But it isn't because of anything the soldiers are saying to her.

In an abrupt movement, she rips open the front of her tattered shirt with one hand, revealing a bare chest covered in bloody glyphs and twisted, knotted patterns. As she does this, her other hand snakes into her into her pocket and pulls something out that she thrusts into the air. For a second, I catch sight of a glass ampule filled with a black worm-like thing swimming in an iridescent-green solution before she slams it straight into her belly, shrieking,

"For the Resistance! For the Libertarians of the Void! America will be Free!"

Faced with this strange display, the prowlerbots and soldiers are momentarily fixed in place, but they snap out of their daze when someone yells from the checkpoint,

"Tamade! What the fuck are you doing? Take her the fuck down!"

It's the lieutenant. She's screaming orders at the other soldiers around her. From her gestures, it seems like she's ordering them to follow her in gearing up, powering up their rifles, and getting their helmets on. But from their slow, reluctant movements, they appear not to see the necessity, as the situation seems to be under control.

Indeed, the prowlerbots have jumped on the thrashing woman, crunching her arms and legs in their jaws and pinning her down. The two soldiers who had been talking to her are approaching with their rifles at ready. But as they're about to drag her away, they stop and look in amazement at the woman. They're not looking at the woman exactly, but at her belly where she'd impaled herself with the glass ampule.

Even from my side of the checkpoint, I can see her belly is rapidly expanding like a fleshy balloon. It's tripled in size. Her skin has split, oozing with blood. Dark yellow tendrils of smoke snake from her eyes, nose, mouth and ears. Very distinctly, a deep moan can be heard over the sound of the woman's rending flesh. Finally, one the soldiers shoot two rounds into her forehead, bringing an end to the woman's spastic movement.

But though the woman has stopped moving her limbs, the moaning continues and still, her belly continues growing and distending. Dark mottled patches appear now on its surface, while vague shadows of writhing darkness can be seen within. Understandably, the soldiers take a few steps back. But they do so too slowly, as suddenly the woman's belly explodes and splatters their faces with a mass of slime. They immediately start screaming - not out of disgust or horror, but because where the slime has struck them, their flesh melts and falls away, while the impacted parts of their hardframes catch fire and corrode.

Soon however, the two soldiers are forgotten and left to die, as something impossible is happening and holding everyone in muted shock. Out of the crater of skin and gristle that was the woman's belly, something large, something thick, something moving horribly is emerging.

It's a black, oily tentacle, covered in gore.

It looks to be as thick as a child's torso and at least six-feet long. It's trying to pull itself out. How the thing could have hidden inside the woman is unfathomable in itself, but the solitary tentacle is followed by two others of similar size and shape, and then two more until a dozen of the twisting things appear. As they thrust themselves outwards, we finally get a good look at them. Each tentacle tapers off into a single, unblinking yellow-tinged eyeball.

At last, hysterical screaming erupts, disintegrating the queues as people scramble away.

"Light that fucking thing up! Don't just stare! Shoot!" the lieutenant yells over the din.

A battery of gunfire ensues, resulting in many of the tentacles being shot off into smoky bits. But not only does this not stop them, it causes more tentacles to appear, leveraging themselves against the ground, as they appear to be wriggling more of themselves outward, making it obvious that the tentacles aren't individual beings, but extensions of a larger creature. In an electric pulse, the tentacles tense and flex as one, pulling out the rest of the creature with a slippery sucking sound...

And a giant worm-like beast appears, crushing all logic and sense. It's thirty feet long and ten feet round, dwarfing the scrawny cadaver from which it came. Like its tentacles, its entire body is inky black of a flat, matted hue that reflects no light. As if to banish all thought of the impossibility of its existence, it lurches its head up high, and releases an ear-splitting ululating wail.

"Keep firing! Use your high velocity rounds and frag canisters!" the lieutenant shouts again.

There's renewed shooting punctuated this time with the dull thudding of exploding grenades. While this makes the creature twist and turn in pain, most of the gunfire seems to bounce off its body, leaving at most scummy trails that burn and darken the ground where they fall. With a sudden fury-driven motion the creature lunges into the checkpoint, crushing one of the soldiers too slow to run away. The strength of the impact causes the Wall to shudder, filling the checkpoint with the squirmings of eyeballed tentacles straining to burst through. For a moment, it seems stuck there, but with one sharp twist and a loud thunderous crack, the entire section of the wall above the checkpoint crumbles down, revealing a patch of startlingly blue sky.

The Wall! It broke the Wall!

Amazing as the sight is, it also means there's no longer a protective barrier between the creature and the Chinese soldiers, not to mention myself. It's a shocking fact they they're registering all too clearly.

"Stand your ground! Don't back down! Fight, damn you! Fight!" the lieutenant hollers, as she slaps a shell-shocked solider across the face.

"What the fuck is that thing? Is this some kind of joke?" one solider asks, shakily reloading his rifle.

"The rumors are true. They have demons working for them! Fucking demons!" another soldier says, shaking her head.

"Don't be a superstitious idiot! That's no fucking demon! It's some kind bio-weapon!"

"Shut the fuck up and shoot!" the lieutenant curses at them all. "Concentrate your fire on its head! Not its body! Don't let it get past the Wall!"

More gunfire and explosions. The focus on the creature's head seems to have an effect and halts its advance. But whatever ground the soldiers gained is dashed when wet gurglings rumble from the creature's gullet, followed by muscular contractions along its body - and thick globules of phosphorescent mucus are launched into the air. The globules, each the size of basketballs, reek of vomitous bile, and when they land, they splatter everywhere, inflicting vicious acid burns on anyone around.

It's then, as I watch some of the globules land amidst the crowd waiting around for the buses, that I finally realize I should be running for cover. All that time, I was standing in the open, staring in awe at the creature's incredible destructive power. I want to stay there longer admiring the thing, but my common sense finally kicks in and makes me scurry off to find a sheltered spot where I can still see what's happening.

The creature's new attack causes the soldiers' assault to waver again. They seem at a loss of what to do, shooting sporadically in unfocused bursts. The lieutenant, perhaps sensing their imminent defeat, appears with a thermobaric HJ-20 missile and yells for the soldiers around her to provide cover as she dashes to a forward position in front of the creature. When she's there, she swings the shoulder-mounted anti-tank missile onto her shoulder and cries out as she fires:

"TSAO NI MA!"

A bright flash ignites as the missile hurtles into the creature's maw. It's a perfect hit. The ground shakes as the missile detonates and blows the creature to bits, flinging chunks of it everywhere - one of which, a small, charred piece of tentacle with the eye still attached, lands at my feet.

Amidst the chaos of ragged cheering, no one notices when I place the piece in my bag.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 2

Somewhere along the Front Range on Highway 36 to Boulder. Approximately one hour later.

All told, about a dozen people died from being crushed or splattered by the creature's toxic innards, while fifty or so needed immediate medical assistance. Yet despite the deaths, the losses and the damage inflicted by the creature, the survivors - the American survivors, not the heroic Chinese soldiers proudly defending their nation's foreign interests - were ushered onto buses, and told to go to work. Heaven forbid we be late for our Occupation-provided jobs and be even more in debt than we already are.

When I'm safely seated on the bus, it takes a few tries to get my hands steady to open my energy drink and take a few sips. As the syrupy, vitally caffeinated fluid curls around my tongue and down my throat, I slowly relax, ease into my seat, and watch the beautiful mountains of the Front Range whiz by. It's habit of mine that Eliza grudgingly helps me indulge in by snaring a couple West-facing windows. In Denver, even though we're not that far from the mountains, it's hard to catch glimpses of them with the Wall and the rubbled buildings blocking the view. It's a silly habit, I know, but I used to own an apartment in Boulder that had a spectacular view of the Flatirons, and seeing the mountains as we drive up helps me cling to that memory. Again, I know it's silly. It would be easier for me to let it go and accept those times are long gone.

At this point, you may be wondering how things got this way. Isn't this the United States of America? Isn't this the land of the free and home of the brave and the Great American Dream? Yep, sure is. But if that's the case, how could we possibly have been occupied by another country - and the Chinese no less? Don't we have an army, an airforce, a navy? How could we let this happen? Didn't we fight back? Well, those are excellent questions, but I should point out that the Chinese would be the first to say that they aren't occupying us and calling them the "Chinese Occupation" is not only inaccurate but derogatory. Unfortunately, they're right. They're not our occupiers or invaders. They're our creditors.

It's generally agreed that things went south in the spring of 2057, when the federal government lost its rights to manage its budget independently. In a not so terribly shocking ruling, the WTO allowed the country's main debt-holder, the People's Republic of China to step in and manage the country's financial affairs, since, with a debt in excess of 250 trillion dollars, we were clearly unable to do so ourselves. Thus it was, with great fanfare and fake smiles, that the Sino-American Fiscal Co-Operation Agreement was signed and implemented, opening our borders to friendly Chinese financial managers who came in to take control of our books. The Chinese security troops were phased in a year later and progressively increased every year.

However, the roots of our problems could already be seen in 2042 and 2050, when successive in epidemics of avian swine-flu swept through the country, temporarily crippling the work force and tanking the economy. But even if we ignored the pandemics, problems could also be seen during heady times of 2025 through 2039 when we "won" several expensive military adventures that needed to be repeatedly won until the public lost interest. And one mustn't forget the dubiously impressive milestone that our country hit in 2052, when the Federal Reserve issued the alarming report that US citizens had managed to accumulate personal debt averaging of about three hundred thousand dollars - a fact that was generally ignored and quickly forgotten.

Shocking? Relatively speaking, I suppose. To most of us, the financial world was abstract nonsense that didn't warrant a glance away from our perpetually streaming and highly personalized entertainment feeds. There was no reason to, as the many cycles of financial crises and monetary policy gibberish had lost their meaning, while increasingly populist government urged us to ignore those pesky numbers and just spend and mortgage our evanescent incomes as proper American citizens should. And we did.

In that period, I myself had performed my patriotic duty and spent a considerable sum to drag myself through a university degree - and then a chef's certification, when I realized I had no interest in what I spent my college years studying. Then, under the general motto that you couldn't make money without spending it, I took out more loans to start my restaurants... And since I followed the popular faith that you had to live the way you wanted your life to be for it to manifest itself that way, I took out even more loans to purchase a high-end condo in downtown Boulder and a slick self-driving sports car to take me the few blocks to and from my restaurant. It was a wonderful, blissful, seemingly enlightened and progressive time and everyone ignored the signs of its imminent end.

Even when the Chinese repo people started appearing and taking away our property, we didn't think much of it, since the government framed their actions as being necessary for only the most extreme cases. They claimed most citizens would simply be undergoing a debt restructuring process and be provided with manageable repayment plans. Naturally, things got much worse, as people increasingly found themselves kicked out of their homes and placed in temp-shelters improvised from derelict manufacturing factories. Worse, people started getting axed from their jobs, as the productivity criteria typically applied to sweat-shop workers were applied to the entitled, self-congratulatory American work-ethic. Unsurprisingly, we were found to be deficient and not especially effective at our jobs. Instead, in the hopes we would rediscover the idea of working hard to get ahead, we were given menial jobs. Still, we didn't protest or rise up against our creditors, as those impacted in those first five years were the low income earners - that is, those with little political clout and therefore warranted no media attention. It was only when the larger corporations started being taken over and wealthy neighborhoods started seeing the star spangled banners replaced by gold-starred red flags that the protests and resistance really started to begin. But by then it was too late.

To be clear, we did fight back and we did resist the Occupation. However, those most likely to help us, the police and military, had been carefully rendered ineffective through strategic redeployments and the cultivation of well-positioned collaborators. This is not to say our soldiers and police abandoned us. Simply that most were forced into compliance from the pressure of having their families threatened. Those able to desert formed militias and started resistance movements using stolen weapons stockpiles. They were even successful for a time, as they were using vast networks of sympathizers to bomb Chinese soldiers and terrorize Chinese citizens. In retrospect, I wonder if this was something the Occupation actually wanted us to do, as soon afterwards, they had excellent excuses to impose increasingly draconian measures on us, from forcibly relocating potential suspects, to banning digital electronics and all forms of media and online social interaction, and of course the building of walls around every major city and the creation of never-ending checkpoints.

It took two years for the Resistance to be systematically suffocated and beaten down. Many tried their hand at fighting before being forced to give up. I have to confess that I could never count myself among them, as at the time I was already under surveillance and I couldn't do anything without drawing the attention of the Chinese Occupation's Internal Security. I did however know many people who did resist, some of whom are sitting just a few seats from me, but all of whom had the same story of being crushed and forced into subservience in one way or another.

Take the gray-haired woman sitting up front. Her name is Elaine Kandle. Before she was posted out here, she had fought with the Vermont Mountaineers. She gave up after her children contracted a new strain of super-malaria and had to beg the Chinese for treatment. Or take the bald guy to the right of me with a stump for an arm and crude wooden post for a leg. His name is Gregory Windle. He fought with the Golden State Wolf Regiment. He gave up after the Great Big One of '62 sank San Francisco into the Pacific and killed his family in the resulting fires and tsunami. And let's not forget the one-eyed woman sitting two rows down talking to herself and making strange faces at the sky. Her name is Micah Onlea. She fought for the 14th Northern Irregulars. She gave up when her commanding officer took a bribe from the Chinese and led them into an ambush. She was the only survivor.

This is the eighth year of the Occupation. It's been over two years since there's been any kind of real fight from any organized resistance. This is why today's attack is so amazing. We all assumed the Resistance was defunct. There were rumors, of course, but nothing anyone could pinpoint or dig up from any of the banned networks - until today, that is. I desperately want to talk to someone about what happened, ask them who they think is organizing this new resistance, and what it was that they brought to bear with such devastating effect.

I'd be willing to be bet my nipples that other people want to talk to me about it too and swap theories, but I imagine that, like me, they're too afraid to speak for fear that we may be an informant. You never know who may decide to call the Internal Security hotline and cash in on a few months of debt-forgiveness. Hell, I don't even dare ask Eliza, despite having been fake-married to her this past year.

I'm jolted from my brooding with a polite tap on my shoulder from someone standing in the aisle:

"Do you mind if I sit next to you, Pat? I can swap seats with your wife and she can sit next to mine."

I look up sharply and I'm met with a soft, familiar gaze from someone with Hispanic features. My stomach twists as I recognize Sam Martinez. My ex. Unsurprisingly, like me, ze is presenting zirself as being acceptably male and ze was sitting next to zir own "wife." As usual, ze is impeccably groomed with wavy, subtly gelled hair, though there's a new addition of a flawlessly clipped lumbersexual beard. Damn, I'd forgotten how good ze looks. My hands reach involuntarily to cover the rolls that have grown around my belly, as I feel my face heat up. I hadn't noticed Sam sitting a few seats behind me. Otherwise I'd have found a way to avoid zir.

"I... uh... I don't think that we can move... I... uh..." I stammer inanely. "Eliza is here and I... uh..."

"Whatever. I'll fucking swap. I'm up for doing the wifey chat thing," Eliza says without an iota of sympathy, as she gets up and brushes off my hand attempting to pull her back.

Before I know it, my ex - whom I haven't seen or talked to for several years and with whom our last words involved several long, angry rants about every niggling thing that had pissed us off about each other - is sitting next to me.

"Hey," ze says.

"Hey," I reply. "It's been a while. You're looking good."

"So do you."

"Me? Are you blind? I got fat."

"Just more of you to love, right?"

"Right. There's not enough love in the world to cover my right butt cheek," I snarl. But seeing Sam is genuinely trying to be nice, I force myself to say, "So, what have you been up to these days? I take it you're working?"

"Yeah. I work the wine section at Chuan Shi Foods Market. That's why I'm dressed like this," Sam says, waving a hand over zir clothes, which I notice is modeled on a traditional hipster uniform of bowtie, flannel shirt and tight brown corduroys pulled up by a pair of suspenders. It was the official uniform of Whole Foods Market, before it was taken over by a Chinese company and renamed - obviously, they decided to keep the high-end, overpriced look of the place. "How about you? Where are you working these days? Some fancy-pants kitchen serving wonderfully delicate amuse-bouches with a splash of Great Wall rose?"

I snort. "I wish. Maybe I'd be interested in my damn job if I was. No, I'm working at a diner on 28th street. Mike's Diner. We serve pseudo-American burgers and dumplings. It's junk, though you wouldn't know it from how our so-called chef puffs himself up around the guests and rattles on about his Five Fragrance Gravy Sauce."

"Oh, Pat. A diner?" Sam shakes zir head. "But you can do so much more than that. You're such a brilliant chef! You should have your own place!"

"That would be great Sam, but it's just not possible. I can't..."

"Can't? Not possible? That isn't the way to think about it and you know it." Sam wags a finger at me. "I know you can do it. What did I tell you about taking risks and following your dreams? Are you even doing that anymore? I really think that this can work for you. Even in this climate. I know a few people and I'd be happy to introduce you to them and..."

"Sam. Please. Stop." I stop ze before I lose my temper. I'm in no mood for zir positivity and even less in the mood to explain how poor my credit is these days.

An awkward silence follows, as we fumble for non-triggering words.

"I just wanted to say that..."

"You know that I..."

"Sorry, you go ahead."

"No, please, what did you want to say?"

We fall silent again. I suppress a sigh. We didn't have the best relationship, and the increasing pressures of the Occupation and its Department of Social Hygiene didn't help either.

Sam is the one to break our silence. In a quiet voice, he asks, "What do you think about what happened?"

"I don't know what you mean." I shift uncomfortably, pulling my bag closer.

"Come on, I'm dying to talk about the attack on the checkpoint to someone. Do you know who did it? How they're doing it?"

I stay quiet, looking away. Ze persists in talking:

"I heard these attacks have been happening more frequently, but the Occupation's propaganda managers have been keeping it under wraps. Understandably too, since they're being hit badly. Someone told me that there were incidents like this in Phoenix and Dallas, but they were smaller." I shouldn't, but of course I'm listening. I'm glad ze is at least sensible enough to cover zir mouth so no one can see zir lips. I should be shushing zir, but I'm really interested in hearing what ze knows. "Some say that they're using some kind of experimental gene-spliced supra-organism that's been militarized, but it just doesn't make any sense now that I've seen it. What I saw was impossible. More than that. It had to be something else. Something incredible. Something... insane. And no one even knows who's doing it. No organized group has ever claimed responsibility. There's been some weird rumors that they're called the 'Voiders' or the 'Liberty Voiders' or..."

"Libertarians of the Void," I correct. I lean in closer to keep our conversation private. The potential to find out more about the attack is irresistible. "I'm pretty sure that's what they call themselves. What happened in Phoenix and Dallas? When was this? I never heard of it."

"Phoenix was two months ago and Dallas was just last month. I found out about it because I met someone who had been allowed to migrate from Dallas and they'd heard the impact of the attack from the other side of the city... that apparently doesn't exist anymore." Sam slaps my shoulder for emphasis. "What do you think these Libertarians of the Void are using? What could cause that much damage?"

I shake my head, biting my tongue to remind myself not to say too much. "I wish I knew. Some say they're tapping into some kind of weapon from the pre-Occupation times. I have a hard time believing that. The most credible sources I've been finding have been saying they're using something mystical."

"Mystical? Like magic?"

"Yeah. Ridiculous, right?" I force a smirk. "They even say that they're using the powers of the Elder Gods if you're willing to believe it."

"Do you?"

"Me? Believe in magic? I don't know. Maybe. I have to admit I want to, especially after seeing what happened at the checkpoint. I wouldn't mind having a fraction of their power and learning how they do it. They're impossible to find though. Apparently, only they can contact you, and only if you prove worthy of joining them."

"Maybe we can join them together."

"What, and then free the whole country too?"

"Why not? It could be like the old times," Sam smiles, gently bumping zirs leg into mine.

I pause for moment before stiffening and moving away. "Oh, Sam. You know it's not possible. It just wouldn't work and..."

"It's alright. It's fine," Sam waves zir hand. "I forget that I was always the dreamer between the two of us." I'm about to reply with a poorly considered comment, but fortunately Sam continues with, "Hey, can I get your opinion on something? Tell me what you think of this. It's something I've been working on."

Sam rummages around zir bag, retrieves a plastic bag and pulls out what appears to be some kind of thumb-sized confection that's been deep-fried to a dark brown crisp. Sam hands it over with an encouraging smile.

I look at it dubiously.

It's heavily battered so I can't tell what this lukewarm, definitely no longer fresh mystery food is. I distinctly recall telling Sam that anything deep-fried should never be stored in plastic or they'll get soggy - but instead of mentioning it to zir, I pluck one of the fried things out of the bag and bravely put it in my mouth. I'm pleasantly surprised when it doesn't taste like heavily-salted ass. Even the outer layer isn't as soggy as I imagined, and I'm delighted when I discover the flavors within.

"Am I tasting jalapeños here? And is that Emmental on the inside? ...wait, there's more... I'm getting notes of basil and garlic too... and a dab of cilantro too! Not a bad touch." I turn to Sam, who's beaming proudly. "Where did you get these ingredients? This would have taken at least four months' worth of pay-tokens to make, and I can't even begin to imagine where you had to travel to get these. What are you planning on doing with these? Are you going to sell them? I can see people paying for something like this."

"I'm glad you like it," Sam grins. "I get the ingredients from the Chuan Shi Foods Market compost bin. It's stuff they would toss away, and I made an arrangement with my manager to get the first pick. It wasn't cheap to get her to agree, but I promised her a cut of whatever I make. You really think it's good? Is there anything you would do to improve it? I was going to call them Hot Poppers to play the nostalgia angle."

"It's not bad, Sam. It really isn't. Are those all the ingredients you can get? What else can you work with?"

"Well, it's varied. There's usually some kind of hot peppers and old cheese, but that basil and garlic comes from some leftover pesto so that's a one-time deal. There's also lots of greens and stuff, though you can't deep fry that."

"Jeez, Sam. Not everything has to be deep-fried, you know. You can ferment those greens and do like a kimchi-sauerkraut thing to use as a condiment."

"Oh, now the chef speaks. Remember, I'm not making any high-class food here. Just snacks for regular folks."

"Just because it's for regular people doesn't mean it has to coat your arteries with transfats. Besides, if you have stuff that's not fried, it'll save you on having to use oil or risk having the batter go soggy."

"Ok, fine. Then what would you do with the cabbage then? I could never figure out what to do with it."

"Cabbage? Easy. You can make cabbage wraps. Delicious."

"And what about oranges and old bananas?"

"Now, hold on. Am I getting anything for this free advice?"

"Ha! I thought you may ask. What are you thinking of?"

"How about a cut of the profits? I'll even help you prepare the stuff."

"Hmmm... Ok... How about 10%?"

"10%! What! I'm a trained chef!"

"I'm kidding! I'll give you 30% and you help regularly."

"Well, it would be a lot better if it's 40%..."

Much against my better judgement, I let the conversation continue, going so far as to set up the bare bones of an agreement to work together, a regular place and time to meet and even a not-so-terrible-but-bound-to-be-changed name for a company. Ze offered atrociously vague "The Retro," but ze conceded that my suggested name, "S n' P's Snacks," was far simpler and offered more artistic possibilities.

And also, much much much against my better judgment, I let warm, hopeful thoughts distract me all the way to Boulder, to the extent that I barely bat an eye and even flash a smile as Eliza and I are again accosted and humiliated at the arrivals checkpoint before we're allowed to go into Boulder. This ridiculous positivity continues as I walk to work, adding a spring to my walk, even though I pass the depressing sight of yet more Boulder businesses being converted to Chinese storefronts.

However, as I walk around the garish exterior of Mike's Diner and enter through the back door, my fluffy glow is decisively quashed with a swift slap across the face that sends me reeling onto the ground.

"You're late! I should fire you! Tamade lazy hei gui!"

My face stinging, I look up and meet the blazing, contemptuous expression of a thin, wiry Asian man with a glossy Elvis-style hairdo and dressed in a blazing red polyester bowling shirt. My boss, Mike Lee, was kind enough greet me at the door.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 3

"I should fire you. You're a fucking hour late. I'd love to see your lardass on the street begging for pay-tokens. That'll show everyone how much bullshit your chef's certificate is." Mike Xiansheng - as he insists we call him - jabs a bony finger into my face.

I wince and steel myself. It doesn't matter that I'm late because I've just survived an attack that delayed the bus and caused many deaths. But I exhale in relief when he says,

"You're lucky I won't though. Katie's not here so we're a person short. You better do your job today and do it well, or I really will fire you. Oh, and Danny's not in today so take over with managing the orders too. And not one mistake, you hear?"

"Yes, Mike Xiansheng," I nod, as I slip into my whites and walk over to the prep counter.

Danny Lee, Mike's brother and head chef, should be calling out the orders. But, as it's been increasingly the case lately, he's not been coming in and forcing the rest of us to pick up the slack. We suspect some combination of gambling, sim-addiction, and fucking around with C-grade starlets.

I give a quick wave to the two prep cooks in back, Leon and Michaela, who merely grimace in response, jerking their heads to tell me get on with it. They're right. The less we become attached to each other the less likely we'll be impacted (or accused of conspiracy) if any of us is dragged away.

Taking a look at the tickets, I reorganize them from the horrid mess they were in and call out,

"Two Jiachang burger specials on mantou, medium rare, extra ketchup and lactose-free cheese! Four orders of yangrou dumplings with mayo-garlic sauce, no soup! One lamien with hongshao beef and tendon and deep-fried pickled cabbage special!"

A couple of grunts answer me, as I pull plates out and start the mise-en-place for the sides and the sauce ramekins. I'm moving swiftly, but casually, as the orders are pretty straight forward and easy to do. Like I said, we're just a crappy diner, even though Mike tries to spruce it up like it's some kind of two star restaurant. That said, I still have some degree of self-respect, so as the orders come forward, I make sure the burgers are placed at the proper angle, I arrange the dumplings into an aesthetically pleasing spiral, and I space out the beef slices on the noodles to show off their glistening layers of reddened fat.

"Service!"

As soon as the orders go out, I glance out the kitchen window to see how the customers are reacting. I'm pleased and a touch smug when I see them gush at the food and signal their linkernodes to snap retina-pics for their WeiShuo profiles.

Taking a look at the incoming tickets, I think to myself that I totally got today's lunch service even though I was late. No problem. There's nothing here I can't manage on my own if I had to. I yell out a few more orders, wondering if I may be able to squeeze in a small break for myself today.

What is it that they say about the best hopes being like a snowflakes in hell? Or is that an expression that I made up?

The front door tinkles and my heart rate spikes as I see two men and two women walk through the door. Two couples, you must be thinking, right? If only. I'd have been too happy to have overly picky neo-foodies demanding extra-special food for whatever occasion they may be using to burnish their failing relationships. No, these people are wearing the military fatigues of off-duty Chinese Occupation soldiers.

"Huanyin! Huanyin! Welcome to Mike's Diner! We are so happy to serve our brave service men and women!" Mike yells to them with an enthusiasm that none of the staff share. Waving at the waitresses to approach and help with seating the soldiers, he continues to effuse: "Please sit in our special banquet room! ...Unlock the door and get the red table-cloths, you idiot!... We're so honored to have you here! ...The banquet cutlery, not the regular ones, you fucking baigui!... We will be delighted to make your lunch a memorable experience. Of course, soldiers eat here with a significant discount. Would you like to start with some tea or beers? Of course you would! ...Four Tsingdaos now! Get over here...!"

Mike has good reason to be particularly attentive. Chinese soldiers are known to perform spot inspections when they suspect any kind of seditious activity. While the business itself isn't made to close during the inspection, it usually results in most of the staff being sent to Internal Security and never to return. The sudden loss of personnel, not to mention the steep drop in customers wary of the questionable business causes them to shutter.

On the other hand, if the businesses ply the soldiers with freebies, discounts and specials, they may get on their good side, which not only offers protection but also potentially some perks like getting laxer enforcement on building codes, food safety and such troubling requirements like the humane treatment of the workers.

The staff is naturally expected to do their part, so I'm not surprised when Mike storms into the kitchen, grabs me by the arm and says,

"Where's your goddamn chef's hat? What do you mean you don't have one? Take Danny's. Make it fit, you stupid heigui! I'm going to kill that bastard for not being here today of all days. But you'll have to do, you useless imbecile. This is what you're going to do: you're going to go out there and you're going to personally tell them the menu. And you're going to agree to whatever changes they want. Congratulations, Pat. You're going to be the head chef today so play your goddamn role well."

It's a terrible idea for me to go out there, but I have no time to protest or adjust Danny's dusty chef's hat before Mike drags me out, and introduces me to the soldiers with flourish,

"May I introduce your chef today, the distinguished and celebrated Pat Dunes. He has served with distinction with us for a year now, and before that he ran two restaurants that both earned the rare fourth Michelin star. He has the unique distinction of being certified by the venerated Auguste Escoffier Culinary Arts Institute, before it went bankrupt, of course... but not before he left with their secrets! He has also trained with no less than Sifu Wing Kenichi winner of 2057's Golden Wok and he has combined his amazing knowledge with a sprinkling of his grandmother's very own recipes to craft our unique and distinguished menu!"

Wow. I never knew Mike could be that creative. The only thing true about his gushing presentation was the part about the Escoffier Institute, which, by the way, I did graduate from with the highest distinction of a Double Gold Seal. And while I did run my own restaurants and trained with some great chefs, I never bothered getting rated by the pompous asses at Michelin and the chefs I worked with were all non-Chinese.

In spite of the lavish introduction, I'm momentarily speechless in front the soldiers, who are looking at me with a combination of curiosity and disgust. A sharp elbow in the ribs finally gets me talking:

"Nin hao," I say with a deep bow. "We have on offer today an excellent selection of classic American diner options as well as Jiachang-style food with a unique American twist. Our house specialties include our signature burger, the Jiachang burger that we cook to your specifications and to which we add our famous Five Fragrance Gravy, topped with finely shredded congxing cai. It of course comes with fresh-cut fries that we spice with our very own combination of Yunnan mountain salt and Sichuan peppercorn. We also have a very unique chicken-fried..."

I'm interrupted by one of the female soldiers, slapping the menu on the table and chortling to the others:

"See? I told you this is a good spot. After today, I can use a big fucking meal." She's a solidly-built woman with her hair tightly bound behind her head. Grabbing and shaking the arm of the other female soldier beside her, she says, "What do you think XiaoPan? Think you'll come out hungry here?"

XiaoPan, a squat, stub-nosed woman with closely shorn hair and tightly knotted, muscular arms, replies, "I guess I won't, Sergent Lin. But you never know with these places. They always find ways to stiff you and I've been to more than one of these places when you're hungry an hour later."

"You'll have unlimited fries and free refills! Also we can do double patties - and make them extra large too!" Mike interjects, giving me the stink-eye to take note of the modifications.

"Whatever! I'm sold! Just keep the beers coming and have these ladies stick around and I'll be happy!" the larger of the two male soldiers laughs, as he ass-grabs one of the waitresses.

"I've seen what you eat, JiaLu. They could serve you turd-cakes on a monkey's ass and you'd still devour it," XiaoPan snorts. "I refuse to eat crappy food, especially this fake American shit."

Sensing I should be saying something then, I say politely, "I assure you, I can cook everything to your order, and I can modify anything you like..."

"Yo mei yo, su chai? Hao xiang mei she me, chai," the second male soldier, a man with the darkened skin and wide nose of a Southerner, grumbles in Mandarin.

Chinese soldiers are told to speak English since they're still technically on foreign soil and should be integrating for the sake of our "hearts and minds." A few of them, however, don't bother even trying, just to underline the fact that our hearts and minds are worthless. My Chinese is pretty rudimentary, but the soldier seems to be complaining about vegetables.

He continues irritably flipping through the menu and contemptuously pointing at my belly, "Zhe yo yo he ro. Nan gui zhe ge heigui ne me pang."

"But that's what we're here for, DaLei! Meat and grease! So we can eat like real fat fucking Americans!" Sergent Lin laughs. "Haole haole haole. No more talking. I'm fucking hungry. I'm going to order for us. Alright, four of those Jiachang burgers, extra sauce on all of them and don't skimp on the onions or mushrooms either. Fries, of course. Lots of them. Get some vegetables too for DaLei's sake. Not the stupid cold salad. Do some kind stir-fry with some shi cai. Seasonal vegetables, get it? Oh, and don't forget to get us some hot sauce and chilies on the side and if you have pickled garlic too..."

Back in the kitchen, I call out the orders and keep a close eye on Leon and Michaela as we assemble everything the soldiers have ordered. I know they're tempted to spit in the food or do something worse to make the soldiers keel over while projectile vomiting and staining their pants with explosive fire shits. I'm tempted to do something like that too, but if they catch us, or if they even suspect us, we'd be screwed. Instead, I have them redo the pre-made burger patties, doubling their size, while I fry up a fresh batch of fries and rush to make the special orders they requested, while throwing in a few extras I know they'll like - but not too many as Mike would complain and take it out of my pay-tokens.

When we're ready, I take one last look at the presentation, carefully wipe off the rims of the dishes and give a few instructions to the waitresses so we can go out together and set them down in order. With a deep breath, I take up two of the plates and head out first.

I fully have the intention of setting the plates down as soon as I can; but when we find the soldiers talking animatedly over their drinks, I find myself held by what they're saying:

"...tamade that was messed up today. Unbelievable. Have any of you heard or seen of anything like that?" XiaoPan scowls, as she irritably twists open another beer.

"Chong lai do mei kan guo zhei zhong de dong shi. Zhe me hui yo zhei zhong de ma pi de dong shi. Bu ke neng," DaLei grunts, shaking his head.

"I agree. I've never seen anything like it. Five soldiers that thing killed! Madness! How could that huge thing have come out of that one crazy woman?" JiaLu pounds a fist on the table. "It's gotta be some kind of new bio-weaponry that their Resistance has developed in secret. That's what it was, right Sergent?"

"The hells if I know," Sergent Lin scowls. "Way above my paygrade. I've never been given any reports on any kind of new weapon the Resistance may have. I thought we wiped those losers out already. All I know is that we can kill those things. I'm just glad that Lieutenant Hui was there today. Whoever she is, she knew what she was doing."

"Yeah, that lieutenant seemed like a bitch at first. Someone told me she's not really Chinese either, but one of those American-born Chinese, a xiangjiao ren who came up through the ranks," XiaoPan says. "But I have to admit she was amazing in action. I'd definitely follow that lieutenant's orders without hesitation next time. Anyone know if she's still alive?"

"Wo chai ta da gai bu hui ba. Ta hai huo de hua ta da gai bu hui zhai gun wo men lai le," DaLei muses darkly, shaking his head.

"That would be a pity if she did die. We could use more people like her," JiaLu sighs. "These rednecks could use a lesson or two."

Abruptly, Sergeant Lin stands up and lifts her beer in the air. "To the Lieutenant's health! May she come back and kick these fat American asses! Gan bei!"

"Gan bei!" the others join in, quickly standing up as well for the toast.

It's then that disaster strikes.

Distracted as I was with what the soldiers were talking about, I misjudge my distance to them. When they stand up, I'm too slow to get out of the way, and the plates I'm holding are knocked out of my hands... and their contents end up spilling straight onto XiaoPan.

"WHAT THE FUCK!" XiaoPan swears, looking down at her soiled uniform covered in burger grease and sauce.

I'm frozen in place as I look on at the mess in horror. I of course proceed to do precisely the wrong thing. Grabbing a napkin from the table, I desperately attempt to wipe the soldier clean, as I blubber apologies,

"Bao chien! Bao chien! I'm so sorry! Please let me..."

"Get the fuck off of me!" XiaoPan roars, angrily pushing me away.

I bow repeatedly, hoping I can defuse the situation, but predictably, the other soldiers make no effort to calm her down, but instead laugh and tease:

"Looks like that hei gui's grabbing your tits, XiaoPan! Are you sure you don't like that?" JiaLu snickers.

"Ta da gai gu yi de ta jui ke yi gen ni lai!" DaLei adds, pointing at me.

Sergent Lin frowns at that, narrowing her eyes at me. "Is that right? Did you do it on purpose?"

My eyes fly open at the implication. "No! I didn't do it on purpose! Please believe me! It was an accident! Please forgive me!" I say, desperately waving my hands in front of me.

There's no sympathy to be had. Perhaps on some other day, when the soldiers weren't reeling from the deaths of their comrades or their injured commanding officer, they might have let me go. But today, they have frustrations to vent, and I just presented myself as the perfect target. Nothing can stop their revenge now, not even Mike, who in the hopes of avoiding any incident that could impact him, tries to pacify them with offers of free food and booze:

"Please! No need to get up! I'll take care of this! I'll punish this insolent hei gui! Please stay seated and continue drinking. I'll bring out some more extra special treats for you! ...Bring the bottle of Wu Liang Ye! We'll toast to the Lieutenant's health together! Hahaha... Let's just forget this incident! Hahahaha..." Mike laughs obsequiously, as he tries to shoo me away.

It's a good attempt, but it's too late.

Sergeant Lin chuckles and grins. "We'll accept the Wu Lian Ye, of course. It's been a while since I had a nice shot of that - and I hope for your sake it's the real stuff and not some cheap imitation. But I'm not going to let this insult to XiaoPan go without punishment. It's time to teach these fucking Americans some respect."

Grabbing me by my shirt, she drags me into the main dining room, and forces me onto my hands and knees. The other customers, having heard the commotion, turn around and watch in interest and tap their temples to activate their linkernodes. They're undoubtedly beginning to record everything and commenting on it for maximum viewership.

In a loud voice, Sergeant Lin says, "You fucking Americans are no better than dogs! Look at what you've done to our comrade. You've made her filthy! No wonder you are in debt. Clumsy fools can't do your jobs right. Is this the respect you show the people who are trying to help you learn from your mistakes? Don't forget that we're here because you're unable to take care of your affairs. Since you obviously want to remain at the level of a dog, this ugly hei gui is going to go around on his hands and feet, and ask for forgiveness from everyone in this room. Go on!"

A swift quick in my ass sends me crawling around the restaurant, begging and apologizing. The laughter intensifies as people start getting the idea to throw food at me and dump drinks over my head. I continue to apologize and bob my head. The sergeant makes me crawl around the dining room twice before she and the other soldiers get bored and return to their seats. I'm filthy and covered in food when I finally pull myself off the ground and retreat back to the kitchen, but not before I catch an angry glare from Mike that can only mean one thing: after my shift today, I no longer have a job.

Something in me snaps.

Fuck this shit. Fuck them all. They think I've been disrespectful? I'll fucking show them better than that.

I walk over to the supply cabinet where I keep a spare set of clothing. But instead of changing in the kitchen, I grab both my clean set of whites and my bag and step outside into the alleyway. I need some privacy for what I'm about to do to those asswipes.

Neither Leon, Michaela or any of the staff try to stop me. Nor do they attempt to comfort me or say anything to me. Fuckers. They're all spineless fuckers. I imagine they're thinking I'm out for a breath of fresh air to calm myself for work. In a way, they're right.

When I'm outside, I peel off my dirty clothes caked with food, wincing as pain blossoms where the sergeant grabbed me and kicked me. My arms and legs are shaking, and it takes my remaining stores of will to steady myself. I go behind the dumpster. This will be over soon.

Kneeling down, I unfold my spare clothes to reveal a package that I'd carefully hidden for safekeeping knowing I would never get it past the checkpoints. I shake out the package, revealing two black candles, a blood-stained knife, and most importantly, a small leather-bound book. I'd purchased it at great expense a month ago from someone who swore to me it's an authentic copy of the Pnakotic Manuscripts.

True, I don't know exactly what I'm doing, and all my previous attempts have resulted in failure, but this time I have to believe my summoning will work. Because this time, I have what may be the one element I'd been missing. A piece of the Elder Ones.

After lighting the candles, I pull the eyeballed tentacle out my bag, laying it reverently in front me. It's already rotting and smelling awful. With my knife, I cut a long slit across my hand, and with the welling blood, I trace a pentagram around the tentacle. I'm ready. I take a deep breath, open the book, flip to a page where I've seen the most convincing text, and I intone with my eyes closed,

"Nix dagon jurl ad mortem! Eidermann von Masterchist yog miggart. Yug! Yug! Yug!"

When I open my eyes again, I nearly cry in relief. Something is happening. Something is actually fucking happening! The tentacle is twitching, and a disgusting odor is wafting into my nose. A dim glow is seeping out from the vacant, unlidded eyeball. It's working!

I take the tentacle in my hand, smiling as I feel it squirming with the tenebrous life fueled by my pent-up anger. Yes. I will have my revenge. I will have justice.

Laughing and half-drunk, none of the soldiers notice when I'm back in the dining room and standing in front of their table. They only whirl around to stare at me when I lift the tentacle into the air and scream,

"For the Resistance! For the Libertarians of the Void! America will be Free!"

With one motion, I rip open my shirt, and slam the tentacle into my belly. I'm pleased as I watch the soldiers pale and hurl themselves onto the ground, fully expecting, as I am, that a new creature will emerge and kill them all. I'm envisioning bloody, gory deaths filled with screaming and torn flesh, terrifying destruction on an imaginable scale, and most of all, righteous vengeance.

But nothing happens. No screams. No tearing of flesh. No death and destruction.

I look down to the tentacle. It's no longer twitching. The eyeball is no longer glowing and has returned to being a lifeless hunk of flesh. I strike it again against my belly. Nothing.

I strike my belly again and again.

Nothing.

The summoning didn't work.

The sound of cursing makes me look up. The soldiers getting up from the floor. They're staring at me with unbridled fury.

Oh, shit.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 4

Medical wing. Western Region PLA Base, Colorado Springs. Later that evening.

Lieutenant Hui JiangWei wakes from her induced coma in a haze of groggy, throbbing pain. She's alive, she realizes with some surprise.

Looking down at the wreckage of her body, she's even more surprised to see she's still whole, albeit seriously injured. Her ragged breath and jabbing pains in her side are tell-tale signs of broken ribs and a collapsed lung, while both her legs are in braces and slathered in itchy regen-balm. Her right arm - the one she'd lifted to her face to shield her from the exploding creature - is mummified in bandages, but even so it's obvious from its withered size and her inability to move it that her muscles have melted off. However, the sacrifice of her arm probably saved her life, since the only damage she finds on her face is some limited pain and gooeyness along the edge of her left cheek indicating the presence of more regen-balm. She can look forward to having a permanent scar reminding her of the horror she faced.

A quick glance around the room tells her they've put her in an intensive care unit. She notes with some interest that it's a first-class private room and one that even has a view of the Foothills. It's unusual treatment for someone like her. A small flare of hope in her chest wonders if her hard work and loyalty will finally be recognized and she'll be suitably honored for her heroic acts. A wave of cynicism wells up though, when she catches sight a heavy-set woman talking and gesticulating animatedly at tall gaunt man. From the fine cut of their clothes and the two hardframed soldiers standing at attention beside them, it's obvious they're Important People. JiangWei recognizes them: the woman is Gao Ling, the Magistrate of the Colorado-Wyoming administrative region; the man is Colonel Fung JingMing, the head of Internal Security. She can just make out their conversation.

"You're the head of Internal Security! Why didn't you know this would happen? Ne zhe me ke yi liang zhe ge ma pi fa sheng? Why didn't you prevent this?" Magistrate Gao demands.

"As I've said Magistrate, my analysts only projected a 15% chance of an attack happening," Colonel Fung replies calmly. "However, given that it did occur, we've revised our models and we will be better prepared. Next time, we'll be able to post more personnel wherever the attack will occur. In the meantime, we should be glad Lieutenant Hui was there to..."

"Fuck your models! Fuck your personnel and fuck that goddamned lieutenant! She's a fucking xiangjiao ren isn't she? You can never trust those bananas. Look how little fucking help she was to keep the damage to a minimum!" Magistrate Gao screams. "Sheng jing bing! Don't you know how poorly this will play on the news? Just as I've managed to get my region categorized as a low-risk area for settlers, this has to fucking happen!"

"I'm sure our safety ratings will only decrease a small amount for just a few weeks..."

"A few weeks! Unbelievable! Unacceptable! Do you not understand our safety ratings can't decrease at all? Especially not now! Moa ming qi miao!" Magistrate Gao throws her hands up in the colonel's unflinching face. "Do you not realize how much pressure I'm under to accelerate the settlements? We have to get more people to come in and build houses before the American government can file their complaints. Do you think people will come and settle the repossessed districts when people hear about this terrorist attack? I thought you had suppressed their resistance groups! Didn't you swear to me that they were neutralized? Didn't you say the Resistance was done?"

"The Resistance is neutralized, Magistrate. All resistance groups have been either eliminated or co-opted for our own uses." Colonel Fung nods. "But this attack is different. It's something that's a relatively recent development. However, with my counterparts in the other administrative regions, we've now accumulated enough information to..."

"And do you realize that we're only two weeks away from the SAFCOA Anniversary celebration? Have you forgotten that it's being held in Boulder?" the magistrate continues, obviously not having heard what the colonel had said.

She's referring to the yearly celebration of the Chinese Occupation - that is, the Sino-American Fiscal Co-Operation Agreement otherwise known as SAFCOA. Since this is the eighth year of the Occupation, celebrations will be held on the auspicious date of August 8th, the eighth day of the eighth month.

"Members of the Politburo are coming! We can't have any trouble! Nothing! Five years I've been posted to this hick-filled shithole region and I've finally managed to squeeze it into some form of profitability. It's my chance to have my work recognized and get a transfer back to the mainland. You better not mess this up for me, or I'm going to drag you down when I go down. You better have everything under control!"

Impassively silent during the rant, the colonel waits until the magistrate's yelling has settled. "Madame Magistrate. As we discussed during our last Internal Security meeting, the security arrangements for the SAFCOA Anniversary celebration are complete. I guarantee there will be no problems during that event. Not only will we be bringing in the 5th Airborne Regiment from the mainland to bolster our own forces, but we will be enacting a plan..."

"Plan! What plan?! I haven't heard of any plan! How can you guarantee anything when..."

"Madame Magistrate, I have brought you here precisely so I can explain my plan to you," Colonel Fung inclines his head. "Perhaps we should speak to the person who will be most directly involved. She appears to be awake now, so shall we go in and chat with her?"

Realizing with a start that the colonel means her, JiangWei attempts to sit up bed, but the movement causes lancing pain to travel up and down her body. She manages a weak salute with her left arm as the magistrate and colonel walk in.

"At ease, lieutenant! Please! If anything we should be saluting you for your heroism today," Colonel Fung says breezily. He motions for the two attending soldiers to close the blinds and activate the room's privacy settings.

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," JiangWei replies, though seeing with the magistrates' annoyed glare, she says, "Madame Magistrate Gao, I apologize for not being able stop the damage the... ah... the creature inflicted. I tried to be adequately prepared for the posting, but I had only been given a half days' notice and I hadn't been told of the scale of the threat. Next time I'll do more to..."

The magistrate twists her mouth contempt, "You goddamned better. A whole section of the Denver wall needs to rebuilt. I have no idea where I'll get the funds to pay for it. It's an unparalleled disaster..."

Colonel Fung clears his throat. "The lieutenant helped keep the attack from getting out of control, along with the efforts of five our brave, fallen service men and women." He suddenly flashes a disturbingly brilliant smile. "In fact, your efforts have not gone unnoticed, and I believe the magistrate has something to give you, doesn't she?"

Magistrate Gao casts the colonel a dark glare before straightening her back, puffing her chest and putting on her most charismatic public face. "I do. In light of your service today, Lieutenant Hui JiangWei, we wish to present you with an award." With flourish, she pulls a red-velvet box out of her pocket and dramatically opens it to reveal a golden medal embossed with a vermilion star at its center. "For your noble heroism, I am proud to award you the People's Liberation Army Hero's Medal First Class. Congratulations, soldier."

JiangWei is speechless. The Hero's Medal is the highest military award that any Chinese soldier can be awarded. In the last few years, the award had become increasingly political and thus more difficult to obtain unless you had the right connections. Prior to seeing it now with her own eyes, she would never have thought it possible for her to get it.

"I don't know what to say... I'm greatly honored. I'm only too proud to have served my country."

"Well, let's not get ahead ourselves now," the magistrate mutters, startling JiangWei as she snaps the box shut and stuffs it back into her pocket.

Colonel Fung winces. "What the magistrate means is that this is a pre-announcement. You won't receive the medal until the official awards ceremony." After pausing, he continues with the anticipated fine print. "There is of course another detail that we need to address before we can go forward with the cermony. The Hero's Medal can only be awarded to Chinese citizens, and since you're still technically an American citizen, that's something that we'll need correct."

JiangWei is grateful she's still weak and pumped with pain-killers, as it's easier for her to stay calm.

It's true. She's not a Chinese citizen. She's an American-born-Chinese. Polite people call her an ABC. Less polite people call her a xiangjiao ren. A banana. Yellow on the outside, white on the inside - and hence fundamentally unreliable. It's an association that JiangWei has found impossible to shake despite pointing out that she only spent her first six years of life in America before being sent to boarding school in China. That generally doesn't do anything to improve people's perception of her - nor does the fact that she's served with distinction in the PLA for almost ten years. She'd hoped that her loyalty and sacrifice would have been rewarded, but after being passed over for promotions many times and enduring back-handed remarks and whispers from her comrades, she's no longer convinced she'll ever be accepted. The magistrate's cruel teasing of an award that she'll probably never receive is only confirmation of this fact.

"I see," JiangWei says carefully. "I suppose I'll have a long time to wait for this honor then, since I have applied for Chinese citizenship five times now, and five times I've been denied."

"Actually, we may be able to get you citizenship sooner than you think," Colonel Fung smiles. "There's a new program..."

"Pilot program," Magistrate Gao emphasizes.

"Pilot program, yes, to award Chinese citizenship to service members who have proved themselves to be indispensable to the nation," Colonel Fung says. "I've taken the liberty of enrolling you in the program. If all goes well, it may even be possible that you will be a full Chinese citizen in less than a month! Imagine how proud our country will be that even non-native Chinese can be successfully integrated into the motherland!"

JiangWei isn't fooled by the colonel's tantalizing words. She'd pinned her hopes on integration programs before, only to be disappointed by the impossible standards she was required to meet. However, clearly they want something from her, so she there may be some way she could leverage this.

"What is it that I need to do before I can be awarded citizenship?"

The colonel inclines his head appreciatively at JiangWei's directness. "We need you to complete a delicate mission for us. For security reasons, I can't go into details, but you may get a sense of it if I told you that it had to do with today's horrible attack... that your smart-thinking and heroic actions helped defeat. Your participation in this mission will help neutralize future threats and ensure SAFCOA's position in America for years to come."

After chewing on the colonel's words and comparing the weight of the truth versus the bullshit, JiangWei spits out,

"I want citizenship first."

"What? How dare she! The insolence! We're doing you a favor!" Magistrate Gao splutters. "You should be grateful for the opportunity! You should be begging to..."

The colonel interrupts the magistrate's histrionics with a grin, "Agreed. If you take the mission, we will grant you Chinese citizenship effective immediately."

"That's unacceptable! I refuse to accept this in my administrative region! If you dare to go forward with this, I'll have you sacked!" Magistrate Gao cries, her face reddening.

"Magistrate, I understand your concerns. But please forgive me for saying this," Colonel Fung says with a bow. "As a representative of Internal Security in this region, I have been given the authority in this particular matter by PLA Central Military Commission. If you wish, I would happy to help you file a complaint regarding my actions."

This gives pause to the magistrate. In a more subdued, but distinctly bitter and vindictive tone, she says, "Fine. I suppose this will be acceptable. But this is no longer the responsibility of my office. I will hold you wholly accountable if this fails."

"Of course, Magistrate. Of course. I'm only too happy that we're all in agreement." Colonel Fung bows deeply - and at an angle where only JiangWei can see him giving her playful wink. He then waves at the soldiers in the room to leave. The magistrate is tapping her foot impatiently, but it's only when the door has clicked shut that he takes out a slim military-grade datashroud out his coat, unfurls its display and sets it on the table beside JiangWei's bed.

"What you're about to see is confidential and cannot leave this room. Any attempt to share it would be considered an act of treason and punishable by death... I apologize, but I am required to say that," the colonel begins as he blinks at the controls of his retinal-camera and toggles his linkernode to log into the datashroud. "Please prepare yourself. What you're about to see may be... a little shocking."

Soon, images coalesce over the display, showing first the PLA crest, and then a series of battle-devastated locations, with numerous shots taken at different angles to show the scale of the destruction. Most appear to be in urban areas, though some appear to be taken in sleepy suburban neighborhoods and a few more in wide-open fields. It's nothing particularly new to JiangWei. She's seen and caused her own share of battle-scarred locations. However, these images weren't what the colonel was warning about.

When the images of the first mutilated body appears, Magistrate Gao gasps,

"What is that? Is that... that can't be right, can it? It looks like some kind of animal chewed off their hands and tore out their intestines... And their faces... It looks like the skin was peeled off their faces... Are those nails in their eyes?"

"That would be correct on the last two counts. However, it wasn't animal that chewed off their hands," the colonel says. "Based on a gut content analysis, those wounds appear to be self-inflicted. These were found two years ago. They were the first we found. We believe they were practicing."

More images follow, showing more bodies with severed limbs, flayed torsos, and disemboweled abdomens. As the images progress, the patterns and contortions the bodies are found in appear to become more specific, while the jagged cuts on their chests arms that at first seemed random, repeat and refine into symbols with the unmistakable characteristics of a language. JiangWei narrows her eyes, as she recognizes some of them from earlier today; the woman from the attack had some of those symbols carved into her stomach.

"As you can see, with each subject, they become more adept with their methods," Colonel Fung comments. "About year ago, the bodies began tapering off until they stopped appearing altogether. We believe that at that point they discovered how to perform their rituals and summonings without self-induced death. This also coincides with the start of the worst attacks, the latest of which struck Phoenix and Dallas."

"Why would anyone... hrruh... Who did this? ...hrrruuuh..." Magistrate Gao says, her chest heaving as she attempts to keep from hurling.

JiangWei answers in a whisper. "The Libertarians of the Void. They're real."

"I see you've heard of them before. I suppose rumors of them would have trickled out from the officers," the colonel nods. "That's correct. They call themselves the Libertarians of the Void. Our current assessment of the group is they are an incipient organization with a small membership. Nevertheless, the sheer damage that just one of their members can inflict has marked them as our most severe threat to date. It's not merely the attack itself that causes the damage but its aftereffects. The creatures' deaths releases some kind of toxic miasma that liquefies eyeballs on contact and induces fungal sporulation within the lungs. These are images taken from the injured people from today. We should be grateful that it was mainly Americans who were affected and not our soldiers."

Magistrate Gao decisively loses her stomach contents as the colonel shows close-ups of the victims. Some are clawing at empty eyesockets, while others are contorted on the ground with a yellowish-green foam bubbling from their mouths.

"You mentioned rituals and summonings," JiangWei says stiffly over the magistrate's retching. "Do we know what they're summoning with their rituals?"

"That's a good question. The answer is that we're not certain," Colonel Fung shrugs and spreads his hands. "Our researchers say what they're doing is impossible... but obviously, it is. We're still learning new things, and I have to say that your intervention has given us a whole new set of data to analyze. Best guess? They've managed to tap into some previously unknown energy source that outwardly appears to be mystical in nature. And the result... the result is nothing short of amazing. We believe the Libertarians of the Void call them the 'Elder Gods,' but that's obviously just nonsense. This new energy source... or creatures, monsters, beings, whatever you want to call them, do not appear to be bound by the same physical constraints or natural laws of this world. They also don't appear to be rational in any way or be attacking out of self-defense. As far as we can tell, whatever they summon only wants to destroy anything in its path."

"But they can be killed," JiangWei points out.

"Yes! That's the spirit. They can be killed," the colonel agrees cheerfully. "But until we understand how to stop them or control them ourselves, we need to stop them at their source."

"And you have a plan to stop them that for some reason involves this xiangjiao ren?" the magistrate asks.

"Yes, Madame Magistrate. I do have a plan that involves Lieutenant Hui. But for this plan to work we will be needing your cooperation. As soon as she's ready, Lieutenant Hui will need our support to track our enemies down."

Seeing both the magistrate and JiangWei frown at him suspiciously, he chuckles and raises his hands.

"Please let me explain before jumping to any conclusions. Madame Magistrate, in exchange for guaranteed security for the 8th SAFCOA Anniversary Celebration, I'll be requiring some skillful handling of a particular prisoner who was caught just today. A certain Pat Dunes whose information I am transferring to you now. We believe the Libertarians of the Void will attempt to recruit this prisoner and we will allow them to do so. But we must do so in such a way so as to let them believe they have beaten us. To make this fiction work, I would appreciate being given management of the local prison system so I can put my own staff in place."

The magistrate grunts and waves her hand at the small request, though from her wandering eyes, it's clear she stopped listening half-way. Like JiangWei, she's still distracted by the horrific images they saw.

"As for you, Lieutenant Hui," the colonel says, rubbing his chin. "We need to prepare you for your mission. We don't believe our prisoner will be contacted for at least a week, but that should give us enough time to modify you."

"Modify me?" JiangWei frowns.

"Indeed. We must put you on the same footing as the enemy and give you the same powers as them." Colonel Fung signals to the adjoining room.

Following the colonel's gesture, JiangWei turns her head and watches as a group of doctors come in to the room. She assumes they're doctors, even though they don't look like any kind of doctor that she's ever seen before. They're decked in heavy overalls, leather gloves and tinted goggles. They look more like pre-industrial mechanics than doctors.

One of them is wheeling a gurney laden with cast-iron equipment, glass vials and an array of cutting implements. A bone saw sits prominently on top of them. The last to enter is carrying a heavy-looking object covered with a dark cloth and deposits it at the foot of JiangWei's bed. A foul smell is emanating from it. She swears she hears a faint scratching noise from underneath.

"Lieutenant Hui, it is my pleasure to introduce you to our researchers from Internal Security's Special Operations Department," the colonel says. "They will be giving you the powers of the Elder Gods."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 5

Boulder County Prison. July 30, 2065. 8:30 am.

About a week later, under the bright glare of media drones, I repeat for the benefit of the morning audience my thrice-daily exercise of self-denouncement.

"I, Pat Dunes, am guilty of attacking the noble service men and women of the People's Liberation Army. I deeply apologize for my acts. I have displayed unacceptable ingratitude for the PLA's efforts in maintaining security. I have displayed unacceptable ingratitude to the hard-working financial managers of the Sino-American Fiscal Co-Operation Agreement and their dedicated attempts to teach us responsible fiscal behavior and free us from our debt and our poor credit ratings. My act of violence has shamed me, my family and the American nation. Please accept my most sincere apologies."

I follow the script and bow three times, making sure to bend as far as I can go and count to three before coming up. I'm not done. I have to make sure I finish with my public service announcement designed to soothe the Chinese public and prospective settlers:

"In no way did I represent any organized group. I know no one else who may be considering violence against our Chinese friends. I acted alone in a moment of insanity. I am a sick man. I had forgotten how helpful the Chinese have been in supporting and guiding us. I am glad to have been reminded of this. With the help of my Chinese therapists I have seen the error of my ways and I look forward to working again and paying off my debts."

I bow three more times, and I'm allowed off the stage, so the next person can come on. I'm not sure who it is, or what they've done, but they'll likely be repeating a similar spiel

Over the last week, the only people I've seen were prison guards and my propaganda handler, a spectacled young woman, seemingly fresh out of college and over-eager to get me to say precisely the right thing. She's friendly enough. She's only had me beaten twice. It's a welcome change from the pummeling I received during my brief incarceration with the Chinese soldiers I had "attacked."

After my failed summoning fizzled and left me holding a limp, rotting eye-balled tentacle, I was dragged out of the restaurant and beaten in plain sight where a crowd could gather and watch. One quickly did. I imagine my beating was recorded and shared millions of times to show the punishment of yet another ungrateful American like myself. No one protested my treatment. Certainly not Mike nor any of the restaurant staff. In fact, I'll bet they'd have liked to join in and land a few of their own frustrated blows, as it's more than likely that Mike and the staff would be penalized for my actions.

A part of me is grateful that I'm doing something as innocuous as spouting Chinese propaganda. I could have easily been killed by the soldiers had the military police not intervened and put me into a proper prison where I could be tried and brought to justice.

No, scratch that. I'm not grateful. That's the hours of brainwashing speaking. Besides my regular speeches, much of my day is spent watching re-education videos attempting to convince me of what politically correct thinking actually is. I'm forced to nod and compose long-form essays explaining why I agree with what they've taught me. I'm also constantly tested to evaluate my sincerity and honesty, and any slip up means that I need to increase the videos I watch and the speeches I give.

So no, I'm not fucking grateful I survived. I would have much preferred dying. Every moment of my miserable life reminds me that I should be ashamed that my pathetic resistance did not harm the Chinese Occupation one iota.

Denouncing myself is not the only thing I have to endure. In the very tried and true tradition of public humiliations, I've also been repeatedly denounced by all my friends and even my parents. Fortunately, I don't have many of the former, and I haven't seen any of the latter for at least five years, so none of what they say is particularly impactful. Nevertheless, I mustered the appropriate tears and apologies when they yelled their scripted accusations into my face:

"You owe me money! You're a terrible example to our fellow Americans! Shame!" someone I believe was my neighbor screamed. Frankly, it's possible I owe the person money, and I do feel bad I won't be able to pay them back.

"You're a terrible son! You were never filial! We completely disown you!" my parents shrilled, making me wonder where the Occupation could have found them from. To protect themselves, they'd wisely cut contact with me long ago.

"You're fat and disgusting! I know you're stealing food from others and you're selfish!" someone I definitely don't know added. Well, yes, obviously, I'm fat and I'm pretty disgusted with myself too, but I haven't been able to afford much more than my diet of energy drinks and expired processed foods.

Back in my cell, I find my breakfast waiting for me on the floor. It's a bowl of plain congee and a plastic cup of tepid soy milk. No utensils, of course, for security. I want to kick the bowl over and smash it to bits, but my rumbling stomach tells me I'm hungry. I pick up the bowl and cup and bring them to my cot to sip. I remind myself that it's good that I didn't succumb to the welling anger in my chest. It wouldn't have been in keeping with the character I've worked to construct for my propaganda handler - who, right on schedule, comes into my cell just as I'm finishing my meal.

"Zhao an, Pat! Excellent performance this morning. Your ratings aren't what they could be, but this is the morning crowd after all," my handler says cheerfully. "Keep this up and we may switch you to doing some public outreach projects. If you get to that stage, you'll benefit from the best perks. You could even get a normal room with minimum security!"

"Xiexie, Miss Ling," I thank. There's no way I'm doing any public outreach projects. They may be known as cushy positions, but it would completely cement my position as an Occupation shill. I wouldn't be able to live with that.

"Shall we go over my notes for today? I have a few ideas to improve your delivery," Miss Ling says. She nods at the guard outside the door, who comes into the cell bearing two aluminum chairs, depositing one behind Miss Ling and the other in the corner, before leaving the cell and locking the door. I make no movement until Miss Link has seated herself and motions to me.

"Please sit down, Pat. And bring your chair in closer, I don't want to feel like I'm yelling."

"Yes, Miss Ling." I do as I'm told.

"Alright, I just want to start off by saying that you've far exceeded my expectations. Even my supervisor is impressed! I may get a promotion thanks to you!" Miss Ling says enthusiastically, giving my leg a friendly pat and squeeze. I produce a wan smile. "Now what I'd really like to do is get you so to such an exemplary status so that we can use you for our National propaganda campaigns, but we've got a long way to go for that. To get there, you'll have to work on your diction more."

"My diction?"

"Yes! Can you sound more... American?" Miss Ling looks at me earnestly. "We need to play up that angle more. You know what I mean, right? You need to sound more casual, use more slang, and be more... How should I put this? You need to be more... rednecky. Can you do that? Yes? But more importantly, can you work on sounding blacker? Can you do that for me too? I think you'd be great at it and I know you can sell it. You have to remember use less grammatically correct phrases, ok? You can't sound educated. Remember, you're American! You're from the ghetto and the slums, right? So remember to slur your words and skip your consonants, especially the 't's. Like 'moun-in', not 'mountain.' And 'bu'in' not 'button'. If you're not sure, I can get you to reference guide and you can practice. Oh, and be sure to slouch more. None of your perfect posture anymore, ok? You need to look defeated, and you have to convey the image of a reformed lazy American. Oh, and one more thing..."

I nod and smile as the propaganda handler rambles on.

It's taken repulsive, demeaning effort, but I've done my best to portray myself as a pliable, model prisoner willing to do anything to please my handler. I've never complained once or raised any kind of resistance, and showed no hesitation to do any of the tasks they've asked of me. I want them to think of me is as a defenseless slob eager to please and be completely at their mercy. It helps that I didn't actually harm the soldiers and that there's no history of any violent behavior on my record before or after the Occupation. My goal is to make them believe I had a bout of momentary insanity, and my attempt at a summoning was a poorly considered joke that I never intended to work.

My efforts have yielded the desired effect: the propaganda handler has over the week relaxed the safety protocols around me. At first, our interactions would always be held in the presence of a prison guard, but she then became comfortable enough to meet with me alone, though always with the door open. And as our meetings grew longer, she first requested a chair for herself, and then a day later, got one for me. During all that time, I did nothing and barely even moved except as directed by my handler, completely inhabiting my role as a brow-beaten, subdued prisoner. But all that time I was watching.

There is, of course, no hope for me to escape. Even if I got out the cell and by some absurd miracle, out of the prison, there would be nowhere for me to go. I would likely be tracked down in two minutes flat by a surveillance drone and I'd have a dozen flechettes zipping through my skull before I even knew it. But that kind of escape isn't what I'm looking for. Instead, I'm watching what my handler has been bringing into my cell with her - which has also changed as she grew to trust me.

In the beginning, the only thing she brought in was a very basic datashroud tucked in a cylinder about the size of pen and with basic projection and recording functions. But then, she started bringing in what was clearly her own datashroud which was thicker, with a chrome finish, and probably with numerous options for linkernode networking capabilities. This was a good sign, but it still wasn't what I was waiting for. It was only when she started bringing in her small handbag with her personal belongings that a plan began to form in my head.

And today, after progressively allowing me to sit closer, she herself drags her chair closer to me to show me a video on the datashroud:

"...so you see how they say 'y'all'? They drag out the 'a' sound quite a bit and even has an inflection on it. Y'aaaall. Get it? Now, I'm not asking to repeat what they're doing, Pat. I want you to put your own personality on it so it can be genuine. Do you understand what I mean?" Miss Ling says, still harping on her nonsense with painful sincerity.

I bob my head. "Yes, Miss Ling. I'll try my best."

"Good, I'm proud of you, Pat. You've come very far in a short time," Miss Ling says.

I bob my head again, and wait a few seconds.

"Thank you, Miss Ling. May I ask you a question?"

"A question?" Miss Ling repeats genuinely surprised, as if it's the first time I've done so - which, in fact, it is. "Why yes, of course you can ask me a question. I don't see why not."

I take a deep breath, preparing the words I've practiced in my head. Clasping my hands in front of me, I whimper,

"Do you think... Do you think one day I may be accepted? Do you think my family will forgive me? I wish one day to be a member of society again. I know I must pay for my mistakes, but will I ever be forgiven?"

It's then I really turn on the waterworks and start tearfully sniffling and snorting into my hands.

"Oh, Pat..." Miss Ling says, scrunching her face in pitying moue as she gingerly pats my back. She's closer now, but not quite close enough. "You know I can't make any promises, and every case is different, but I can say that I have seen many cases like yourself continue and live very successful lives. I'm sure that if you continue your efforts you will be on track to having your sentence reduced as well."

"Th-thank you, Miss Ling. Th-thank you... I really appreciate what you've done..." I say still blubbering. I lean an inch forward, closing the gap between us, and ask, "Do you have the time?"

"The time?" Miss Ling replies with a puzzled twist in her brow. "According to my linkernode it just turned 10:30am. Why do you ask?"

I look up with a slim smile. "It's the time guards change over, you bitch."

Predictably, Miss Ling reels back, but I've already moved to snare the arm that was patting my back. I yank her to the floor. I'm not a fighter by any means, but I have my bulk playing in my favor, and I use it to pin her down. With all my strength, I deliver a blow straight into her face and then another because I can't help myself. I'm tempted to start slamming her head with the aluminum chair until cracks open and the goo of her propaganda brains starts spilling out, but I force myself to stop. I don't have enough time. Although the guards are changing over and swapping the codes at the end of the hall, it only means I'll have an extra three minutes for them to respond - for indeed, I have no doubt that an alarm was triggered the moment I assaulted Miss Ling.

So instead of consummating my repressed anger and frustrations, I leap onto Miss Ling's bag and empty its contents onto the floor. I frantically pick up and toss away items as I struggle to find the very thing I caught a glimpse of the last time she'd opened her bag. Damn it! Where is it?! Was I crazy? Could I not have seen it? There's lipstick, spare change, two tampons, but no... Ah. There it is. A slim, but solid piece of stainless steel hiding under her access card.

I pick up the nail file from the ground, and push myself back onto my feet. I don't think it's too much to ask to die on my feet. As I've envisioned it many times, I raise the file to my neck and...

Much to my irritation, my hand begins to shake and my resolve wavers. No. Damn it, no. I'm not going to give them the satisfaction. I've had enough this bullshit! What do I have to hold on to? "Friends" and "family" and "co-workers" who don't give a shit? A useless country that can't protect its people? I have no home! I have nothing! Nothing to hold on to! But even so... Can I really bring myself to kill myself? Can I...

It's then that I hear Miss Ling moaning on the floor. This is shortly followed some shouting at the door as the guards scramble to open it. Through the miserable haze of my doubts, I see my fate if I don't go through with killing myself. I'll be forced into doing ever more humiliations and undergo more psychological torture to break me and reduce me to a brain-dead husk. And you know what? I have no doubt they would succeed.

With a hoarse cry, I stab myself in the neck. The guards burst into the cell. Blood courses down my neck. My knees buckle underneath me. I crumple to the floor. I can overhear the guards' panicked, angry yelling:

"Miss Ling are you alright? Do you need medical assistance?"

"Tamade! Where the fuck were you? Weren't you watching? Get the fuck off of me!"

"I'm sorry miss, we came as fast as we could, but we were switching shifts and..."

"Yes, I fucking know. We'll be changing the procedures from now on. I said get off of me! I'm fine! What's the status of the prisoner?"

"He appears to be injured, miss. It looks bad. If we don't..."

BOOM!

An explosion interrupts the remainder of their discussion, though through the numbing fog of my blood-loss it sounds like a muffled thump. A blanket of concrete dust settles over me, tickling my nose and making me cough in spite of the blood in my throat.

I hear new voices, and I feel hands that begin to shift me and prod at my body:

"How is ze? Is ze still alive?" someone says from above me, using, to my surprise, my preferred pronouns.

"It looks like ze will pull through. Ze just missed zir jugular, otherwise ze would have been dead," says another a voice, though this one is raspy and coming from much closer.

"Good. I wouldn't want this little expedition of ours to have been in vain," the first voice says. "So much blood. So much waste. We can't let this happen again."

And, just before I pass out, the voice comes in close and speaks straight into my ear:

"If you're still conscious and hearing, Pat, let this be your first lesson from me: your blood is power. Never shed it unless you're about to release its potential. Never waste the power of blood."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 6

Somewhere in Superior, Colorado. Sometime later in the evening.

When I regain consciousness, the first thing I notice is the discomfort. I'm lying on what feels like a plank of wood with only a crinkly mylar emergency blanket draped over me. The second thing I notice is the smell. Something nearby has the sting of an ammonia-soaked corpse crossed with the oily, cheesy ripeness of a dozen festering pairs of fungus-laced socks. A strong whiff of the rank wafts into my nose, causing me to sit up and gag, but as I do so, pain lances through my neck, forcing me to turn on my side to cough and retch.

A heavy hand thumps my back as a familiar raspy voice says, "Quite something to wake to, huh? You'll get used to it. This is actually the one place in the house where it smells the least, so you should be happy about that."

"Thanks?" I gasp, steadying my breathing and forcing myself to ignore my gag reflex. I slowly sit up to put a face to the voice, and lock eyes with a white-haired old man with a face cratered by cervid-varicella pockmarks - which explains his voice: one of the many zoonotic diseases that emerged the last two decades, cervid-varicella is a nasty systemic disease and, among the many things it does to the body, it shrivels the vocal chords, making the survivors sound like they gargle battery acid and gravel in the mornings.

"What is it that we're smelling?"

The old man grunts, "Something James has been brewing for weeks. Don't worry, you'll get a chance to check it out." He reaches over with gnarly hand and motions for me to come closer. "Let me get a close look at your neck. James asked me to make sure you're fit for travel if we have to move tonight."

As he probes my neck, I see we're in a room devoid of any furniture, lit with just a windup camp-light. I was accurate in thinking that my "bed" was just a plank of wood. I was lying on an unfinished hard-wood floor. Looking at how cracked and holey it is, I'm amazed I didn't get a few splinters in me or tear my hands with loose nails. The walls are in similar disrepair. Most of the paint has flecked off, leaving patches of sagging drywall. If I had to guess, I figure they - whoever "they" are who broke me from prison - have taken me to a house in one of the foreclosed suburbs of Denver slated for destruction and resettlement. It's a ballsy place to hide, as it's smack dab in the middle of the Chinese Occupation and exactly in the area of their future projects. But considering how many abandoned suburbs there are and how behind the Chinese are in their settlement plans, it's a pretty clever place to lie low.

"Looks like the regen-balm did its work. You're going to feel some itching as the nanoprobes stitch your muscles together, but you should be fine," the old man whacks my shoulder. "You're lucky we'd piped into your security feed, or we'd never have been able to act as quickly as we did. You're also lucky you can't hit your jugular for shit otherwise we'd have used up our stores of explosives for nothing. You should have sat tight! We were planning on coming in the next couple of days."

"Someone should have given me the memo then." I bat the man's hand away and attempt to stand up. That isn't a good idea. My head swims and spins, but luckily when I throw out my hand, I hit the wall and lean against it. "Who are you? Why did you break me out? Are you a doctor? Who is James?"

The old man's face splits into a yellowed smile, carefully watching me with one hand poised to intervene as I got to my feet. "Misha. My name is Misha. No, I'm not a doctor. I'm a bioengineer. Was, anyway. I was a very good one until the Chinese decided my company wasn't profitable enough to continue. Turns out there's no market for sustainable, environmentally-conscious self-growing houses anymore. Everyone - and by everyone, I mean every Chinese settler - wants their very own conspicuously consumed mansion built by the indentured slaves that we Americans have become." Watching me poke at my neck, he adds, "Don't worry, I know what I'm doing. I've learned quite a bit of anatomy these days, human and otherwise. In any case, any idiot can use regen-balm for a flesh wound."

"And who is James?"

"James is happy to see that you're doing well!" The other familiar voice from my prison-break says. "I'm delighted to see you up and about. It means we have one less thing to worry about."

The speaker, obviously James, is entering the room with two other people. They're wearing variations of the same clothing: a set of amorphic charcoal-colored heavy-duty overalls, supplemented with by leather chaps and brown leather sleeves, which I belatedly note is also what Misha is wearing. James is a good-looking, clean-shaven white guy with a golden blond mane hanging about his neck. I instantly dislike him. He reeks of the privilege and entitlement of old Colorado money. I suppress my feelings, telling myself that it's just an irrational bias whose social context is no longer even valid. The other two are somewhat less triggering: one is a short, roundish older woman with her steel-gray hair pulled taught behind pinched features; the other is a tall, flint-eyed boyish-looking person with a buzzcut and who, quite refreshingly, is not presenting as any specific gender.

"You're curious, of course. You're wondering who we are. You've already met Misha, who acts as our lead tech-interface specialist," James says, clapping Misha on the shoulder. Turning to the older woman, he says,

"This here is with the sourpuss face is Karina. She was an accountant before the Occupation, and now acts as our logistics and supplies manager - which is also why she's always looking so sour and complaining about how much we've spent and how little resources we have."

He laughs, apparently not caring or not noticing no one is joining in, and then turns to the other person and says, "And this is Jessie, whose preferred pronouns are ve and vir. Ve was a detective with the Denver police, before the Chinese disbanded it. We use vir skills to not only to collect intelligence and tap into surveillance networks, but also to maintain security with vir untraceable low-tech alarm systems."

He laughs alone again, giving me the impression he does so because he likes the sound of his voice. Stepping forward so the others are standing in a semi-circle behind him, he says, "And finally, there's me. James. I am the ritual-master, but I also act as our cell leader and I coordinate our activities in conjunction with our parent organization, the..."

"Libertarians of the Void," I complete eagerly, having put some of the pieces together in my mind. "I want to join you. That is why you rescued me isn't it? To recruit me? Because I'm worthy? I want to join you. I want learn how to do what you do."

James beams. "Yes. Yes, of course."

There's an uncomfortable silence as I wait for more to be said, but James and the others don't say another word. They're staring at me with a weird look as if they're either trying to see through me - or find the right place to stab me first so they can butcher me. It's more than just a little unsettling. And annoying. If I didn't want to join them so badly, I'd have demanded to know what the hell they were looking at, and whether or not they knew how royally shitty my last week has been.

James breaks the silence. "Welcome, Pat. Welcome. We are very happy to have you here and you are correct that we, the Libertarians of the Void, rescued you to recruit you. But may I ask you why you want to join us?"

"Why? What do you mean why?" I ask incredulously. "Do you know what I've been through? What I've lost? What kind of question is that?"

James angles his head and arches his brows. "I see I didn't phrase my question properly." He steeples his fingers in front of himself, looks up to a corner of the ceiling and puckers his lips for a moment before saying,

"Let me be absolutely clear. We are not what you may call the 'Resistance.' We are not engaging in some kind of guerilla warfare to get the Chinese to relinquish their hold on the country. That isn't us. We don't care about such trivial things like money or territory or rights or nations. If you're here to 'free your people,' you're in the wrong place. We are the Libertarians of the Void. We channel the power of the Elder Gods. We don't build nations or bring hope. We have no interest in any of that outdated nonsense. We seek the beautiful, awful, cleansing purity of darkness and nothingness. We seek a world gone dark and returned to the embrace of the Void. So I ask you again, why do you want to join us?"

A quick glance at the others' stony features tells what I already guessed: I won't be getting any help or hints from them. But given what I've gleaned from my research, I know what they want to hear. I've imagined this moment in my head many times. It takes little effort for me to reach into my deep stores of hatred and despair, and say,

"Why do I want to join you? Why? Because I've had enough! I've had enough of the Occupation! I've had enough of this world! I don't even remember the way it was anymore, and frankly I don't want to because it reminds of me of what I can't have. I used to have a home, a business, a family, and lover... but now? Nothing. I can't even be who I want to do be anymore or live as I want to live! The only thing I get is a continual stream of humiliations and never ending debt-repayments. Fuck my debt! Fuck all my late-payment fines. This will never change. No one will ever save us or change the country back the way it was. It's gone forever. Everyone else is just clinging to pathetic memories that they should forget and just realize that they have no hope in goddamned hell. I see that. I have no illusions... and I'd rather die than have to continue living in this shit! But I'd much prefer to burn it all down! It's worthless! I want the Chinese gone! I want the Wall to be gone! I want this pathetic country of ours gone! I want our so-called 'people' gone! I want everything gone... and I'm willing to do anything to get it done! That's why I want to join you!"

Without realizing it, I'd increasingly started to speak louder and louder, until by the end of my spiel, my throat feels raw and I'm panting.

James smiles to others. "See? I told you he would be a good replacement."

"I guess ze will do," Karina grunts.

"Ze will will have to be trained. Quickly." Jessie clips, as ve looks me up and down.

"And given equipment too. It's our last set too, so we better make it count," Misha adds.

"Yes! Yes! Let's do all that," James says grandly. "Jessie and Karina, why don't you find a copy of our grimoires so Pat can study it. Misha, how about you grab the gear for Pat to put on. It may be a tight fit, but at least you'll have something to cover yourself. And Pat? How about we go for a little walk downstairs? There's something I'd like to show you."

There's no time for me to say either yes or no, but there doesn't seem to be room for discussion anyway. I follow James out of the room, as the others scurry away to do the tasks James assigned them. Much like the room we were in, the house is wreck. Personal touches from the last owner are still evident though, and I see remnants of painted accent walls and matching faux-classy wrought-iron door handles and bannisters.

"Are we in one of the foreclosed suburbs?" I ask, testing my previous guess.

"Yes. We're in the remains of the 'Elite Mountain Peak' housing development at the edge of Superior," James confirms. "I'm not crazy about being in these old houses, since we're so close to the Occupation forces. But I have to say that I've gotten spoiled by how close we are to everything. It's a far cry from huddling in the mountains and scratching for food, I can tell you that!"

"So... we'll be staying for a while then?" I say. "Misha had said you wanted me to be ready to leave."

"Oh, that. That's just me being paranoid," James chuckles. "Jessie has set up more than enough surveillance. Non-digital, obviously, so they can't track us. It's reliable, but I'm always nervous and on edge... because you never know! We might have to escape at any moment!"

As we reach the basement door, Misha appears again with a set of overalls, chaps and gloves, to which James says, "Excellent. Perfect timing. Why don't you pull those on, Pat? You'll be needing them for when we visit the vats downstairs. In any case, I do ask that everyone keeps them on at all times so that, again, if we have to leave, we still have our basic gear with us so we can do our summonings."

I struggle into the overalls as best I can, but it is a tight fit. I eventually manage to pull them on, but not without much cursing and huffing. Meanwhile, James and Misha were politely waiting, and I'm grateful that when I look up, neither have even a hint of a smile on their faces.

Just as I'm about to follow them down the basement though, I notice something on the door:

"Doesn't that say... If I'm not wrong, doesn't that say..." I squint as I look at the etchings on the basement door. It's something I've seen before numerous times. I run my fingers around the sharp angles and swirls, wracking my memory. Finally, I blurt out, "Those are the symbols of the Nag-Shuulub, isn't it? To invoke the Great Wyrm of Jarud'el Mahod?"

"Yes, it is!" James says approvingly. "It doesn't have any power of course since it's only carved in wood, but I believe Stacey was just practicing when she did this. But tell, me how did you learn these symbols?"

I straighten a little as I say proudly, "I had bought a copy of the Pnakotic Manuscripts from a blackmarket dealer. I didn't understand most of it, and I couldn't get it work, but I did memorize the rituals and the..."

"See? Told you making those copies would be useful," Karina interjects, as she walks around the corner with Jessie. She's carrying a heavy-looking book, while Jessie is holding a leather satchel. Karina whacks me on the shoulder hard. "You never had a chance to get the summoning to work. The copies were missing the most critical incantations. The most you could do is tap into a minor manifestation, but even doing that isn't easy and vanishes after a few seconds."

"However, if you do manage tap a minor manifestation - which you did, Pat - it would get our attention and we'd know we would have potential ally," James says. "Give Pat the book, Karina. It's the real one, I promise. Jessie, I see you have our toolkit. Pull out what gear you think would be suitable for Pat, and meet us down in the basement."

Karina roughly shoves the book at me, narrowly missing knocking out my front teeth. It's surprisingly heavy, and it's easy to understand why. The covers are solid iron and embossed with intricate patterns. Before I can inspect them, Jessie grabs me by the arm and whirls me around. Ve scowls as ve inspects my eyes and then clamps a hand under my chin and forcibly turns my head left and right to get a good look at my ears.

"These should do," Jessie grumbles, tossing a pair of steel-rimmed goggles at me. "Put them on and secure the belt on, or you'll regret it."

"What are they for?" I ask, as I turn the goggles in my hand. Even in the dim light, I can see the lenses are polarized in a crimson hue, and there appears to be a lever on the right lens that changes the focus.

"Put them on or there's a chance your eyes will melt, do you prefer I say that?" Jessie spits, as ve slips on vir own goggles. Pulling out a small plastic bag, ve tosses it to me. "Take these too. It's a set of scalpels, a lighter and a needle and thread. Always keep that on you. If you're wondering where, you can put it in your inside overall pocket, which I had added." And as I fumble with book in one hand, while I stash the plastic bag as instructed, ve throws a filthy bandana at me, "Here. For the smell."

"I don't need that. I'll be fine," I say handing it back.

"Do it. You'll want it. It's your first time visiting the vats," Jessie says, thrusting it back at me with a look that says ve isn't messing with me.

I obey, and I'm happy that I did.

After a few steps down, a gust of humid, fetid air washes over me. I grab the railing to get my gagging under the control. The sudden heat and smell makes it feel like I've just dived headfirst into a pile of rotting carcasses left out in the sun. When I swallow back the last of my vomit, I go down the rest of the stairs, and find Jessie patiently waiting.

The lighting in the basement consists of more wind-up camplights sitting in strategic locations, along with strings of LED-Christmas lights slung up along the walls. As my eyes adjust to the dimness, I have to shake my head to make sure the noxious fumes haven't made me delirious. I came down expecting a regular unfinished basement. Perhaps a cramped, dusty place that some enterprising family could one day decide to take the time to properly insulate, build a den or playroom, but more likely continually put off.

Instead, I'm met with a cavernous space that extends at least twenty feet into the ground and at least twice the width and length of the house above it. Arrayed in neat rows are a dozen hundred-gallon PVC vats with their tops pried off. Bubbling inside of each is some kind of brackish yellow-green liquid that pops and hisses as something boils off and releases more nastiness into the air. There's a mess of metal tubes connecting them to each other at the bottom. As I follow with my eyes, the tubes pass through alternating stations of rusty gaskets and pressure valves until they link up to a pumping device that appears largely composed of cobbled engine pieces and industrial-grade pistons. A large tube extends from the device, linking up to a coverless iron-sided box brimming with an opaque, viscous solution, over which strange, twisting shadows seem to play off it.

"Come on, Pat! Come check this out! I think you'll find this to be quite interesting and a most excellent learning experience," James enthuses. He, along with Misha and Karina, are standing a few feet away from the box.

When I get down there, James pats me on the shoulder. "This is my greatest achievement, Pat. I want you to know this. It's taken three years and many failures for me to get this far."

"What is it?" I ask warily.

James grins. "Why don't you to take a close look? Go on! You're not afraid are you? After all this effort to be here, you can't possibly be afraid, right? Go on! Take a close look! If it helps, I promise it won't explode or kill you. We still need you alive!"

This time the others join in as James laughs. All kinds of violent thoughts and images float to mind, all ending with them no longer laughing but in some form of grisly agony. With indignant fire roiling in my belly, I walk over to the iron-sided box and lean forward to take a close look.

At first I see nothing through the murky solution, but suddenly something dark and oily sharply surfaces, causing me to lurch away and almost fall over. More laughter. When I get up, I step closer and look at the thing. It's so dark and black, it's hard to make out its shape, but looking at it longer, I start to see it's a slug-shaped creature about the size of large cucumber. On one end is a ring of needle-like teeth. Right above the teeth, sitting over the top of its wriggling body, is a single unlidded eye. It's staring straight at me. As I inch forward more, dozens more of the creatures swarm up and surface. They're all staring hungrily at me.

"This is amazing. What are they? Wait... You know what?" I say casually. "I've seen something like this before."

"You have?" James' mirth disappears. "Where?"

"At the checkpoint attack last week. That woman who summoned the creature had something like this in her hands before she stabbed herself in the stomach." I say. "I guess you guys organized that attack, am I right?"

There's no answer as James and the others exchange looks.

Misha rasps, "I guess that confirms how Stacey did it."

"At least we know it worked. No matter what we think of her," Jessie says.

"But she shouldn't have. It was too early. We had a plan..." Karina retorts.

"Drop it. What's done is done," James says. "We still have most of the population, so let's be happy about that. And to answer your question, Pat, these are verlihulu-homunculi, carefully summoned and carefully nurtured to..."

But before James can continue his explanation, a klaxoning alarm drowns him out.

"The proximity alarm! We have incoming in ten minutes!" Jessie yells over the noise.

"Shit! How did they find us so quickly?!" Misha rasps.

"I told you we shouldn't have brought this fat bastard here! The asshole is a spy!" Karina curses, whirling around to glare at me.

"I didn't do this! I'm not a spy!" I cry out defensively.

There would have certainly been more yelling and arguing, if James hadn't put on his leader hat and yelled,

"Quiet down! This is not a problem. We evacuate as planned. We're set up for this. We have plenty of time to get out. We must take all precautions for the verlihulu."

Looking at me, but clearly for everyone's benefit, he adds firmly,

"Pat is not a spy. Remember that we've checked zir multiple times. Ze is one of us now. I know this seems sudden, but we knew they would be able to track zir down eventually. It's what we planned for, remember? We just didn't think they would be coming so quickly. But no matter. They'll have a wonderful surprise waiting for them when they get here."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 7

Western Region PLA Base. Colorado Springs, Colorado. Earlier that evening.

JiangWei jerks her hand away from her right arm when she hears someone come up from behind her.

"We found them, Lieutenant. You were right. They're in Superior. We detected a very low heat anomaly that assessment protocols were overlooking. I have to ask. How did you know to look there? We all assumed they would have left for the mountains."

Turning around half way in her hardframe, JiangWei looks at the soldier with her left eye, the one remaining to her that's her own, and ignores the question. "Tell the others and prepare the Qilin transport. We leave as soon as it's ready."

JiangWei does not return the soldier's salute. She instead looks to the array of maps displayed over the datashrouds in front of her. How did she know to look for those people in Superior? She would like to say that she has no idea. But that isn't true. The disgusting things inside her had told her to look there. She'd felt them squirm in her right arm and eye when she had passed her hand over the map. And she just knew. She swallows the urge to scream and tear at her body. She was told the feelings would pass. They lied.

"They" were the so-called doctors who had operated on her. They weren't doctors. Not because they didn't use anesthetic on her or that they continually slapped her and injected her with adrenaline to keep her from passing out; but because they clearly had no intention to heal her. Their sole goal was to modify her.

Amazingly, Colonel Fung stayed for the entire operation. Magistrate Gao attempted to stay, but she left once the doctors started slowly sawing her right arm off. Asked if this was necessary, the doctors responded over her screams, explaining they achieved the best results with flesh that had a more irregular surface, which they suspect has to do with the increased contact area.

Yet, if the sawing was painful, the attachment of the thing was synapse-melting agony. It began with the initial step of soaking her shorn arm-stub in a tub of blue-green slime that sent lighting rods of electric pain coursing through her body. They had to strap her down to keep her steady. After an eternity or a few minutes, they removed her arm-stub. When Jiangwei caught sight of it, she had to look away. Something moving was attached to it. Something not insectile, or reptilian, or aquatic - but all three. Thankfully, she was spared any further sight of it, as it was soon enclosed within the casement of a military-grade prosthetic arm. Much to her surprise, almost immediately, JiangWei was able to move her new arm with incredible force. She took the opportunity to grab one of the doctors and crush his throat, but they unfortunately deactivated her grip and tied her back down.

Then came the eye. It took two of them to hold her face down so that another could scoop her right eye out. This was mercifully quick, but again they poured the blue-green slime into her empty socket, sending her into renewed paroxysms of pain. It was as if someone was drilling multiple holes through her head, but on the lowest, slowest setting. Though she never saw whatever it was they put in her socket, she definitely felt it go in and latch on to her flesh. Moments after they pushed it in with juicy squish, she felt the thing jerk around until a darkness flashed over her vision, along with multiple detonations of migraine-like agony throughout her skull. They clamped an iron plate over it, attaching it with a series of titanium rivets. But in spite of that, she could still see.

"The Qilin is ready, lieutenant," the soldier says, returning into the room.

"Estimated time of arrival?" JiangWei asks, turning fully around now, daring the soldier to face her.

"Approximately 45 minutes, sir," the soldier replies without hesitation, but JiangWei sees him flinch before he could hide it. "Local troops are converging on the location, but they're holding back as you ordered."

"Fine. Let's go."

She stomps through the barracks to the hangars, ignoring the looks of revulsion people give her. It doesn't bother her. And that's disturbing. Because what she feels instead is pleasure. But that isn't accurate either. It's the things in her that are tickling her mind with tendrils of pleasure as they sense the fear and disgust around her.

She finds a nine-person squad standing at attention in front of the Qilin transport. They're a mix of fully hardframed men and women. At least four of them are wearing heavy-assault hardframes complete with armor-piercing rounds, and one woman is even equipped with a bulky, mobile railgun. They're all wearing different patches, as they were culled from different special-forces platoons.

Colonel Fung promised that they're the most elite troops in the region that he could find. JiangWei has no doubt of this, but wonders whether a fractional nuclear warhead would have been more useful. In fact, she wonders if they should rain bombs over the entire cursed country and turn every patch of soil to glass, just to be sure they've destroyed everything. She shakes her head, ridding herself of the violent thoughts, though she's fairly certain they are hers.

"This is a capture and secure mission," JiangWei announces. "I'm sending you information on the suspects through your linkernodes right now on channel Red-41. Do your best not to kill these targets unless you absolutely have to."

The squad looks at each other in puzzlement. One of them, a bull-necked woman with beady eyes is brave enough to voice their questions.

"Capture and secure? Then why are we dressed for a world war? We have enough ordinance here to take on a whole mechanized battalion and then some."

JiangWei glares at the squad members, but to their credit, they stand their ground. She's about to tell them the regular spiel on need-to-know-only bullshit, but they deserve more than that.

"I was told not to tell you anything, but screw them." The squad members chuckle to each other. "We're about to face the people who did this and this to me." She points to her eye and her arm. "Five other soldiers died when this happened too, including twenty American civilians and approximately 2 million yuan's worth of structural damage. I know that you've heard the rumors about what happened in Denver. They're true. But what you probably don't know is that this was the action of only one woman. One woman with an incredible living weapon that took a portable HJ-20 thermobaric anti-tank missile to take down."

The squad members mutter to each other unbelievingly, but JiangWei knows they take her seriously now.

"And we're going up against up to five of these people with unknown capabilities. Five people who could unleash your worst nightmares. And we're going to attempt to face and capture them alive - preferably. To be honest, that's not a priority to me, so if you end up having to kill them to protect yourself or if they move funny, I won't complain. Understood?"

"Yes, sir!"

"Let's get strapped in and get this shit done," JiangWei barks, heading first on to the Qilin transport. She's gratified when she hears the others snap to follow her.

Since the rotors have already been running on the transport, it waits only for JiangWei and the squad to find a berth and lock in their hardframes before taking off. With a lurch, the Qilin thrusts straight upwards into the air and after taking a second to point itself in the correct direction, it powers its ramjets and blazes into the night.

The Qilin transports, named after the mythical lion-unicorns, are hybrid quad-rotor jet planes designed for rapid deployment and air support. Like most, this Qilin is heavily armored with composite titanized steel plates, while six automated Gatling cannons line its belly, ready to pulverize any hint of threat its monitors may redlight. But in addition to this, JiangWei knows that this particular Qilin has also been kitted with a full complement of thermobaric cluster missiles whose combined power could carbonize an entire suburb.

Signing into her linkernode, she tracks the troop movements and their progress to the suspects' location. A bright red star indicates their own rapidly moving position, while a series of red triangles denote the different local platoons gingerly moving closer to five blue squares that have been estimated to be where the suspects have hidden. As ordered, they've stopped at the suburb's city-line, waiting for instructions. Frankly, JiangWei isn't planning to employ them at all. Their inclusion was something the Magistrate had insisted on, in the hopes that they may be able to glean some of the glory from the operation - which she could then claim for herself. However, if things go horribly wrong and they're unable to defeat whatever is there, JiangWei supposes it may be good to have someone extra on hand.

But what is it that they're about to face? JiangWei is troubled to admit she has no idea. Colonel Fung was no help either, merely shrugging that this was something of a "fishing expedition" and he'd be quite curious to see what they were going catch. Indeed, the profiles he'd provided on the suspects were pathetically sparse, mostly outlining the regular background information of disaffected Americans having lost their wealth - a history that nearly American shared in some capacity. There was no information about the Libertarians of the Void, how they were organized, or where they got their knowledge - or, where the things in her arm and eye may have come from. Completely useless, in other words.

And yet, JiangWei does have a way to see what they may be about to encounter. She's just unwilling to use it. All she has to do is close her eyes... Her real left eye, that is, and "see" through the "other" vision of her right.

Since the operation, horrific visions have assaulted to her, showing her indistinct shadows of unnameable, indescribable writhing horrors lurking and reaching out to her. It's been making sleeping a challenge, and only possible with high doses of sleeping pills. She has no desire to resort to her other vision. However, a glance at the squad members makes JiangWei grit her teeth. She has a responsibility to them to have the most information possible. With great reluctance, she knows she has use it if they are going to have any hope of surviving.

Taking a deep breath, she closes her left eye, braces herself and sees... nothing. She sighs in relief, but then realizes she's facing the sky, and instead points her head to the ground. She sucks in her breath at the sight. Seeping out of ground are pale veins of a sickly yellowish hue. All across the land, they cross and knot into festering messes of acidic pus-soaked green. They seem to have spread over the landscape following major population centers. Orienting herself, she follows the lines and marks off the cities until she looks out to the iridescent mass of Denver, and then ahead to its northern suburbs. There, much to her dismay, is a throbbing, sulfurous yellow mass that could only be...

"Arriving in Superior in ten minutes!"

JiangWei's eye flings open and she sees the squad members looking at her expectantly against a vanishing background of noxious ethereal fumes.

"Set us down 200 meters away from the target site. We'll approach on foot. Return in the air afterwards and keep your guns locked on," she says to the pilot, and then to the squad, "You five, set up a perimeter around the site. Make sure that it's entirely covered. The rest will approach with me. I'll take point."

No one questions her commands, but she suspects there's chatter going on over their personal channels. Let them wonder why she's taking so many precautions, she thinks to herself. If the bright, glowing mass she saw below them is anything to judge by, they'll understand soon enough and be grateful for her caution.

Moments later, they land and muster out the transport double-time. As ordered, they split into two groups, and JiangWei watches approvingly over her linkernode overlay as the covering group takes appropriate positions around the target location - definitely a perk of working with well-trained professionals. This isn't the case with Magistrate Gao, who has unfortunately been a constant, irritating presence. Throughout the operation, the micromanaging fool has been peppering JiangWei for updates, demanding to know every single detail and the reason for every action taken. From the shared command channel, she knows the magistrate's anal retentive management style extends to the local platoons, randomly commanding them to change from one location to another for no apparent reason. JiangWei stopped replying to the woman's nonsense, and has instead sent messages to the platoon leaders giving them brief updates, to which they gratefully responded and followed her orders.

When they near the target location, she signals the squad members to stop. It doesn't look like much. Just another ramshackle cookie-cutter two-storey home that was once someone's dream and ticket to middle-class respectability. The windows are shuttered and there's no sign of light or inhabitation. Besides the small heat signature, there's no sign of digital devices either, which previously would have been a tell-tale indication of the Resistance. But these people are not the Resistance, as the vision from JiangWei's right eye socket reveals all too clearly. Indeed, looking into her other vision, she sees something at the basement level of the house that lights her vision aflame with diseased light.

"Well? Are we going to bust the door down to this place or what?" a squad member grumbles over the shared channel.

It came from the woman equipped with the railgun, whose linkernode display marks her as HuDaJie. With her heavy-duty hardframe and the huge, buzzing electromagnetic railgun canon slung over her back, she looks incongruously out of place against the backdrop of abandoned family homes. JiangWei guesses that part of the HuDaJie's irritation has to do with being made to come with the forward group, as it would have made more sense to position the railgun along with the snipers. But JiangWei had shut down any discussion about that early on with a snarled rebuke reminding her of her place. She wants the fucking railgun on the front line, and that's that.

The others in the forward group are similarly heavily armed. Both XiaoKang and MeiJia look like a matching couple, carrying high velocity Gatling canons, even though their massive heavy fire power makes them a poor match for the interior combat they're expecting. Most incongruous though is LuoGe who's equipped with a dozen portable HJ-20s latched to various parts of his hardframe, ready to take down a fleet of tanks or armored vehicles, of which there is clearly no sign of.

JiangWei waits for confirmation from the sniper group before ordering,

"HuDaJie, stay behind here and cover us with the railgun. Fire when I tell you to and don't bother asking any questions. The rest of you, let's go. Be extremely careful where you move. Scanners are showing nothing on the top floors, so we're going straight into the basement where the heat source is. On the count of five. Five... four... three... two... one! Go!"

In a whirring blur of augmented movement, they slam straight into the house, tearing past the flimsy drywall and half-finished plaster. In seconds they're at the basement door, and they pause long enough for LuoGe to position himself behind the line, while XiaoKang, MeiJia and JiangWei ready themselves to storm downstairs. With their weapons buzzing and Gatling canons spinning, they land in the basement, get into a rigid defensive position, ready to suppress anyone there with extreme prejudice.

There's no one. Just an unusually widened basement filled with foul-smelling PVC vats.

JiangWei swears.

"Spread out! Search the place!"

Obediently, the squad does as she says, though she can hear them muttering to each other in irritation. She's positive she heard one of them mutter something about a half-breed xiangjiao ren. She grinds her teeth until a sharp pain stabs her in the temple.

They have to be here. The thing in her right eye socket is throbbing. And even with her left eye wide open, she sees a miasma of swirling tendrils over everything.

"Nothing here!" MeiJia cries out from one end.

"Nothing here either!" XiaoKang adds.

"Nothing... Oh, wait. Nope, no one here, but I did find how they got out of here though!" LuoGe yells from the back of the room. "There's a tunnel system that's large enough to park a bunch of electric ATV. It's a long system. I can't see where it goes. Do you want us to pursue them? I can make out their tracks."

No wonder they had no indication of them. If they used electric ATVs, they wouldn't be able to track them using the heat signatures they'd have from regular engines. JiangWei also bets that if they looked carefully throughout the house and the neighborhood, they'd find some kind of non-digital surveillance system that they probably triggered on arrival. JiangWei balls her hands into fists. As she does so, something lividly painful slithers up and down her right arm, forcing her to grab her right hand with her left to keep herself under control.

"No! Do not pursue!" she snaps. "We'll wait until we can get a scout-drone to map out tunnels."

Activating her linkernode, she sends a message to the local platoons instructing them to come forward and establish a tighter perimeter while they have a drone brought forward. Predictably, as this happens, seeing as how the expected action and captured prisoners didn't materialize, Magistrate Gao swamps her with demands for updates - forcing JiangWei to tell her that the suspects are not present, but that they are currently pursuing a possible lead. Naturally, the magistrate follows this with annoyed recriminations and accusations of incompetence.

With her own frustration roiling in her chest, JiangWei is about to defend herself against the magistrate's insults, but her attention is brought sharply into focus when she hears LuoGe chuckle dismissively and say,

"Hey, check this out. Looks like they've set up some explosives charges against the vats here. How pathetic. Shape-charges. I'll smother these fuckers out."

"No! Stop! Don't touch anything!" JiangWei yells out.

But LuoGe has already reached out and clamped his hardframed hands around the explosive. Ordinarily, this wouldn't be a problem, as the hardframe's armor can easily withstand the blast of a high-yield grenade. Though not advised in the manual, it's common for soldiers to detonate these charges in their gloves, partly because it's easier to do so than to wait for an entire bomb defusing unit, but also because it's kind of fun.

There's a muffled thud and fizzle as the charge detonates. That's it. JiangWei sighs in relief.

However, as LuoGe turns with a goofy grin, a metallic popping sound travels through the basement. It's followed by a slow hiss. It was a trap. Whoever had escaped had anticipated LuoGe's action. Detonating the charge is setting off hidden and entirely non-digital mechanisms. But what what's supposed to happen?

JiangWei looks around wildly as more metallic pops and hisses erupt, trying to track down where the sounds are coming from. At last, she sees a venting valve at the bottom of the vats. It's connected to a series of iron clasps along the edge of the vats, which are now systematically clicking open. Each clasp that unclicks causes the sides of the vats to sag and bulge a little more...

"Evacuate! Everyone out of here!" JiangWei screams.

She's too late.

Even as they're scrambling up out of the basement, the vats burst open, drenching them all with the foul, viscous fluid it had been holding. Wherever it strikes, the hardframes smoke and hiss, but the armor thankfully has shielded them from the worst of it - except for LuoGe who was right in the epicenter of the splash and had his face drenched in the stinking fluid. Again, he appears to be in no danger, but there's no time to examine him closely and they rush out of the building as fast as they can.

"Oh... tamade... what is that smell?" HuDaJie says as soon as she meets them outside. Scrunching her nose, she laughs, "You guys fucking stink! LuoGe! You're covered in fucking green ooze! Look at your face! What did you get yourself into? Did you..."

HuDaJie's head suddenly explodes into tiny pieces of incinerated bone and brain. JiangWei and the squad whirl around looking where the shot came from, assuming it must have come from one of the neighboring buildings. But shock sets in as they realize the shot came from right next to them. LuoGe had launched an HJ-20 missile straight at HuDaJie. He's now walking towards her corpse in tottering, drunken steps.

"LuoGe! What the hell are you doing? Why did you do that?" MeiJia demands, but she really should have been shooting, or doing anything at all to stop LuoGe.

As she and the others are muttering in angry confusion and demanding answers, LuoGe has torn the railgun off of HuDaJie's hardframe. Before they could react, he spins around and fires a molten railgun slug into MeiJia's chest. She's thrown a hundred meters backwards, with a smoldering hole where her chest used to be.

"Tamade gou pi dan!" XiaoKang swears, firing a volley of high-velocity rounds from his Gatling canon, but LuoGe shifted his armor to deflect the barrage.

"Take him the down! Shoot LuoGe! Shoot to kill!" JiangWei screams to the other sniping group, as she and the others join in trying to subdue the insane LuoGe.

But the man, if that's what he is anymore, is moving and jumping with impossible speed. As he does so, he's firing railgun slugs at the snipers, forcing them to take cover. When he whirls around to face them again, JiangWei catches sight of greenish-purple ooze foaming at his mouth and streaming from his eyes. His expression is strangely listless and vacant. It doesn't change when XiaoKang finally lands a grenade shot onto his chest and sends him reeling backwards.

"Got you, you fucking traitor! I'll get you for..."

XiaoKang is silenced by a half-dozen missiles crashing into him and sundering his hardframe. In response, JiangWei and the others fire all their weapons, but to no avail. Nothing manages to hit LuoGe.

With no other options left, JiangWei screams at the Qilin transport,

"Override all safety protocols! Tell all platoons to fall back! Saturate the area with thermobaric missiles! Release everything now!"

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 8

Downtown Boulder. October 31st, 2057. First year of the Occupation (i.e., the distant past).

It isn't hard to remember a happier, more promising time. A time when we were free live as we wanted and as we identified. When we were loving, caring, and accepting. When we took for granted the progress we made and that we thought would be absolutely impossible to regress back to a time in our past. This is why so many of us find it difficult and painful to remember how quickly it all went to shit.

In our collective defense, when it was a year into the Occupation, there were only a small number of bankruptcies and foreclosures resulting from the new Chinese regulations. That I or anyone else knew about anyway. Frankly, I was never really one to follow the news, much less scour the network for factoids. Why would I do that just so I could be bored to death by analyses of new congressional policies and details of the SAFCOA implementation plans? They were all extremely alarming, of course, but so so so sooo damned boring. Like everyone else, I was content with following the popular (self-deluded) consensus that everything was still business as usual, and it was totally okay for me to take out loans and open my new and final restaurant.

I'd chosen a perfect spot in downtown Boulder on the corner of 14th and Pearl, right in the middle of the pedestrian mall where every tourist and local gravitated to for semi-upscale food and cultural activities. I remember being amazed that the location was available at all, and with only a handful of bids going for it. Sure, it wasn't located in the hippest location in town, and lacked the cache of a pop-up restaurant in an abandoned industrial zone that hordes of foodies would travel to sample its avant-garde culinary fantasies - but that didn't bother me too much. After my previous failed restaurant that admittedly tried too hard to be cutting-edge, I wanted to open a place that had the best chance of succeeding while still letting me cook as I wished. So for my intents and purposes, the location was perfect for my upper-mid-end semi-fancy-casual restaurant.

I'd named the place, "The Gold Leaf Kale / Jin Gan Lan," a name chosen during a hilarious, weed-facilitated brainstorming session with Sam. We figured that the mention of kale would appeal to our regular Boulder clientele, while the gold would catch the attention of our growing number of Chinese customers. The menu would be advertised as a hodge-podge of healthy-ish Southern-style comfort food. Its main feature was going to be the use of the eponymous "golden" kale that I'd sourced from a local industrial organic farm. The kale wasn't golden at all, but a pale yellow; it got that color from being forced to grown in the dark, not unlike endives, though without the bitterness and toughness that no one liked. The golden leaves were, in fact, flavorless and nearly textureless - and thus perfect for people's finicky palates.

Opening day was intentionally held on Halloween, as I knew it would coincide with the customary costume-party parade that would guarantee us visitors. The weather had cooperated that day. It was a fine, crisp autumn evening when we flung open our doors and started inviting people in. Rather pleasingly, there had been a respectable line-up prior opening, as Sam and I had used our connections to create some decent buzz. In less than a half-hour, the entire restaurant was full and filled with happy customers, many of whom were my friends and acquaintances, and all of whom were eager to congratulate me on my new venture.

"Pat! Darling! This is so wonderful. So fabulous!" someone dressed in a form-fitting tiger costume gushed, as they grabbed my hand, pulled me close and blew air-kisses onto my cheeks.

"What is this sauce? It's brilliant! The spices are so perfectly balanced! I'm not sure I've tasted anything like it!" another cried, pointing at a dish filled with reddish sauce. The person is wearing is a brightly colored punk-rocker-inspired wig, which nicely complemented the rest of their lacy and leathery psychedelic ensemble.

I smiled graciously, putting a hand to my chest in thanks. "It's a reduction of vine-ripened heirloom tomatoes spiked with shaven alium-bulbs and my own combination of fresh herbs." Ketchup, in other words. "That other dish you're about to sample - do please try it with that sauce! - is a deconstructed conceptual dish of walnut-fattened pot-bellied swine that's been lightly battered with stone-ground blue-kernel maize and sauteed in house-rendered leaf-lard." Corn-dogs, in other words.

More pleasantries were traded and I was released to hover to the other tables. Those two were influential restaurant critics, so I'd laid it on thicker than usual. Not surprisingly, they'd lapped my bullshit up as if it was ambrosia. My having plied them with expensive bottles of wine prior to meeting them may have had some influence on their effusively positive reaction. "Congratulations chef!" a voice said loudly, before grabbing me from behind in a tight hug and planting a kiss on my cheek.

I laughed, as I knew exactly who it was. The people around us laughed and clapped appreciatively, as I turned and returned the embrace of my head waiter, Sam Martinez. Of course, we should have been more careful. We'd gotten complacent living in the progressive bubble of Boulder, while ignoring the return of cultural regressiveness happening in the rest of the country that was both sanctioned and encouraged by the Occupation - but that, of course, we could never imagine would spread to us.

"Thank you very much! Thank you for coming!" I said doffing my chef's hat and bowing with flourish. "I do hope I will become familiar with your faces as you return and sample my new dishes! I promise you that we have great surprises in store for you! And may I also take the opportunity to thank the amazing local businesses that we have partnered with, including..."

I proceeded to list the expected laundry list of bakeries, hand-crafted soap makers, and family-run farms. Yes, you could say that I was in my element and I was basking in my success. I remember being so filled with dizzying confidence that I thought I could do this in my sleep. Everything was going perfectly... and isn't that when things usually decide to go to hell?

After I finished my little performance, I returned to the kitchen to make sure my sous-chef didn't mangle my soups. It was then Sam rushed back to beckon me to the front. Ze didn't have a chance to explain anything beyond "serious customers that have specifically requested to speak to you." Usually this wasn't a big deal, possibly a local business or something like that, but ze's face was ashen. The dining room eerily subdued. Gone was the care-free laughing and animated chatter. Instead, everyone was intensely focused on their food, barely looking at their dining companions as they hurriedly forked their meals into their mouths and choked it down.

The reason for the stark change in ambiance turned out to be a Chinese couple, demurely dressed in an indigo qipao for the middle-aged woman and a tightly buttoned Mao-suit for the younger man. My stomach was stabbed by an icicle of fear. My heart palpitated in a vice of painful anxiety. I recognized them as Boulder's two most prominent loan managers, Chen NuLian and Deng Ku. They had a reputation of being the hardest of asses without a tiniest sliver of compassion. It would have made a lot of sense to shower them with whatever freebie and treats that I could offer. This was not what I did. Why? Because I was drunk on the success and approval I'd basked in the last few hours. I truly believed nothing could possibly happen to me in my impregnable domain and surrounded by my friends and loving audience. What a naive fucking loser I was.

"Welcome to The Gold Leaf Kale, Chen Taitai, Deng Xiansheng," I greeted politely with a minimum of deference. "My head waiter mentioned you had some questions for me? Did you want some explanations regarding the menu?"

The loan managers took a long moment to study me over before replying. With a curl of her mouth, Chen Taitai slapped her menu shut, and said, "I'd like something light, something that doesn't sit in my stomach for a whole day like typical baigui American junk food. Is there something here that's like that?"

I wanted to make a quippy comment asking if she understood what Southern American cooking was, but I instead flashed a brilliant smile and suggested,

"Perhaps a salad? The Cobb salad is a traditional dish. It's made of fresh Romaine lettuce and fresh tomatoes, and it comes with blue-cheese and..."

"Disgusting. No blue-cheese," Chen Taitai said, wrinkling her nose.

"Of course, that's no problem..."

"And do you have any pao tsai? I'd like some mixed into my vegetables."

"Pao tsai? You mean pickles? We do have some that I could add, yes..."

"Tell me. This so-called chicken-fried steak. I'd like you to make it unfried for me," Deng Xiansheng interrupted.

"Unfried? But it's meant to be fried... Well, I could do that if you if you like..."

"We'd both like two bowls of rice. White rice, of course," Deng Xiansheng interrupted again.

"And tea," Chen Taitai added, specifying, "Gaoshan oolong or Longjing, none of that horrible orange pekoe nonsense."

They continued with their demands, while outrage mounted in my chest. I had none of the things they were requesting and they knew it. I'd have to send someone out to get those ingredients or be forced to call another restaurant to deliver them. It was possible to do, but I still had my pride then, and I saw no reason to bow to them. If they wanted Chinese food, they could have gone to a goddamned Chinese restaurant. I was running an American restaurant and I was going to serve American food.

Some of my thoughts must have been showing on my face, as Deng Xiangsheng looked at me and frowned. "Is there something wrong? Why are you just standing there?"

I straightened my back as I replied with a minuscule nod of my head.

"Chen Taitai. Deng Xiansheng. I would be happy to make your Cobb salad as you requested, as well as cook your chicken-fried steak without the batter and without frying it. Unfortunately though, I will be unable accommodate some of your other specific requests, as we don't carry those items in this restaurant. I'd be happy to serve you what we have though, and I will make it to the best of my ability. After all, this is an American restaurant, specializing in American Southern dishes, and not a Chinese restaurant. I invite you to try some of our classic American dishes, which I believe you may find surprisingly good. You may even find your taste-buds converted to our way of cooking!"

Rationally, my words were perfectly polite and diplomatic. Rationally, there would be no reason for them to be upset with me, as I was simply stating facts and I was doing my best to be accommodating within what I thought were reasonable boundaries. Clearly, I forgot to read the memo that the rest of the country was getting: the Occupation had changed the rules, and we Americans no longer had the luxury of setting or deciding any of them.

The loan managers' response was as unexpected as it was devastating.

"Is that lipstick you're wearing?" Deng Xiansheng asked.

My hand flew involuntarily to cover my mouth. It took strength to force it down. I wasn't doing anything wrong. I rarely wore lipstick, but sometimes I did when I felt like it. Like many still living in the past, I lived as I wanted, expressed and presented as I wanted, when I wanted without any worries that anyone would tell me I was doing anything "wrong" or against my "nature." I had gotten used to being comfortable in body, and loving it as it was and as how I felt it was. And, like many who hadn't been following the news, I assumed there was nothing wrong with that.

I struggled to keep my confidence, as I replied,

"Why yes, it is. I'm also wearing some foundation on my cheeks."

"But aren't you a man? Why are you putting on a woman's cosmetics?" Deng Xiansheng pointed out.

"Or is this a Halloween thing? Is that your excuse?" Chen Taitai said, opening that up as an excuse I could tuck my tail and hide behind to save face.

It really could have been my excuse. Halloween could have been my way out. I could have said that, yes, I was just in a costume and maybe proceed to laugh it off, and then bow repeatedly taking back what I said about not having what they wanted and that I'd be serving them everything they requested very soon and free of charge, naturally.

I absolutely refused to do this. I refused to be cowed by them. What business was it of theirs how I thought of myself and how I dressed?

"No, Chen Taitai. I am not wearing make-up for Halloween. I enjoy wearing make-up from time to time, especially on special occasions like the opening of my restaurant," I said with calm defiance. "And no, Deng Xiansheng, I am not a man and neither am I a woman. I consider myself agender, which is why I have chosen the pronouns 'ze' and 'zir' for myself. I understand that this may be unusual for you, but having different statuses on the gender spectrum is something that is not only common in America, but also accepted by all Americans and protected by law."

This was technically true, though the enforcement of gender tolerance laws varied from state to state. That said, gender diversity had been long accepted by the majority of Americans, and it was only a handful of backward states that held onto outdated gender norms. Again, this was I thought to be true at the time. Had I been following the news, I'd know that this was something that was rapidly being changed by the Chinese Occupation and the complicit government. Alongside their careful manipulation of Congress and the federal government, they'd built alliances with regressive, socially conservative organizations who systematically brought back outdated rules.

"Is that so? Accepted by all Americans?" Chen Taitai said with an infuriatingly pompous and all-knowing look. With a slim smile, she pointed to the window: "Those Americans out there don't seem to agree."

I was about to reply with sharp response, but I was silenced by what I saw out the window. It was a bunch of sign-waving protesters. I should have noticed them before, as they were standing out in front of the restaurant and screaming slogans. I didn't pay them any attention, because I thought they were part of some kind of satirical comedy group commenting on the antiquated ridiculousness of our past.

In sharp contrast to the scantily clad Halloweeners happily and unshamefully showing off their bodies and their joy for any shape or hue, the protesters were completely covered in three-piece suits for the men, and, for the women, ankle-length, long-sleeved dresses with collars that went all the way to their chins. They were also all very white. It was such a perfect "imitation" of a bygone era that many people were having their linkernodes take SimPhotos and record instaVids of them, thinking they were going to reveal the rest of the punchline soon. But these wackos weren't kidding around.

"Shame! Shame! Bring back the American Way!"

"Make America a Great Nation!"

"Free yourself from debt! Follow Pure American Family Values!"

"Find your way to the truth! Find your way to God!"

"Follow the Way of God and God will save America!"

"Save your soul! God made man and woman! Not man and man!"

"Think of the children! Oh, somebody think of the children!"

Oho. They were religious nuts too. They must have crawled out of some isolated inbred survivalist community in the middle of the mountains. How quaint. Not unlike conservative "family values," organized religion and its outdated rules had become increasingly irrelevant in the years before the Occupation came along. These days, few claimed to be any denomination - though many were spiritually inclined, of course. On any other day, seeing religious fanatics would have been a source of fascination, as they were so rare and unusual. But having them here, on this day, in front of my restaurant with two Occupation loan managers in attendance, was no laughing matter at all.

In retrospect, I knew that even at that point of staring into disaster, I had a chance to back down. I could have easily bowed submissively and laughed, possibly even playing the angle that I was role-playing and I was really a proper "male" with a hundred percent unambiguous and non-confusing masculine features. Ha ha. But my blood was riled, and I continued on my path to self-destruction.

With a soft chuckle and a shake of my head, I said, progressively raising my voice so everyone one could hear and potentially record my impromptu and - what I hoped to be - rallying speech,

"I believe you have been misinformed, Chen Taitai. Those people are not representative of American citizens. They are relics of a time that we've all grown beyond. They are, frankly, an embarrassment to us, and I apologize on their behalf for having given you the impression that they represent our great nation. We're no longer bound to arbitrary social rules, especially irrelevant religious ones that were created for a different era. We're no longer ruled by the past, and we no longer argue about silly things like which god is right, or what some god may said, or any silly things like that. We are far far away from our fanatic past. What does represent us? Acceptance, tolerance, and equality for all! We Americans do not discriminate based on any creed, spiritual belief, ethnicity, lifestyle, gender or orientation. We allow people to live the way they wish, free to pursue their happiness in their own way. That is America." And with a cocky bow, I added what would seal my fate, "I am happy to have the honor to introduce you to it."

A patter of clapping and faint cheers. Those quickly silenced when they realized most of the restaurant remained voiceless, holding their breath. Most were probably wishing I would shut my trap and stop causing trouble, which they worried would splashback on them.

As a point in fact, with the corners of his mouth curled upwards, Deng Xiansheng said,

"Well, it does seem like there may be some agreement with you among certain individuals here." Taking out a datashroud out his jacket and unfurling it on the table, he said to Chen Taitai. "Perhaps we could take their statements down. I'm sure we could use them for the Social Hygiene Hearings currently going on in Congress."

"An excellent idea," Chen Taitai agreed. "We have of course identified everyone in this restaurant, so it would be easy to match the statements to their records. Would anyone like to come forward and support Mr. Pat Dunes' statements?"

No one raised their hand. If anyone did move, it was to rush out the restaurant as soon as they hurriedly paid the bill.

"Strange. It doesn't seem as if anyone wants to make a statement." Deng Xiansheng tapped his chin thoughtfully. "But you know? This makes me think of the new federal legislation that was just passed by your President. What? Never heard about it? You might like it though. It's called the 'Traditional Values Freedom Protection' Act. It's to keep people from being discriminated against based their beliefs that others may derogatorily describe as being 'conservative or outdated.'"

The loan manager then jumped to his feet with a wide grin.

"But what am I doing! It's a terrible thing to be putting words into their mouths! I can't just assume I know what they're talking about or what being discriminated against by liberal snobs may be like. I must let them speak for themselves! You don't mind, do you? Of course you don't. This is all about social justice and religious liberty, and everyone is in support of that, right? Let me invite them to have a conversation. Hello, out there! Come on in! Please! Come and say your piece! We wish to know more about your position, because you too are Americans, are you not? Come! Please!"

And that was how a bunch of rabid conservative protesters were allowed entry into my restaurant. I could only watch in an unbelieving daze as they were waved in by the loan managers. Immediately upon entry, the nutters proceeded to harangue me, my customers and everything in the restaurant because my choice of gender was somehow unnatural by some arbitrary set of rules only they held the keys to. I again wondered where they could have come from. They had mixed accents and twangs that I couldn't link them to a specific state or region.

These however were the wrong questions for me to ask.

What I should have been asking was why this group was specifically targeting me and my restaurant. It wasn't like being agender was something I was advertising to promote my restaurant; being agender just wasn't unusual enough anymore for me to distinguish myself based on that. More particularly, how did they know to protest at exactly the same time as the loan managers were visiting?

I later discovered that the actions of the protesters were tightly coordinated and directed by the Occupation's propaganda office. Any time they needed to send a message, they had the protesters trotted out to the right location. In fact, I learned that the three previous restaurants that attempted to open in my location - as well as the ones that came afterwards - were all shuttered with the help of these protesters and the "coincidental" presence of the loan managers.

The Gold Leaf Kale closed down soon after. I valiantly tried keeping it open, but business ground down to nothing and I soon had to declare bankruptcy. Not surprisingly, Sam and I split as well, as my bankruptcy strained our relationship and magnified any of the dysfunctions we had. I attempted to appeal my loans, but Congress had passed a law that only people who could fit within binary gender definitions could be eligible. Still determined to move forward and apparently too dense to get the message, I sucked up my pride and went through the process of "gender normalization" which included indoctrination classes and conversion success tests. Thankfully, they didn't catch my sarcasm, or else I would never have passed them and had my record cleared.

I was one of the lucky ones. In those early days, the Occupation was still giving us opportunities to demonstrate ourselves as responsible debtors. Now, if you appear to deviate from the norm, you'd be thrown into prison or dipped into a genetic resequencing chamber and remade into something more acceptable.

But you know what? Getting my restaurant closed and going to a re-education camp didn't piss me off that much. I knew it was just business. I'm pretty sure the Occupation didn't even care about all that gender normative nonsense. All they were looking for were ways to bind us with new rules to make life miserable for us. And, most importantly, to find new rules to control us by. I could understand that. I could even appreciate how clever it was to trot out the religious nuts to do their dirty work for them.

No, what really pissed me off was what happened the rest of that evening. Because the nonsense didn't end with the protesters giving me a hard time. Of course not. I'd hoped that giving the nutbar protesters a chance to vent and reminisce about their imaginary good ol' days would release their energy and make them go away. Unfortunately though, letting them speak only made them more agitated, which was compounded by the implicit encouragement of the loan managers' silent non-interference. And so, driven to a tizzy and based on some flimsy excuse that they needed to correct my deviancy immediately, the protesters began trashing my restaurant and tearing everything down.

That's bad isn't it? But that's not all. Because what did my customers do? What did my customers - who were my friends, supporters, colleagues and people I considered part of my extended family - do? Did they stop them? Did they protest back? Did they stand up against this outrage? No. Of course fucking not. My customers, my friends, and my fellow fucking Americans joined in the destruction of my restaurant.

Fuck them. Fuck those fuckers. Fuck them all. They can all fucking burn.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 9

Abandoned Industrial Zone. Northwest of Denver. August 6th, 2065. 9am.

I have to admit I was skeptical of our chances when they pushed me onto the backseat of an ATV and zoomed off. But it turned out that we did get away. The tunnel system we barreled down snaked all the way through Superior, underneath a highway, and popped out of the overgrown greens of a disused golf course in the neighboring suburb. After we emerged into the cool of the night, I heard a series of dull thudding sounds down the tunnel, indicating that James and the others had set charges along it to block the path. However, considering the ludicrous firefight that, even three miles away, managed to deafen us with its intensity, the charges might not have been necessary. James' "surprise" was obviously sufficiently surprising.

We also didn't need the elaborate backstory that was prepared in case we were stopped by the authorities. After setting fire to the ATVs, we piled into an old ambulance, and pulled over hospital scrubs over our clothes. If stopped, we were supposed to say we were part of the Colorado Volunteer First Aid Unit (which would explain why our equipment looked so awful) and we were about to deliver medical supplies behind the Denver Wall (for which we would produce a forged permit that had been stolen from the real Volunteer First Aid Unit). I doubted any of this would stand up to scrutiny, but as no one stopped us along the way, we never had to test it. I'd later learn that all emergency personnel had been ordered to converge on Superior by the Magistrate to help suppress a "terrorist incident."

A brief, tensely silent drive brought us to the outskirts of an abandoned industrial zone northeast of Denver that reeked of rotting kibble and petroleum chemicals. Weaving through rubble and open sewers, we drove into a complex surrounded by steel silos decorated with reclaimed wood beams. When I looked around the next morning, I saw at least a dozen more buildings that looked almost the same, excepting a few variations to the ubiquitous wheat and beer-inspired artistic touches. The area had previously been a local beer and spirits "village" constructed in the boom times of nano-breweries, but that had gone bust as the fad switched to designer, single-batch e-vaping fluids. We'd taken shelter in one derelict brewery whose crumbling sign said, somewhat appropriately, "Lefty's Doom Brewery." The place was permeated with the same horrible odors as the house we had just left, suggesting that this was one of the safehouses the Libertarians of the Void had set up. I'm proud to say that, after the first day, I'd gotten used to the smell and stopped waking up in the morning retching and gagging.

They'd brought me there for shelter, of course, but also because they wanted to train me in their ways. I was very very very eager to learn how to summon as they did. Unfortunately though, all my eagerness didn't yield the immediate results I was hoping for. In fact, my efforts have mostly resulted in the repeated nothingness that was happening again today:

"Again, dumb ass."

I look up and glare at Misha, tearing my tinted goggles off my head in frustration. I don't see the point of the exercise. It's clearly futile. The last few days have shown that I'm unable to summon anything beyond dank odors - and even then I'm not sure if it's my own gas or the reek emanating from our collective, unwashed bodies. Apparently, channeling the Elder Gods involves ignoring basic hygiene.

"Don't just sit there looking at me like an idiot. Do it again," Misha growls, gesturing irritably as he leans against a copper fermentation tank.

Sighing, I flip the iron-bound grimoires back to the start of the incantation and replace the rat corpse back into the ritual circle. I take the opportunity to readjust my legs. One of them has gone numb from sitting cross-legged for the last hour with my leather overalls splattered with rat's blood. It's the latest modification to the ritual to get me to summon something. Yesterday, they had me kneeling and kowtowing and the day before I was squatting with my hands held in the air. I imagine that tomorrow they'll want me to stand one-legged as I pat my belly and make high-pitched hooting sounds.

"Don't you think it's obvious that this won't work? This is the tenth time this morning that I've tried kneeling like this. Maybe we should try something else," I grumble.

I prod at the dead rat with a finger, causing its organs to bulge out of its open belly. Its flesh has been carved with intricate symbols that match the ones drawn in spiraling patterns around the ritual circle.

"Maybe I need a new rat. This one could be a dud."

"The rat is fine. And, it's the last one we have. You've been burning through our sacrifices like cheap take-out," Misha rasps. "Just do the incantation again, and this time don't make any mistakes."

"I didn't make any mistakes," I snap. I didn't. I memorized all the words to the Pnakotic Manuscripts' Unholy Psalms, as appropriately supplemented by the Tenebrous Prayers taken from the Book of Leiver.

"Obviously, you did, since you got didly," Misha retorts.

"Maybe you taught me wrong."

"I taught you fine, asshole. Just do it again or else I'll tell the others you're useless to us."

"Fine, fine. Here I go again."

I pull my goggles back over my eyes, shimmying into position and shaping my fingers into contorted patterns. I don't want to be considered useless, as they'd probably kill me; and they'd likely do it in a painful and vindictive way, since they've already wasted so many resources on me with nothing to show for it. I obviously want to be able to summon the powers of the Elder Gods, but I'm beginning to think it's not within my grasp.

"Hrong duc Niggurath! Jiri ginp mo'adrd yog!" I cry gutturally, slowly raising my hands over my head. "Eeeelak, gom'ka! Jabba nik turr. Masdo Shurgath Yog-Shoggath! Nevas teee! Nevas tee!"

I spit thrice on the rat, plunge my fingers into its corpse, and with the coagulated goo now coating my fingers, I draw the dread emblem of Yog-Shoggath upon my chest, while running the welcoming sigils along my arms, legs and belly. Throwing my head back and widening my eyes, I howl and scream until my throat hurts, and then pierce my finger with my ritual knife and dribble some blood over the rat. I repeat the same incantation five more times with increasing speed. Finally, I slowly open a vial filled with brackish-green ooze, careful not to spill any of it over my exposed flesh, and sprinkle the dead rat three times until smoke appears wherever the ooze hits the flesh. The smoke stings my eyes in spite of the goggles.

I hold my breath. That should do it. A creature from the tenebrous depths of the Void should be crawling through the weakened barriers of existence to spread its horrors. Out of the corner of my eyes, I see a low greenish light and watch carefully as it develops into crepuscular glow that ignites the symbols in the ritual circle. A frigid, numbing tingling spreads over my body, growing to an upward pressure against the base of my skull. I'm told it's supposed to feel like someone is attempting to crack your head open with dull spoon and hammer, so I feel encouraged. As soon as the sensation comes though, it begins to fade, while the eldritch light animating the ritual circle peters out and disappears in a puff of oily vapors.

"Fuck! Not again!" I curse. "Why? Damn it! Why won't it work?"

"You got further than last time though," Misha points out. "You didn't get the symbols to glow as brightly as that. Did you feel the energy growing behind your skull?"

"Yes," I say sullenly. "But why won't it stay? What am I doing wrong?"

"Try again, but this time hold your breath longer and then scream louder when you're in the middle."

"I'm already screaming as loud as I can!"

"Then scream longer then."

"That's what I tried yesterday with Jessie!"

Every day, a different person attempted to teach me, each with their own suggestions and particular ways of approaching the summoning ritual. Jessie's focus seemed to have been largely on pronunciation and length, while Karina was obsessed with my gestures and James wanted me to have exactly the right distance and direction away from the rat corpse, which for some reason, had to be 36.63 centimeters away with a difference of 3.63 degrees southwards. I did everything they asked, making a point to integrate all they said, but I got nowhere.

"Isn't there anything else you can tell me about this? Some kind of trick you're holding back?"

Misha heaves a sigh and shakes his head. "That's the trouble with these forbidden rituals. They've been hidden for so long, no one is really sure how to interpret the grimoires. If it wasn't for the Mad Prophet and the occultists at the turn of the century, we'd have lost of them all." Misha shrugs. "Would it help that it took Karina a month before she could even get the symbols to glow? You got it in two days. I couldn't even get a hint of pressure on my skull for two weeks. You got it after five days. So chill out and keep trying until you get it."

I'm a little mollified by Misha's revelations, but I'm exhausted. "Damn it, Misha. I need a break. I know you need me to be ready as soon as possible, but I can't keep this up." I rub my temples, trying to make my headache fade away. My sleep deprivation isn't helping either. I'm guessing I'm dehydrated too. "Why is it that I have to be ready so quickly anyway? What the hell is the big rush? Why can't I take the same time you guys did?"

"Pat, if you hadn't noticed we're occupied by the Chinese. Do you want that to change or not?"

"Don't feed me that line! It's been eight years! One more month or two won't make a difference!"

Misha grimaces, choosing his words. He seems about to say something but apparently changes tack.

"Ok, Pat. I get that you're pissed and tired. I honestly don't know what else I can tell you to help you. I'm not even sure how it was that I managed to tap into the Void. One day, something just flooded my mind and I could. Let's try something else, ok?" Misha stands straighter and attempts to clear his decrepit throat. It sounds like a metal grinder scraping pavement.

"In the Book of Valp'oan, it states 'Unto the Charnel flesh of the Banished Ones you must go, and into the Stygian Embrace of its cursed withered limbs you must crawl in, if you wish to suckle upon the Maddening Wisdom of Yog-Shoggoth. Gone and Banished your body and mind must be, just as the Elder Gods have been banished from the mortal earth.'"

"Yeah?"

"Well, let's try that then, asswipe," Misha growls. "You need to visualize the Void in your head and in your body as you do the incantation. You have to imagine you're touching the Elder Gods while you're drawing the symbols on your body. You have to imagine you're one of them and you have to imagine your mind to be like theirs. And most importantly, you have to lure them and feed them with what they desire the most: hatred for all living things and the despair of paranoia and fear."

I chew on the inside of my cheek. This "new thing" of Misha's is just another variation of what's been told to me before. It's irritatingly close to hippie encouragements to "just be" and "be one with the Universe" and "find truth in your Soul" - and just as meaningless and devoid of substance. But at this point, I'd do anything.

"Alright, fine. I'll give it a try. I'll try to imagine I have my head straight up in the Elder Gods' crotch if that's going to help. But what if it doesn't work? What if I can't reach them? Is there something else I can do? Isn't there another ritual I can try or something?"

"No. This is the only ritual to use. The other ones won't work for you."

"So there are other ones! I should at least try them!"

"You're not ready for the others. Shut up and stick with this one!"

"I'll show you where to stick this one! I'm tired of this bullshit!"

"Just do the ritual again! Do as I say!"

"Stick that shit up your ass! Give me the other ritual!"

Our argument is interrupted by a loud laugh. It's followed by a pleasant and good humored appeal,

"Please! Stop! We're on the same team here! There's no need to argue. Remember who the enemy is. They win when we fight amongst ourselves."

James saunters in his arms held wide. Behind him are Karina and Jessie. They're dragging a hooded woman with her hands bound in front of her. The muffled noises coming from underneath the hood suggest the woman is gagged. She's also barefoot and wearing a set of silk peony-print pajamas.

"Are you still having no success with the summonings?"

I nod.

"Well, don't despair! I know you've been progressing nicely and you're getting very close. I'd like to wait for you to discover your own means of reaching the Elder Gods, but unfortunately we don't have the time for that. So I brought something to help you along."

James waves for Karina and Jessie to bring the hooded woman forward. With considerable effort, they wrestle her into the ritual circle. Jessie has to knock her feet from under her to get her on her knees, plopping her in front of me with a moan.

"Where did you get this woman from? Are you crazy?" Misha demands. "Don't you know the PLA will be hunting for her? How could you risk kidnapping this woman?"

"It will be fine, Misha. Don't worry." James soothes with a casual toss of his hair. "It's a bit of a gamble, I admit, but if this works, it will be worth it." Addressing me, he says, "Pat, I told you once that your blood is very powerful and that you should only spill it if you were prepared to release its power. The same is true for other people's blood. Animal sacrifices can do in a pinch, but it's human blood that has the most power. Human sacrifice, after all has been a long part of our history for good reason. So, to help you along, I brought someone, a perfect someone, to focus your mind and give fuel to your summoning. Recognize her?"

With a dramatic yank and a ta-da display of his hands, James removes the hood, steps out of the ritual circle, and looks at me expectantly. It takes me a moment, but I recognize her. How couldn't I? She's the loan manager who ruined my career and my life.

"Chen Taitai?"

"Yes!" James confirms enthusiastically. "She was one of the loan managers who shut your restaurant down, right? I'd wanted to find the other one, but he's been transferred back to China. But she's the one, right?"

"Yes. She's the one who destroyed my life." I stare at Chen Taitai struggling in front of me. There's a bloody gash at the side of her temple where her linkernode used to be. She won't be signaling anyone any time soon, nor will anyone be tracking her.

A complicated mess of emotions wells in my chest as I watch her trying to wriggle away, in despite having her hands bound and her legs bruised. Her face is displaying a combination of outrage, confusion and fear. She's obviously trying to express all of that at once, but the tape plastered over her mouth is keeping her silent.

I wonder if she even remembers me, or if I was just one of many whose lives she systematically stomped on. And if she did remember, would she even care to know what she's done to me. Maybe it's just a job for her, one that she's forced to do because she needs to pay the bills. As I rationalize her actions, my anger tempers against my will. How strange it is that the mind instinctively attempts to humanize and empathize with people you should hate and want to tear to pieces.

Feeling a desire for closure - or a perhaps non-sensical twinge of doubt - I reach over and pull the tape off Chen Taitai's mouth. She immediately starts screaming at the top of her lungs. But seeing that none of us are reacting, she realizes she's very far away from help and any kind of surveillance drone. So instead, she switches over to making imperious demands and threats:

"Who are you? Why have you taken me? Release me immediately or you will face the consequences! I will have your houses taken! I will have all your families' assets confiscated! Don't you know who I am? I am the Director of Financial Management of the Western Region! I hold your fates in my hand!"

Seeing none of her threats land, she says with a forced smile,

"Let me go and I promise that the security forces will be lenient. Clearly, this is some kind of misunderstanding. You are desperate people. I understand that. We're here to help you, remember? Let me go, and I can help you get some good loan counseling sessions and get you back on your feet again. I can get you decent jobs and improved living situations too. Well? What is the matter with you? Aren't you listening to me? Baigui inbred barbarians! I'm giving you redneck fools a chance of a lifetime! I can save you and your families!"

"She probably can too," James notes.

"Of course I can! I'm..."

"Shut up or I'll peel the skin off your head and stuff it down your throat!" James barks viciously.

The sudden feral intensity in his voice surprises Chen Taitai and she's left wordless. I'm also stunned by the contrast from his usual sunny disposition, which returns as James explains to me,

"Something that's not very well known, by the Occupation authorities anyway, is that there's a good reason why Chen Taitai decided to stay on in the US, while most of her colleagues have returned to China at the first opportunity of promotion. Of course, she pitches it as being devoted to the Motherland and being willing to dedicate her life in selfless service. But it can't be that hard for to live here when she has five luxurious homes to choose to go home to every night, each of which is serviced by a dozen American servants. We found her sleeping between golden silk sheets in a three-storey home in swanky Lafayette. How did she get all this wealth? By systematically screwing us over, of course."

Chen Taitai holds her chin up. "I have done nothing wrong."

"Blackmail? Bribes? Even a prostitution ring? Nothing wrong?"

"You are mistaken. Of course, you uneducated Americans wouldn't understand," Chen Taitai snorts. "None of what I've done has contravened any of the local regulations. In fact, I've followed to them the letter. Your financial system is designed for people like me to find profit and to discover wealth. The 'American Way', isn't that what you call it? The corporations I've started and the hedge funds I manage are standard operating practice. It's hardly my problem that you're unable to benefit from your own rules and start your own companies to be more entrepreneurial. That's all I am: an entrepreneur. It's just business."

After her bullshit, she peers at me closely. Recognition dawns in her eyes.

"I know you. You started that crappy restaurant in Boulder. What a disgusting place. The food was too greasy and there was nothing original or unique in your so-called new take on Southern cooking. Is that what this is about? The fact that you couldn't come up with a decent business plan and you're a shitty cook? How pathetic. You should have worked harder and thought harder, instead of assuming your dreams would be enough. You're just a lazy fat ass like all you fucking Americans. You want to kill me? You think I haven't been threatened before? Whatever. You yokels are all the same. You just want the easy way out instead working your way out of your bad decisions."

She straightens again. "You can still get out of this, you know. Let me go, and I'll give you an easier time. I may even go so far as to give you advice on how to start a proper restaurant. But if you don't... I swear you'll regret it. You have family, right? I know you do. It's on your file. We'll find them and make them do the most humiliating jobs possible. We'll make sure also that any children your siblings have will suffer for your mistakes too. And, wait. You had a boyfriend too, right? Think we didn't know that? We know everything. We just let you off easy the first time because it was the early days. That idiot will never know what's coming to him. He'll never even understand why he's suddenly suffering. He'll just beg and beg and beg and no one will..."

My fist crashes into her mouth, silencing the bitch.

At first, I wasn't sure if I could do what James and others want me to, but James chose my sacrifice well. As she spoke, my fury mounted and my thumping blood deafened me. Grabbing her by her hair, I force her onto all fours. My other hand is holding the razor-sharp ritual blade at her throat. I'm about to stick it into her neck and gut her like an animal...

...but I hesitate. Pathetic, weakling that I am, I see another person, another human life, someone else with hopes and dreams.

...then I remember that I had hopes and dreams once too - before they were shat on and pissed on and had the remains rubbed into my face.

No more. I've had enough of crawling on my belly begging for scraps. I've had enough of being mocked and demeaned. If I can no longer have my dreams, then neither will they. If they won't allow us hope, then I'll take theirs away too.

Before I can register the thought, I've plunged the knife into the woman's neck. I pull it out and plunge it back several more times, until my arms and face are drenched in her blood. I only stop because I remember I have the ritual to do. Cutting open my palm with my knife, I smear my blood over Chen Taitai's flaccid face, and raise my hands in the air to release the cry of the Yog-Shoggath. I then flip her body onto her back, cut open her belly, and plunge my hands into her innards. My hands filled with clumps of her intestines, I begin the incantation chant. Already, I feel a coldness creep into my bones, as the symbols around the ritual circle alight with dark flames. I'm dizzy, I'm panting, and my head is crawling with scabrous, racking agony. Even as my mind buckles, I revel in the painful sensations.

An impossible eternity seems to crawl by, but I finish the summoning ritual. I cast the corpse onto the ground and I sit back. It's smoking with thick, foul-smelling inky plumes. The pressure on the back of my skull is cold and unbearable. I feel like I'm about to pass out, but my eyes stay open as I hear a low, sickly moan emanating from the corpse. The lifeless, mangled body shudders uncontrollably, and then twists and convulses, until it lurches itself into a sitting position. The moaning has precipitously increased into a shrill whine, forcing me to block it out with my hands.

Something begins is crawling out of Chen Taitai's mouth.

Black and glistening, it's hard to make out exactly what it is. Her throat bulges and kicks at jagged angles. Out of the widening darkness of the mouth, I can just make out something rigid and reticulated, and yet thick and stubby. Not unlike branches of oil-splattered coral. At the bottom of each blackened branch, there's something small and dark opening and closing. I see something glinting. Many somethings glinting. They're mouths at the end of each branch. They're hundreds of mouths filled with thousands teeth. With a slippery pop, the rest of the Elder God falls out, revealing that the mouth-filled branches are attached to four pairs of hoofed legs. They're hairy and wet with blood, and where its knees should be are instead bulging, yellowish reptilian eyes.

"A shub-niggurling! I've never seen one!" someone cries with amazement. I think it's Jessie.

"I can't believe that fat turd sack did it. But shit, ze did," growls someone else, I'm pretty sure is Karina.

"I have to admit, James. Kidnapping that woman was worth it," Misha says grudgingly.

"Don't you all just stand there! Get it into one of the vats! We have to keep it alive! Move!"

And as I hear a rush of movement, a hand falls on my shoulder, as James says into my ear, "Excellent work, Pat. This is exactly what I was hoping for. I knew I chose you well. I imagine you want to pass out now. You should feel free to do so."

I allow myself to fall into oblivion.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 10

August 7th, 2065. 7am.The day before the SAFCOA 8th Anniversary Celebration.

Some time later, I'm roughly shaken back into consciousness. My first instinct is to fight them of. I don't because I have to vomit onto the floor.

A blistering headache is melting my mind with what feels like molten lava dipped and fried in a vat of hydrochloric acid. I'm lucid enough to know that doesn't make sense, but that's what it feels like. Everything is spinning. Even when I close my eyes, it feels like I'm on a carnival ride. Not one of the good ones. I'm on the one with wobbly gears that's constantly threatening its riders with collapsing in a screech broken metal and impaling everyone with rusty shrapnel. That sounds nice.

A plastic bag and a water bottle land against my chest, and I'm told to ingest whatever is in it and get dressed. There's no time for me to recover, and everything I say to ask for more compassion or understanding is responded to with some version of "shut the up and stop whining" and "hurry up or we'll leave you behind." I'm not sure where behind or forwards or any direction is for that matter, but I know I don't want to be left out.

With whatever strength I have, I harness my nausea, gulp down the chalky pills and pull on what looks like a plumber's uniform. Remarkably, as I get to my feet and ease off the bed, I start feeling better. I'm guessing those pills were some combination of electrolytes, vitamins, caffeine pills - and considering I'm starting to feel a little giddy and chipper - some kind of fast-acting amphetamine. With slightly steadier steps, I stumble out of the room, looking for the others. It's an easy enough task, as I need only follow the scent of the most horrible odors.

This leads me to the garage, where I find Misha, Karina and Jessie trying to load up two iron-sided coffin-sized containers into a dingy van. Seeing me walk in, they curse and yell at me to come help them, and together we wrestle the surprisingly heavy containers into the van, and lash them to the sides. The van is filled with plumbing equipment and racks of piping, so we have to shuffle things around to find a good spot for them. Tucked amidst the mess, the containers are not only well-concealed, but their smell is as well, since I'm told by Jessie the van is registered as a repair crew for septic systems.

Soon, and conveniently after the arduous work is done, James appears, flashing his familiar smile and swishing his blond mane, and we're off. I ask where we're going, assuming we're going to another safehouse. But James grins cheerfully, as if we were going to a lovely saunter to the zoo or botanical gardens, and says we're going to the Denver International Airport. I need a minute process this to make sure he's not kidding. But he's serious. And none of the others show any emotion at all as he swings the van on to the highway and heads straight to one of the most heavily defended and secure buildings in the entire country. During the drive, I keep wanting to believe that we can't possibly be going to the airport, but it soon becomes apparent we are. Especially as soon as we hit the ever-present airport traffic gridlock.

Given that we're in a workers' van, we're stuck in the slow lane amidst puttering, derelict vehicles, along with the other buses ferrying the airport's workers to the posts. Zipping by in the lanes beside us - which are safely behind ten foot tall blast-proof concrete barriers - are shiny three-decker tour buses and vanity cars ferrying high-heeled Chinese officials to and from their luxury hotels, spas and gilded restaurants. Meanwhile, swarming above in a thick, hovering mass are permanently stationed surveillance drones, constantly monitoring for any suspicious behavior or threat. The swarm of drones becomes thicker as we inch toward the airport, with the notable addition of a dozen Qilin transports swooping around on their patrols. I knew the airport security would be tight, but I don't remember it being this bonkers; I suspect the reason for the security uptick is the Occupation anniversary celebration scheduled to happen tomorrow.

As we approach the security checkpoint, James reassures us,

"Don't worry, everyone. There's nothing on this van that's contraband or even remotely illegal. No guns, no explosives, no electronics, nothing. Just stick to our stories and we'll be fine. We're just septic system plumbers sent to do our jobs, as ordered by the SAFCOA Anniversary organizers. And it's true too. The work order is authentic and so are the identity you cards you have."

That may be true, but I'm not particularly reassured, especially as I watch three prowlerbots pointing their sensors at the van. After a thorough sweep, during which I feel as if I'm about to leap out of my skin in panic, they move on to the next vehicle. However, the search is just beginning, as we're accosted by a hardframed soldier demanding,

"Identity cards! What are you here for and... Tamade!" the soldier swears as she wrinkles her nose. "You guys fucking stink. Who the fuck are you. Show me your work orders."

"Dui bu chi, wo men shi lai xiu li..." James begins obsequiously in excellent Mandarin as he passes our identity cards over, but he's quickly interrupted:

"Speak English for the monitors! Your accent is disgusting! I can't understand what you're saying."

"Of course, sir. Of course," James continues unperturbed. "We deeply apologize for the smell. We're workers from Colorado Septic Solutions. We're here to repair the septic tank in the airport's botanical gardens. It's been closed to tourists for the last week, and we've received an order from the Magistrate's office to get it running for the SAFCOA Anniversary celebration. Here are our work orders. We hope you find everything in order. Would you like us to get out of our van for an inspection?"

The soldier grunts as she peers at the identity cards and the work orders. My heart races, knowing that nothing would have shown up in either the sweeps or the imaging scans, but any hint of suspicion would result in the prowlerbots converging on our position so they could pin us down and tear our faces off. Clearly, my amphetamine-magnified imagination is getting out of control. I clasp my hands in front of me, and chew the inside of my mouth, hoping I look totally normal.

"Tsao ni ma, who the hell would want to inspect your stinking van?" the soldier says to my relief. She tosses our papers into James' face. "You're clear. Go on through and do your job quickly so we don't get any complaints."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. Of course, sir. We're terribly sorry about the trouble," James bobs his head up and down, as he starts the van again and drives through the gates. We're through. It takes effort to start breathing normally.

There's more slow driving as we queue to the workers' subterranean parking lot. After more twists and turns into the bowels of the airport, we find a spot between an aging campervan and a badly dented school bus. With unspoken nervousness, we tumble out the van, struggling to drag out the iron containers and place them onto a dolly. James hands each of us random tools from the van for the sake of our uniforms. I'm handed a tool-laden belt as well as a spool of copper tubing that I sling over my shoulder.

The light in the parkade is dim and spotty, magnifying the oppressive feel of the place. I'm not claustrophobic, but I can see myself rapidly developing some kind of aversion to enclosed spaces if I stay any longer. After a final check on the iron containers, James signals us to start moving. We heave a collective push on the dolly to get it going, and join the stream of workers heading to the elevators. I can tell from the uniforms it's a mix of service-related workers, from porters in classic red velvet suits, to masseuses in crisp, starched whites, and of course waiters in bowties and vests. I don't seen flight attendants or any airline kiosk personnel, but I'm not surprised. We're on the lowest level of the parkade, meant for the bottom of the rung workers. Since flight attendants and kiosk personnel are required to speak flawless Chinese, as well as pass extremely stringent background checks, they're given the "privilege" of parking one floor higher and have a separate elevator shaft.

A metallic ding announces the elevator. Three sets of doors open, and we file in, with most attempting to avoid the one we're heading to. I don't blame them. If anything, the reek of the containers has gotten worse. However, given how many people are heading to work, people are still forced to squeeze in with us until we're packed in shoulder-to-shoulder. From what I understood from the sparse snipets that James revealed, we're going up to a basement level below the main floor. That where the plumbing is, and where we'll be staging our operations. I'm eager to get to work, but most importantly I'm eager to see what damage we'll do. I try to imagine what will happen based on what I've seen at the checkpoint. I assume and hope our attack will be larger and significantly more devastating. With so many people arriving at the airport for the Occupation anniversary, the deaths and the destruction will be spectacular.

I'm pushed out of my violent reveries by,

"Pat? Is that you?"

No. Not here. But ze is.

I could pretend that ze isn't there, but considering ze has reached out and extended an arm from three feet away from me and ze is staring straight at my face, it's unlikely that will fly. I give a quick look at a frowning James, hoping my expression says 'I'll take care of this' before I calmly reply to Sam.

"Sam. What are you doing here?"

"What am I doing here? I should be asking you that. Is that smell you? Wait a minute, let me get closer," Sam wriggles zir way through the crowd until ze is standing right in front of me. As usual, ze looks and smells good. "Shit. That is you. What are you wearing? What are you..."

"Sam, I'm working here. What's it look like? What do you want?" I need to brush zir off without causing a scene. Yet, a niggling realization tickles my mind. I wonder if Sam - and the rest of the people in the lift - will be caught in tenebrous forces we're intending to release.

"Want? Pat... I'm just..." Sam fumbles for words. "I'm just worried..."

"I'm fine, Sam. Obviously." I brush off zir hand. I wonder if I should say anything to zir. Maybe suggest ze should go home early.

"Good, I'm happy you're ok." Sam smiles weakly. "I heard about your arrest and I've seen what they forced you to say on their shows. I hadn't heard from you in a week, so I thought you were dead. I can't imagine what you've been through..."

My time in prison seems like long ago, but it comes back in a rush. My memories are intensified by a perceptible shift in the lift, as people edge further away from me and look at me with a mix of fear and contempt. They've recognized me and they've started whispering among themselves. I can hear people muttering about a "traitor" and a "fat weak loser" and how "they'd never break if they were in that situation" and that "they'd rather die than work with the Chinese."

My face flushes with shame and anger.

"Yeah, you can't know what I've been through. Pretty much no one can and pretty no one cares." I grind my teeth until my temples hurt.

Just like with my restaurant, no one will back me. Whatever worry I had about who may be affected by the Elder Gods vanishes. Nothing can be salvaged. The Occupation must end. Everything must end.

"Don't you worry about me, Sam. I've been successfully rehabilitated. I've been cleared to work by the loan managers and their internal security officers. That's why you haven't heard from me. They've given me this great job working as a septic system plumber so I can enjoy wallowing in people's shit."

I add loudly so everyone can hear. "Don't worry, they keep an eye on me and check in regularly. They want me to let them know if anyone is doing anything reportable like starting a rebellion or spreading dissent. I have a hotline I can call anytime and they've said they would help with my loans. Any of you can too, by the way. Anyone in here know of someone who should be reported in?"

No surprise, no one says a word.

To everyone's relief, the elevator heaves to a halt, opening its doors and disgorging people in a hurried rush. Sam, however, lingers, waiting for everyone to pass.

"I'm honestly happy to see you, Pat. I don't believe you betrayed us for a second." Sam moves to give me a hug, but stops when ze sees me stiffen. Ze squeezes my shoulder instead. "I'm working in the food court in front of terminal C. Come by and say hi, if you have time. It would be nice to catch up."

I have force myself to tear my eyes off Sam when ze walks away. Turning around, I see James and the others waiting for me expectantly. They seem to want me to say something, but without a word, I walk to the dolly and start pulling it out of the elevator.

"Shouldn't we be going after that person?" Karina asks. "If Pat can be identified, then this whole operation could be compromised."

I expect that this is what they all think, so I'm surprised when Misha says, "Waste of time. We'd have to go after everyone in the elevator. Besides, I'm pretty sure Pat's little speech scared them good enough. They won't say a thing to their supervisors. What do you think, James?"

James has an unreadable look on his face. "I believe you're right, Misha. It would be a waste of time, and Pat's words should hold them for as long as we need them to. Good thinking, by the way Pat. Come on. We're already behind schedule. Let's get to the staging point. Jessie, as soon as it's clear, start setting up your warning systems. I don't want us to be prematurely interrupted."

Following James' lead, we weave through the hallways, passing more workers and technicians, but they hardly spare us a glance. Besides the smell, we're just another work crew going about our business. We pass through two more locked areas and checkpoints, at which we're waved through with held noses. Few people are around now, as we're deep in the underground piping systems, walking through cramped hallways filled with gurgling pipes and blinking monitors. As soon as it's clear, James signals to Jessie, who falls back to presumably set some of vir surveillance equipment.

A right turn brings us into an "open" area. It's about a six foot square of empty space; just enough so the large tank - the septic tank that our work orders have directed us to - can be serviced. The space is obviously meant for only one person, definitely not for five people and a dolly laden by two large containers.

Nevertheless, James appears to be delighted. "Perfect! This will be most perfect. Can't get better than perfect, can we?" James laughs alone. "Unload the containers and put them in the center. I want to check them out before we draw out the ritual circle."

We do as he says, heaving the iron-sided containers onto the ground and dragging them to where James directed. They're strangely warm to the touch, and something in them jostles and wriggles as we move them. The reason for this is obvious when James dons his thick leather gloves, pulls on his goggles, unlatches the covers, and pushes them over with a heavy clank.

"Greetings, Verlihulu! Greetings Spawn of Shub-niggurath!" James intones ceremoniously as he bows to both of the containers. With a bright smile, he clasps his hands to his chest and says affectionately, "Don't they look lovely? How they've grown! You were right, Karina: they did grow faster when we added the bodies. Look at their size! So big! So much energy! Just imagine what power we will release with them!"

No wonder the containers are coffin-sized. There are two decaying corpses within them, floating in viscous green baths. One has the remains of an old, bald man, around and within which are dozens of plump wormy verlihulu burrowing through his wasted flesh. They're writhing with such excitement that a scummy froth has started to form over the surface. My best guess is that this was the actual septic plumber.

The other has the remains of Chen Taitai. On her body, suckling on her like a mutant cannibal baby, is the shub-nigguring. It's grappling the corpse with its hooved legs, while its branched head is thrust deep into the corpse's chest, audibly crunching and munching away. It's grown from the small baseball-like creature it was when it first crawled into existence, and become the size and length of a mid-sized dog.

"They're thriving! Fucking thriving! Look how fast they're moving!" Karina gushes.

"They're moving so much faster than when we had them in either Superior or at the brewery," Jessie adds, nodding appreciatively.

"Of course they are!" James says. "There wasn't enough anger for them to feed on in Superior and the old brewery. But this is the airport! It's filled with the fears and anxieties of millions of travelers. They've got oodles of hatred to feed on here!"

With a lopsided smile, he slaps his leg as if it's the funniest joke in the world.

"Did you know there's an urban myth claiming there's a post-apocalyptic bunker built underneath here? It's not actually based on any facts of course. Just a few public paintings in the airport and some coincidental occurrences. Obviously, there's nothing like a conspiracy or any bullshit like that here. It's just an airport. But what an airport!"

James crows.

"Hell! Do you realize that this airport was the focus of four terrorist attacks in the height of the Kazakstani Conflict, and three plane hijackings during the Conservative Uprising? Just imagine the lingering imprints of anger, paranoia and sheer nihilism in this place. And look at it now! Surrounded by rings of steel and bullets and reinforcing delicious oppression and breeding animosity and vindictiveness. No wonder the verlihulu and the shub-niggurath are doing so well! We couldn't have asked for better conditions!"

"That's all fine and dandy," Misha grouses. "But we've never attempted a Rising ritual before. Plenty of small summonings, but we've never achieved anything on the scale that Stacey did at that checkpoint. We could be left with two stinking vats filled with over-sized maggots and an antler-headed freakshow that nips at your ankles."

James laughs, but I notice he gives Jessie a significant look. "Don't worry about that, Misha. It's under control. And I wouldn't disrespect the shub-nigguring, if I were you. It has a lot more potential than it appears in this state." With an officious air, he continues, "Now if you, Karina and Jessie will prepare the ritual circle, I will prepare Pat for the incantation."

"Me?" I blurt incredulously, while Karina simultaneously says:

"Pat? What the fuck! We agreed it would be me!" Karina walks up to James, trying to pull him aside.

But James bats her off and says, "Relax, relax. Trust me. I have consulted the grimoires, and this is the best method for us to achieve our results. Now, if you can just..."

A shrill beep interrupts James.

It's coming out of Jessie's pocket. Ve pulls out an ancient flip-top cellphone. Its low-bandwidth makes it invisible to the Occupation data-stream monitors. Ve scowls at its display.

"Someone just tripped my surveillance." Ve announces. "It looks like just one person though, but there could be more behind them. Based on the position of the monitor, they'll be here within fifteen minutes. I can go track them down and..."

"No need! No need!" James pats Jessie's arm. "We can use what Pat summoned for us. Take a close look Pat. You'll want to see this! Everyone! Goggles on!"

We follow James in slipping on our goggles, and watch as he walks over to the container with the shub-nigguring in two quick steps. He begins to intone an incantation with his hands raised, and with a quick motion, he pulls out his ritual knife, and slices open his hand. As the blood drips into the container, the shub-nigguring stirs, pulling its head out of the corpse, and twists its branched head to lap up the fresh blood. Slowly, James pulls away, luring the creature out of the container until it reaches out a tentative leg over the container and then another.

With five of its legs hanging over the ledge and with its yellowed kneecap-eyes questing around hungrily, it pulls itself out of the slimy bath. In those few impossible seconds, it's grown to the size a pony, while its body has sprouted a full hide of long, vicious quills. The beast is shivering in anticipation and screeching for more flesh to tear into. A high-pitched cacophonous shrill echoes in the small room, as the shub-nigguring's hundreds of mouths demand more blood.

James is happy to comply. Muttering more guttural incantations, he scatters blood in the creature's direction, causing it to leap and jump to catch every drop.

"Go!" James commands "Find the one who is brazen enough to try and stop us. Go, kill them and feast on their flesh!"

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 11

Security Command Center. Denver International Airport. A few hours ago.

JiangWei desperately wants to throttle the stubborn, stone-walling fool in front of her. This is something she must resist in spite of the extreme pleasure it would get out of it.

The pot-bellied mustashioed man in front of her is not only her superior officer, but also the head of the security forces at the Denver International Airport. Screaming or yelling at him about his incompetence (or, beating him into submission with his own arm after she tears it off of him) would not get her very far with her goals.

"Major Wen, I am only making these suggestions to improve the security of the airport," JiangWei says tightly. It wasn't easy to get this far and speak to the man. After ignoring her many requests to meet, she had to track the bastard down to the remote command center at the edge of the airport. "As you know, the Magistrate has been very insistent on preventing any incidents happening before the SAFCOA Anniversary celebrations tomorrow. We've been fortunate enough that no attempts have happened..."

"Ni shuo che me ma pi? No attempts? Are you dismissing the competency of my personnel?" Major Wen waves at his subordinates around them. None of them respond, keeping their glazed focus on the reports streaming through their linkernodes. "Are you forgetting we caught five rednecks planning to poison the airport water source? Or the three luggage handlers who have been caught with contraband? We stopped those useless American rebels from causing any troubles, and we'll stop all other attempts before they even act on them! Right people?"

"Shi!" the service people bark out sharply in response. They know what reaction the major expects from them.

JiangWei keeps from rolling her eyes. She's perfectly aware that the "rebels" they "caught" were dragged in from local prisons and assigned fabricated charges by the Internal Security propaganda office. Demonstrating that the airport's security services are effective at thwarting dangerous threats is a periodic exercise intended to reassure the public that all was well and completely under control. She also knows that the major's personnel hate him. Like many people in high-ranking positions in the PLA, he'd bribed his way into the highly visible and therefore prestigious position as the head of airport security.

On a daily basis, the fatuous Major Wen appears on news channels, providing smiling reports about how wonderful and secure the airport is, while participating in puff pieces to help drum up settlers from the mainland. Naturally, these o-so-crucial activities mean that he has little time to dedicate to the actual running of the airport's security services. This generally isn't a bad thing, as it keeps him out of their hair. But in those rare times when he does decide to do his job, his command style is an annoying blend of incomprehensible management lingo and anal-retentive micromanaged orders that make the security personnel's lives unbearable.

JiangWei would have loved to avoid having to work with Major Wen, but after the disaster in Superior, the Magistrate had been adamant that all her activities be strictly coordinated with local security forces. Navigating intricate politics, power dynamics and inflated egos has never been a strength of hers. She'd much rather be a low-ranking grunt than be a sycophantic fawner always scraping at her superior's feet.

But, she has a mission to complete, and so with as much patience and flattery as she can muster, she says,

"Most certainly, Major Wen. Your staff and the airport security forces are well-known for being supremely efficient and effective. I believe your rankings are even better than the forces of Major Xi at the Los Angeles International Airport," JiangWei is gratified when she sees the major suck in his gut and puff his chest. "However, based on my personal experience from previous incidents, I have some suggestions to ensure security. You may have received my list of recommendations that I've sent you..."

"Tell me something, Lieutenant Hui JiangWei," the major interrupts, emphasizing her name with a curl of his lips. "Where were you born?"

JiangWei knows where this is going. "Sir, I would be happy to provide the details of my life, but, given that the Anniversary is happening tomorrow, the likelihood of a dangerous attack increases exponentially by the hour. I have a strong suspicion that an attack will occur at this airport. I would highly recommend we review the operational status of the forces and..."

"Answer the question. Or do you need me to order you to do it?" Major Wen interrupts again.

JiangWei takes a steadying breath. "Sir, I was born in Boston. But after the age of 6, I grew up in Tianjin and completed all my schooling in Beijing Normal University, as well as officer training at the Xian Military Institute where I graduated with honors."

"Jessica, isn't it?"

"Sir?"

"Don't play dumb. Jessica is the name you were given at birth, wasn't it?"

JiangWei stiffens. "Sir, I do not answer to that name anymore. I have had it legally changed when I entered high school." JiangWei had paid good money to expunge her old name from the records. "May I also add that I am Chinese citizen."

"I happen to know that you've only recently been given the honor of Chinese citizenship. Not to mention under suspicious circumstances. Isn't that right, Jessica," the major sneers. "Less than a week ago you were a non-status xiangjiao ren. Just another banana trying to con their way into our great country... and I'm sorry to say that somehow you did."

"Sir, may I note that American-born-Chinese have been previously accepted as full Chinese citizens and serve with distinction in the People's Liberation Army and at all levels of the Party."

Colonel Wen snorts. "That may be, lieutenant, but that doesn't mean I agree with it. I also know for a fact that the PLA and the Party have never trusted you bananas. Your blood may be Chinese, but you're contaminated by being born abroad." The colonel raises a hand to stop JiangWen's protests. "Don't bother arguing with me. And don't bother filing a complaint either. You know I'm better connected than you. No whining banana like you can ever hope to touch me. You claim I should be listening to you and following your recommendations. You must think I'm insane. Do you think I didn't hear about what happened in that terrorist operation in Superior? Do you think I don't know how many soldiers died when you called in that strike by the Qilin transport?"

"Sir, the record has shown that my actions saved lives and that my acts were necessary," JiangWei retorts.

"And no knows why, do they? It's all considered 'classified,' isn't it? Or are you now going to tell me what happened?"

"Sir, ideally I would be able to tell you, but I have been given clear instructions not to keep the exact nature of the threat secret."

"So that means we have nothing to talk about, doesn't it?"

A twitching gnaws at JiangWei in her right eye and arm, as the colonel gives her an infuriatingly smug, self-satisfied look. But she keeps her temper under control. Playing her last card, she says,

"Sir, I've been given direct orders from the Magistrate herself to ensure nothing will happen prior to the Anniversary. I do not wish to do this, but if something happens, I would have to tell her that I did not receive adequate help from you."

Major Wen laughs at the threat. "Please do! Please try! There's something you should know before you do: Magistrate Gao is my cousin. You stupid fucking half-breed banana. Whose word do you think she'll believe? Mine or yours?" He bursts into laughter again. "Enough! I've wasted enough my time by being in your presence. My final and official statement is this: based on my security evaluation, I do not believe that you, Lieutenant Hui JiangWei, are adequately informed because of your questionable loyalty to the Motherland. As such, I will be adopting none of your recommendations. Now get out of my sight Jessica. Dismissed."

JiangWei snaps a salute, pivots around her heels and marches out the command center. It's all she could do to avoid succumbing to the violence roiling in her head. Since Superior, it's been getting worse and harder to suppress. Even with the gargantuan doses of drugs she's been taking to keep the horrid images from piercing the darkness of her sleep. She's not sure how long she can last, but she's determined to see this mission through. Everyone will respect her then. Even the fucking Magistrate. But there's no way she'll be able to complete her mission if she can't work around Major Wen and institute the changes to airport security.

While Major Wen is correct that many soldiers died that nightmarish evening in Superior, it wasn't the Qilin strike that killed them. As confirmed by JiangWei's linkernode feed and those recovered off the dead soldiers, almost all the deaths were caused by the mad actions of LuoGe. The possessed soldier had not only killed all the other special ops soldiers assigned to JiangWei, but had managed to release a number of railgun rounds and anti-tank missiles at the Magistrate's troops. The death toll was somewhere in the range of fifty service men and women - the largest single day death toll since the end of the Resistance. There would have been much more had the Qilin not aimed its Gatling turrets and thermobaric missiles at LuoGe and blown him to bits.

This information was suppressed though, since letting it known that one of the PLA's own soldiers had caused that many deaths would not be good for morale. Instead, Internal Security decided to leak deliberately vague tidbits about some kind of new terrorist weapon. It didn't help that everyone could tell this was a cover-up. This left many questions unanswered, and inevitably, most people drew their conclusions that fed off of their worst biases. It most certainly didn't help that JiangWei was the sole survivor who crawled out of the charred crater the Qilin had created. Though badly battered with much of her hardframe blown off, she was somehow intact and alive. The Magistrate had demanded how she had survived, but she had no answers for her. In contrast, Colonel Fung hadn't asked anything at all, and had only given her a satisfied look and smiled. That was worse.

She still can't wrap her mind around what was happening. What are these powers that those Libertarians of the Void are harnessing? Where could they have gotten them? She doesn't buy Colonel Fung's claim that it's some kind of new "energy source." No energy source can be as focused, discriminating and deliberately vicious as these things. And no energy source could taunt her and torture her, as they do. For indeed, besides the flow of dreams and visions assaulting her mind, having those things in her is somehow giving her insight into them... and she's beginning to see the logic of the mangled deaths, the tantalizing agonies, the beauty of the destruction...

"Tamade!" she pounds her forehead with her fist, trying to clear her head of the unearthly hunger for death seeping into her mind.

But it's those very feelings of death and destruction that lead her to come to the airport. After Superior, she'd dutifully tracked all the leads the colonel had given her, but none of them felt right and neither did they result in anything. Only when she started considering the airport did a rapacious thirst begin to churn in her... and she knew that it was where she had to go.

"Lieutenant? Are you alright?"

JiangWei looks up and meets the concerned look of a soldier in an old-model hardframe. Without realizing it, she'd wandered the hallways outside the command center and ended up slumped against a window overlooking the terminals. She's about to wave off the soldier, but she realizes with a start the soldier is a captain and her superior officer.

"Sir!" JiangWei says snapping a salute. The captain is a busty six-foot tall fortyish woman with a roundish face and the distinct non-Han features of the Uighur people from Xinjiang province. Ironically, the Uighurs were once labeled as barbarians by the Chinese, but are now considered more "Chinese" than her. "I'm sorry, sir. I'm fine. I was just lost in my thoughts. I was just about to go on patrol."

"Are you sure?" the captain asks dubiously. "You're looking pale. Perhaps you should report to the medic."

"I'm fine, sir. Thank you for your concern," JiangWei replies. "Now if you'll excuse, I must go on patrol."

"Lieutenant Hui, we both know you don't have to go on patrol," the captain says. "In fact, I'm certain the major would prefer it if you not do anything at all."

JiangWei stares at the captain trying to assess her intentions. "Are you here to arrest me?"

"Arrest you? What makes you think that?" the captain asks, genuinely surprised, but then she muses, "Well, I guess that may be a reasonable assumption after dealing with our illustrious Major Wen. No, I'm not here to arrest you. Quite the contrary actually. I'm here hoping you can tell me what kind of attack we should be expecting and how to prepare for it. I have no intention of having as many people dying under my command as at that mysterious 'terrorist' incident last week." Seeing JiangWei's puzzled expression, the captain grins and extends her hand. "Sorry, we haven't been formally introduced. My name is Captain Ma Jun. And please don't 'sir' me. If you must, just call me XiaoJun."

"Xiao Jun?" JiangWei asks, incredulous that she should be calling the tall, heavily-built woman 'little' Jun. "I'm not sure that's following regulations."

XiaoJun chuckles, "Certainly not, but neither is my speaking to you without the direct permission of Major Wen, is it?" XiaoJun smiles when JiangWei chuckles. "Let me be honest. I don't know what happened in Superior, but what I heard through my friends in the Boulder platoons scares the shit out of me. It's the same shit I heard from the security forces at Denver too. What they said was just incredible, terrifying and just... unbelievable. But they all said the same thing. Something impossible, something they've never seen before attacked them and nothing except massive firepower could stop them. That and the quick thinking of one Lieutenant Hui JiangWei."

Looking at JiangWei's surprised expression, the captain nods and continues, "Yes, lieutenant. Word has spread through the ranks. We're able to read past the bullshit of the official lines. Some people think the worst of you, that's true, but that's just our idiot uppers. People who actually work for a living know something is going on, and we know you're the one who's been fighting whatever it is. Our major may not take you seriously or respect you, but there are people who do and who would thank you for your service. I'm one of them. If you're here, then that means that something is about to strike, and I want to be prepared. If you don't mind, I'd greatly appreciate it if you could tell me as much as you can."

JiangWei is speechless. She wants to share what she knows, but looking at the surveillance cameras on the ceiling, she says, "Sir... I mean, XiaoJun... I'm not sure this appropriate. I don't want to get you in trouble..."

The captain waves her hand. "Don't worry about surveillance. I've had them shut off. Please, lieutenant. Can we get past the bullshit and get something done? I know you've sent recommendations to the major, but none of us has seen it because he hasn't shared it with us. Would you mind sharing those recommendation me? I'd like to review them and see how many of your recommendations we can implement as soon as possible."

JiangWei stares at the captain, trying to see whether or not she's serious. It's possible it's some kind trap that either Magistrate Gao or Major Wen set up to test her loyalty. Once caught sharing forbidden information with other service members, she would be court-marshaled and any of her hopes at advancement and acceptance in Chinese society would be dashed forever. It's far too much to risk, and JiangWei is about to say something bland to rebuff the captain, but then she realizes that if she does so, she would be as morally repugnant and self-serving as the magistrate and the major.

Meeting the captain's eyes, JiangWei connects to her linkernode, activates sight-to-sight transmission.

"XiaoJun, I've just sent you my list recommendations. It's pretty long, but they are straight-forward to implement. Most of my suggestions have to do with emergency evacuation procedures, so they could be easily appended to current protocols. If you synch your linkernode to mine, we can go through them together. As you can see, the first thing I suggest is to implement an immediate lockdown of the affected section and a retreat of all personnel. There must be an order not to engage. And then, a large perimeter has to be established, and everything within it must be sterilized without exception..."

It takes a good ten minutes for JiangWei to cover her recommendations, as XiaoJun listens intently and occasionally asks some clarifying questions. At the end of them, the captain whistles, shakes her head and says,

"Well, like you said, this is entirely doable, but pretty drastic if you don't mind me saying. I'll be sending instructions to my team leaders immediately. I know they'll be asking me why we're adding these crazy-ass emergency protocols, but who knows? Maybe we'll get lucky and we'll never have to use them." But as JiangWei remains silent, XiaoJun says grimly, "Or, we'll be happy that we had them and that we saved lives. That's something, anyway. Listen, I'm a good soldier and I don't need to know too much information. But can you at least show an image of what we're facing so I can look out for it?"

There's so much JiangWei would like to say and get off her chest, but even with the monitors deactivated, it's unwise to be share classified information. Shaking her head, she says, "I'm sorry, XiaoJun. There's nothing more I can tell you. However, when the threat does arrive, I guarantee there will be no doubt about what it is."

"Very well, soldier," XiaoJun sighs with a shrug. "Let's do our best then. I was serious about going to the medics, by the way. You look like shit. But I'm guessing you're going on patrol no matter what I say, so best of luck to you then." XiaoJun startles JiangWei with a crisp salute. Before she can respond in kind, the captain has already marched off, muttering into her linkernode as she coordinates with her team leaders.

JiangWei releases a long sigh of relief. But with that release, she also feels the weariness of her body and mind. It's as if her very soul is being drawn taught across a razor-blade and pulled and twisted in every which direction. Waiting a mere hair's breadth away, is the end of yellowed claw, filed to point and ready to stab the thin membrane of her soul and tear it to shreds. Maybe it would be a good idea to stop by the medic's office and rest a little. But she can't. Something is about the happen. She can feel it. So instead of much needed rest, JiangWei heads to the barracks, suits into her hardframe and joins the patrol on the airport concourse.

She's not sure why she decided to go there, but she immediately regrets it when she steps among the milling crowd. It's packed. And not just packed, but frenetically packed and boiling over with the animated fast-paced chatter of excited families with bright-eyed children in tow; the no-nonsense walks of business people yelling and gesticulating intently through their linkernodes; and the languid sashay of Very Important People bedecked in gold and glitter and attended to by hosts of assistants. It seems everyone who matters in the PLA, the Party and the SAFCOA officials is arriving for the Anniversary celebrations. It's so loud JiangWei's helmet automatically dampens the noise to a manageable level. She's forced to turn off her linkernode overlay, as it threatened to completely occlude her vision with flashing IDs and risk assessment reports. Unable to stomach the giddiness of the crowd, JiangWei takes an abrupt turn into a hallway with fewer people. No one among the horde of milling tourists and visitors are the ones she's hunting.

Her aimless wandering takes her past the concourses and the terminals and into a secluded area that's been closed off for repairs. Brushing past some orange pylons, she pushes open the doors into the airport's botanical gardens. Based on the large placard suspended in front of the doors, the gardens were donated a few years ago by a collaborative group of Colorado businesses working in conjunction with some of their Chinese counterparts. The idea was that the plants would be a combination of local American species mixed with Chinese ones, demonstrating how both could flourish together. Over time though, as the tastes of the visitors changed, the Chinese plants were given more care, until the American ones were relegated to a small, token area that no one frequented. Not dissimilarly, the Coloradan businesses who had been involved in the gardens had gone bankrupt or been taken over by the Chinese ones.

JiangWei is only hoping to find some peace amidst the lush plants and flowers. Initially she does, as she's greeted by a gush of warm, floral-scented air. However, as she walks past rows of colorful peonies and enormous, feathery chrysanthemums, a vague noxious odor tickles her nose. She tells herself that it's whatever that's under repair in the gardens. After all, as she walked in, she'd seen the sign saying that the gardens had been closed due to a faulty septic system. In fact, once she reaches the pond, she finds that it's turned a sludgy brown and filled with rotting lotus flowers. That should explain the odor.

But JiangWei knows it doesn't. This is something different. Something horribly familiar. She grinds her teeth, wondering if she'd truly "aimlessly" wandered into the gardens.

So far, she's done her best to avoid seeing the world through the thing in her right eye socket, but she knows she must now. She closes her left eye, and steels herself as a clammy coldness creeps over her head and her "other" vision opens. With a cry, she immediately lurches back involuntarily. Spouting from the pond are plumes of jaundiced, pulsating clouds, many of which are oozing outwards and spreading their suffocating smoke, but some of which are greedily reaching out to her. She forces herself to stare longer at the emanations, and in doing so, she sees that the horrific energies aren't coming from the pond itself, but somewhere beneath it.

Somewhere below within the plumbing system.

"Tamade!" JiangWei curses. Whatever it is, it's something huge, far larger than what she'd seen in Superior. She needs backup to deal with it.

On a private connection, JiangWei sends a message to XiaoJun requesting she send her a squad to help her out. Within seconds, she gets a reply, and less than two minutes later, she's surprised when XiaoJun shows up herself along with nine hardframed soldiers.

Looking at the expectant faces, JiangWei takes a deep breath and says,

"There's something underneath the pond that's extremely dangerous and will threaten the entire airport. I wish I can tell you what it is, but I honestly don't know more than that. I want you to start preparations for the emergency protocols that XiaoJun has sent you. Don't do anything yet, but set it up so we can evacuate people as soon as possible and set up a perimeter with a 250 meter radius. I want half of you to stay behind as backup. The rest of us will go into the service tunnels and engage the enemy. I'll go ahead, and I want all of you stay at least one hundred meters behind me. Do not come forward unless I tell you to, and if I tell you to retreat, you do that without question and as quickly as possible. Is that clear?"

Unsurprisingly, the soldiers react with confusion at her strange orders, and look to XiaoJun, who barks,

"Are you fools deaf? Do as she says. You five, stay up here and coordinate with the rest of the teams. The rest of you, we're going down to support the lieutenant. Clear?"

"Shi!" the soldiers bark sharply.

In short order, JiangWei heads straight into the service entry. Soon she's two floors down, taking slow, measured paces down a pipe-filled hallway with XiaoJun and her crew behind her. She hopes they're far enough. She also hopes it was a good idea to ask them to come, as the last time everyone who had followed her had died. It's too late for doubts though, as straight ahead, she starts seeing evidence that a group of people had come through, while on her hardframe's radar an alarm comes alive.

"Movement ahead. Coming straight towards you. Do you see it? Fast moving. Looks like someone in an illegal hardframe or something," XiaoJun messages her.

"Affirmative. I'm tracking it," JiangWen replies, though she's highly doubtful it's as innocuous as a person.

"Do you want backup?" XiaoJun asks.

"Negative. Do not engage unless I ask. Be prepared to retreat," JiangWen says, as she tracks the movement ahead of her.

Whatever it is, it's moving incredibly quickly. But it can't be someone in a hardframe. The heat signature is too low, while there isn't the typical sound of mechanical stomping or pistonning. Instead, there's an odd clicking sound, almost like a cluttered clip-clopping as if they were galloping towards her. As the signal nears, JiangWei powers her rifle, magnifying her helmet's sights to the maximum, hoping to get a visual lock and shoot the instant anything appears.

Yet, when whatever it is rounds the corner, she freezes, her mind struggling to process what she sees. The thing is an eight-legged monstrosity with a bristly body covered in foot-long oily-black quills. It stares back, but not with eyes on its head, but with eight, sickly-yellow globular eyes located where its eight knees should be. The creature's head is a series of inky antlers embedded with hundreds of gnashing mouths. With whatever perverted senses it possesses, the monstrosity detects her, braces its legs and releases a shrill scream.

"What the hell was that?" XiaoJun asks.

JiangWei has no chance to answer as the creature barrels towards her. At last unfrozen, she fires her rifle, letting fly a few thousand rounds of high-velocity bullets. This only stalls the thing. Many of its antlers have been blown off and they're oozing greenish blood. JiangWei continues firing, trying to shoot off as much as she can, but it quickly adjusts, angling itself so only its torso is exposed. It's collapsed its quills over itself, forming an impregnable armored surface over which the bullets simply ricochet off. By the time JiangWei realizes her shooting has no impact, it's too late. She has no time to switch to heavier rounds. And within seconds the monster has sprung back into a terrifying gallop straight into her.

With savage force, she's thrown against the wall. Her arms and legs are pinned down by four of the thing's legs. JiangWei does her best to struggle free, but not even her hardframe's augmented strength can get her away. A high pitched metallic screech tears through her ears, as the creature's antlers swing around and stab at her hardframe, trying to get at her flesh. Where they manage to find gaps in her armor, livid, gnawing pain erupts as frenetic bites are taken off of her. Desperately, she pitches her body up and down, hoping to knock the monster off her, but its grip on her is oppressively solid. She's losing. Worse, in spite of all her resistance, her helmet is knocked off. Her head entirely exposed.

But just as she sees the mouth-filled antlers come straight at her face, a rattle of rifle fire blasts straight into the monster's chest, throwing it off JiangWei. Again, it attempts to protect itself by armoring itself, but the rifle fire turns into exploding rounds which decisively blast through its hide. A few dozen explosions later, the monstrosity is turned into a slurry of fetid, smoking flesh. Captain XiaoJun and her soldiers came just in time.

Coughing and shaking her head, JiangWen gasps in pain as two soldiers help her to her feet,

"Didn't I tell you not to come unless I asked?"

"I hope that's your version of saying thanks," XiaoJun says wryly. "You were right that I would know the enemy when I saw it. What was that thing?"

"No clue. But whatever it is, the enemy has been... Argh!" JiangWei cries out, as a cold, sharp agony plunges into her brain. "We have to retreat now!"

"Are you alright? What's going on?" XiaoJun frowns. "I see no threat..."

"Signal the others to enact the emergency protocols now!" JiangWei screams, as she grabs the captain's hardframe and starts to run. "We have to get out here! Move! Tell them to double the perimeter size to 500 meters and to destroy everything in it as soon as everyone is out!"

An uncontrollable terror takes over JiangWei as she runs as fast as she can. She's grateful when the emergency siren starts to blare. It means she doesn't have to explain herself. The utter agony she suddenly experienced was the things inside her arm and eye violently reaching out, seeking to join their brethren that they've begun to sense emerging down the hallway. As they did so, they'd given her a vision of what's there.

It's the same building-sized worm-like creature from the checkpoint. But it isn't just one of them. This time there are dozens of them and they're about to burst out and feast on everything around them.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 12

Twenty minutes ago. Down the hallway.

"Hrong duc Niggurath nic'Un verlihulu! Jiri ginp mo'adrd yog-shuc-MAC! Eeeelak, gom'ka! Jabba nik turr! Masdo Shurgath Wymrlin verlin'can! Nevas tee-hi! Nevas tee-hi!" I intone, my hands raised over my head.

I'm successful this time with completing the opening invocation. The first two times, I had to stop as the powerful rank coming from the verlihulu container caused me to gag. I requested to stand further away, seeing no reason why the ritual would be in any way affected, but James insisted I conduct the Rising incantation in the middle of ritual circle standing right next to the verlihulu containers so I could see whether it was working. So far, however, there's been no change in the writhing worm-like creatures. Throughout the ritual, they've continued munching on the corpse, unaffected by my chanting.

"Moor'sak teen loke'mac! Vopeli lkse velin'can... vook tee-hi!" I continue, pounding my chest three times, and keeping an eye on the container. Still nothing. One might have pointed its bulging eye at me as it swam past, but I can't be sure.

Over Karina's continued protests, James went over the Rising incantation with me, telling me precisely what to do in his particularly intense yet jovial manner. I've learned that his pleasantness is there to mask his callousness and ruthlessness; the happier he seems, the more willing he is to order the most violent brutality. I pay very close attention to James' instructions. Thankfully, this Rising incantation is essentially the same as the summoning ritual that I know backwards and forwards, though with just a few modifications to the words and the addition of a few unique flourishes like,

"Keeeeeee-sak hi! Wyrlim verlihulu!" I scream, dropping to my knees and throwing my head back to release a howl.

The same cry and howl is repeated in turn by James and others, who have been standing at the edge of the ritual circle. I look back down at the verlihulu, and this time I'm certain that a few of them have started to stare at me. Good thing too, as I'm closing in on the end of the ritual.

Pulling out my ritual knife, I raise it in the air, consecrate it with the words, "Lokade muir caedein, chiktee Mak!" and with a smooth motion, I draw the blade over the palm of my hand. My flesh yields easily under the sharply honed blade, splitting open like an overripe fruit and welling with crimson-black blood. I form a fist with my bloodied hand to encourage the blood flow, and let it drip into the verlihulu container.

And then...

The verlihulu flick their heads towards my blood, drifting towards it as the shug-niggurling did, and then...

They swim away, utterly unimpressed.

More than a little pissed at their disinterested reaction, I shake more blood into the container, drizzling it up and down, trying to get their attention. Still nothing. They've returned to chewing on the corpse. Definitely none of them are looking at me now. After more moments of nothing, I'm about to apologize to the others, but I'm beaten to the punch by a derisive cackle:

"Told you we shouldn't let that newbie loser do the ritual. What were you thinking, James? How could you think a novitiate could do the Rising incantation?"

It's Karina. Her mocking is joined by Misha's raspy sneer: "What a waste. This isn't amateur hour, you know. We brought the verlihulu here for a goddamned reason. Why are we wasting our time and effort?"

"I did everything as instructed," I say hotly. "I'm positive I did. There must be something wrong with the ritual."

"There's nothing wrong with the ritual. It's you, Pat. You're the problem," Karina says, as she and Misha walk into the ritual circle. Karina stomps up to me jabs a finger in my chest and says: "I can't believe the time and supplies we wasted on this! You better hope we can salvage this."

"I knew we should never have saved you. Better to have let you kill yourself and let your blood be wasted." Misha horks up a big ball of mucous and spits it on my feet. "You better hope that your incompetence didn't turn the verlihulu into a non-receptive state."

I'll concede that I may have done something wrong, but I'm in no mood to be upbraided by these old fuckers.

"And what the fuck did you two ever do? I've never seen you summon any damn thing. I summoned a shug-niggurling!"

"Nothing? Who the fuck do you think brought those verlihulu?"

"The gall of this lard-ass! I've been creating rituals the entire time!"

"Whatever. I don't see anything. All you two do is bitch and moan. As far as I'm concerned, you two are a waste of flesh."

"I'll show you wasted flesh! I'm going to have James gut you as the next sacrifice."

"That's the best idea I've heard. James what do you think? You think we should... URGH!!"

"What the... ARGH!"

Both Karina and Misha's words end in bloody gurgles as knives are drawn across their throats.

During our angry exchange, James and Jessie had crept up behind them. I'm frozen as I watch Karina and Misha bring their hands to their throats, spin around and claw at their attackers, but with blood spurting from their fingers, they crumple into lifeless heaps.

"About time," Jessie grunts, as ve delivers crunching kicks to Karina and Misha's faces. "I've never liked them. James, do you think this will be enough... URGH! James! You... you..."

Jessie crumples to the ground with James' knife stuck in vir throat. As Jessie was leering over Karina and Misha, he'd moved swiftly to make the killing blow, before leaping back to avoid vir retaliation. It's a wise move, as even though vir blood is gushing out of vir neck, ve still manages to crawl over to James with fury in vir eyes. But it's wasted effort as ve only reaches James' toes before dying.

With just the two of them left, James says with a winning smile, "Well, that should just about do it, don't you think?"

"Do it? What do you mean?" I take a step backwards, lifting my ritual knife in defense.

"Oh, don't worry, Pat. I'm not going to kill you," James grins. "It wouldn't make sense to kill a fellow ritual-master, would it?"

"What? Ritual-master? What the hell are you talking about?"

By way of explanation, James cries out, "Look!"

I tear my eyes off him to look at what he's pointing at. His finger directs me to the verlihulu container. There's been a massive change. They've left the corpse, and started to swarm at the surface, eagerly looking at us with hungry eyes. Not only do they seem to have grown, but there's a distinct glow emanating from them. I want to try to understand, to see more of them and their power, but as I'm distracted, James closes in on me, grabs my hand and pulls me down. Futilely, I try to resist, and before I know it, he's plunged my bloodied hand into the verlihulu container. Pain blossoms in my hand, and then...

...and then, within the growing kernel of the searing pain, a paralyzing cold grips my mind and spreads across my body in sheets and waves of razor-sharp agony... and I begin to see things... Do I see things? I don't know. I don't know if I'm "seeing" anything. For, the cold isn't numbing my senses at all, as much as crumbling my kernel of sanity that would like to beg and plead for it to remain intact. My senses are inflamed, magnified to feel... What? Oh, what is it that I'm feeling? Everything is jumbled, incoherent...

Wild, miasmic hues drift into my nose, while a sharp sticky stench smothers my ears. An unending vacuous howl stains my tongue. A bitter, saltiness washes over my skin, leaving acidic trails of cloying, inescapable sweetness. And my eyes... my eyes... they see an oppressive, suffocating squeezing that grabs and claws at me, bringing me in closer into... into...

Into the cold? But it isn't the cold. If only it could have been a mere change in temperature. The cold is the Void. It's nothingness. It's redolent with the crawling, seeping presence of something, many somethings. They're furiously hungry. Can I see them? Can I describe then? Yes. Much against my will, my mind wraps itself around the madness I sense.

I see, I feel, I smell, I hear and I taste a never-ending mass of twisted limbs devouring each other with many-rowed teeth sprouting from the edges of their elbows and knees as their eyeballed digits bay and ululate in ecstatic delight, swimming and relishing in their own oozing feces. Emerging from their tentacled mouths are segmented insectile creatures whose leathery wings flap frenetically and fan the pluming emanations of lividly decaying worms. But they aren't decaying at all, but bursting into gore-filled spores that spread and leak their diseased contents that boil into pustulous masses of throbbing eggs that hatch into scrambling, sharply-beaked squid-headed lizards covered in glistening hair and claws...

This... This is the living Void.

No. That's wrong. It's wrong to call it "living."

The Void hates life. It despises it. It wishes only to annihilate it. It is an instinctive, fundamental anger seeded from its very conception. It is compelled to uncontrollably devour all it perceives to be sullying the inexorable purity of nothingness. I can feel it screaming in fury, as it attempts to tear its way past the barriers of our dimensional existence to unleash its all-consuming destruction.

It senses my presence. It screeches in agonizing anger to devour my essence. I want to lurch away, but I'm frozen in place, unable to move, to flinch, to shut my eyes, or to escape, as its maddeningly empty, soul-less mind comes to bear upon me. Innumerable inky blots of terror crawl greedily into the edges of my mind, seeping into my thoughts, filling it with hollow darkness, slithering and clawing along my burning synapses, intending to burst forth in an orgy of nihilistic feasting...

...With a sharp jerk, I tear my hand out of the verlihulu container, throwing myself backwards with such force I land on my back.

I'm shuddering uncontrollably. Nothing intelligible comes out of my mouth except some slobbered blubbering. I'm trying to scramble away, but I'm having problems pushing up, as I keep slipping with one arm collapsing under me. Looking down it's easy to see why: a tattered stump is all that remains of the hand that James had plunged into the container. I can see the irregular bite marks where the verlihulu have torn off chunks and gnawed into my flesh. Remarkably, I feel no pain as I stare in fascination at the bloody nub where my hand used to be. Perhaps my nerves have really been fried into nothing.

But I'm unable to consider this more, as something pushes and prods at me. Reflexively, I push back, trying to make it stop, thinking it's something from the Void. I stop resisting when a powerful slap cracks across my face, shocking me back to awareness.

"Stay still. Let me bandage you before you bleed out."

Rigidly calm and alert now, my eyes focus on James as he slathers my stump with a slurry of regen-balm and bandages it. As my awareness returns, so also does the pain. It's so intense I sense unconsciousness taking me over, but James prevents that from happening with a few more slaps. Mercifully, he also takes away the agony altogether when he injects my stump with a fast-acting anesthetic.

"Fuck... what the fuck... they're there... they're everywhere..." I finally say hoarsely.

"What did you see? What did you feel?" James asks intently.

I shake my head. "Nothingness. Suffering. Anger. Hunger... The things I saw... The Void... It wants us gone, destroyed..."

"Yes! I knew it!" James yells with a surprising hoot, as he grabs me and gives me a happy shake. "You touched the Void! It let you see it! Didn't I tell you that you were a ritual-master? None of the others even came close, not even Jessie. I knew I was right in choosing you. So many people think they can be reach the Elder Gods, but few of them actually do. Most of them are only good for their blood."

"Their blood?" I repeat.

And then, as my mind pieces itself together, I recall with brutal vividness the deaths of Jessie, Misha and Karina. I'm not convinced James won't kill me too. I edge away from him, as I work my mouth to say,

"You killed them for their blood... I don't understand. I thought that the ritual wasn't working..."

"Yes, yes! That's what it seemed like didn't it?" James agrees with a manic wag of his head. "But it went precisely as it should. It needed the blood of human sacrifices to be completed while a proper and true ritual-master performed the Rising. And you did beautifully, Pat. You were the perfect conduit for the Elder Gods."

Then, clearly pleased with his cleverness, he explains, "The words and acts are never enough. You might have guessed now that not even the blood of the ritual-master is sufficient for a successful Rising. That's only sufficient for a low-order possession like what I did with the shug-niggurling. For a full Rising of the Great Wyrm, we needed the lifeblood of a sacrifice. The more filled with hate and betrayal the sacrifice is, the more potent the blood becomes. Did you see surprise in their eyes? How Jessie tried to crawl to me? Even I could feel the power of the Elder Gods coursing through me! It was so perfect! Imagine what we'll be able to summon together. Just imagine our power!"

I'm trying hard to follow James' babbling, but a tidal wave of nausea washes over me, and I vomit my guts out onto the floor. As I do so, my eyes drift to the verlihulu container. The whole thing is rocking and shaking as the verlihulu, now the size of pythons, thrash around. Every so often, one of them raises its head and releases an ear-bleeding screech.

"...and just imagine what it will do! How much destruction the Great Wyrms will deliver!" James crows.

I remember what a single Great Wyrm could do to a fully armed checkpoint. The container has a dozen of them. The airport would be turned to rubble. Everyone in it would surely die, crushed or melted by toxic vomit. I should be proud of what I've done. I don't know what I feel.

My attention returns sharply when James says,

"Surely this will be enough to accept us into the Libertarians of the Void! Surely this will be an acceptable offering to them. You can't imagine what I've done to get them to see me! This has to be enough. It has to be." He seems to be talking to himself now.

I abruptly stand up, wincing as agony travels up and down my bloody arm. "What are you talking about? Accept us? You mean we're not part of the Libertarians of the Void now?"

"Ah, right. I kind of lied about that," James says sheepishly. "No, we're not a cell of the Libertarians of the Void or even a faction of them. Only they can choose you to join. Only they can come for you. But you must be worthy of them. You must prove that you're dedicated to the Void. And with our Rising today, and the offering of all the glorious deaths, we'll have proof that we are worthy, Pat!"

I stare unbelievingly into James' earnest eyes. Is he telling me I should be happy about the fact that I was used, manipulated and had my fucking hand chewed off?

But shouldn't I be happy though? Isn't this was what I wanted? To be part of the group that would finally make the Occupation pay for humiliating us? Didn't I want to burn this world they've built where they enclose us behind walls, track us like chattel, and make us beg and scrape for work?

Behind James, I see the iron-sides of the container groan and bend, as the creatures strain on their increasingly limiting boundaries. Their cries are shrill and urgent now, eager to burst out and rend the flesh of the many living beings they sense above them. Their screams echo the howling of the Void, whose irrepressible hunger burns in my mind like spilled vat of acid. I look again at James, and in his eyes, I see shadows of the twisted beings from the Void. They're coiled in a writhing heap, twisting with delight.

It's horrific. It's disgusting. It's not me. It can't be.

Something must have shifted in my expression, as I see James' expression harden, and his hand drifts subtly to his knife. I take a step back, knowing I would have no chance against him. But just as he's about to wrap his hand around his knife and leap at me, the evacuation siren sounds, drowning out the verlihulu. This distracts James for a second, but it's just enough time for me.

Leaping forward with all my strength, I launch myself at James, thrusting my shoulder into his chest and pushing him backwards. I feel a sting on my face, as I narrowly avoid getting stabbed by the blade he pulled a few seconds too late. Trying to regain his balance, James trips on his feet, and with that stumble, I take the opportunity to ram into him again, pushing him into the verlihulu container.

I don't stay to watch what happens, but as I run through the hallways, his screams follow me. I have no idea where I'm going, but far away seems like a good place to start.

Thankfully, all the doors have become unlocked with the evacuation siren, so I pass through the checkpoints with ease. Somehow I end up bursting out onto the main concourse, where streaming all around me are terrified tourists surging towards the exit in a disordered mass. They're a few ticks away from a full-on stampede, and just barely kept in check by the soldiers trying to direct them in an orderly fashion. Casting my eyes around to get my bearings, I see a sign that I'm in terminal C - and then something clicks in my mind.

Sam.

The food court is only a few hundred meters away. I find the wait-staff standing around in confusion, uncertain what to do. They've of course been given no instructions to evacuate since they're only low-paid American workers. Catching sight of Sam in one of the groups, I dash straight for zir.

"Sam! We have to get out of here!"

"Pat? What are you doing here?" Sam says in surprise. Zir face turns to shock as ze sees my bandaged stump. "Holy shit, what happened to your hand?"

"We have to get out of here, Sam! Everyone does!" I say batting zir hands trying to tend to me. "Those worms from the checkpoint! The worms! They're here! I made them!"

"What worms? What do you mean you made them?"

I'm spared having to explain further, as a deep rumble shakes the floor, throwing us onto the ground. As we get back to our feet, a deep cracking can be heard through the concourse that spreads and multiplies, until the entire ground heaves upwards and splits open.

Out of the rubble, a dozen Great Wyrms burst out, surging from the ground in a geyser of scaley, tentacled darkness. Some of the beasts fall back to the ground, wriggling outwards and around, grabbing people with their tentacles to tear them apart. Others climb higher, rearing their heads and belching gushes of acidic mucous that melts people's flesh. The surviving soldiers open fire on the monsters, even as the airport collapses around us.

I grab Sam and we run for our lives.

|  |

---|---|---

# PART 2

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 13

Ma Yun Alibaba Events Center. Chengdu University of Colorado. Boulder, Colorado. August 28, 2065.

As instructed by her exceedingly earnest propaganda handlers, JiangWei counts five measured breaths and steps out the doors. The moment her feet touch the vermilion-red carpets, the soaring notes of the March of the Volunteers rises and fills the stadium with its martial, heroic notes. She's careful to walk in time with the anthem, so everyone can see her wave and smile. She assumes there's a crowd out there.

Blinded by the overhead lights and the media-drone cameras, it's impossible to know if all eleven thousand seats of the stadium is actually filled - rather than just a few dozen rows strategically seated with photogenic warm bodies, while the rest is padded with projections. Either way, the exact number in the crowd is irrelevant, as the event is being projected live to audiences back on the Mainland and across America. This means approximately two billion viewers are potentially watching her right now. The only thing keeping JiangWei from stumbling is the knowledge that, very likely, only a scant few thousand are actually watching this show, as most Chinese citizens didn't make the effort to pull themselves away from their sims and immersion-novellas to watch the patriotic puff-piece that was this event.

When she reaches the stage, an usher guides her up the stairs, past the group of dignitaries and officers, and straight to the gilded podium, where waiting is a demurely suited Magistrate Gao. A tense moment ensues as they lock gazes and wait for the national anthem to come to a close. They're both rigidly smiling, but JiangWei sees the hatred in her eyes.

"Welcome! Welcome honored guests! Welcome to our Chinese viewers! And of course welcome to our American friends with whom we continue our fruitful relationship," Magistrate Gao says. "We are here today to honor the great deeds of one of our most heroic soldiers. Thanks to her quick thinking, she has saved the lives of many Chinese and American citizens, who may have perished as a result of a cowardly terrorist attack. These terrible attacks are conducted by those who seek to end the progressive policies of American fiscal responsibility. They seek to sabotage the progress we've made in returning the American people to solvency and out of bankruptcy. To them, I say this: You may test our resolve, but each time you attack us, you will find us stronger and more firm in our commitment! We will stand by our American friends and uphold the terms of the Sino-American Fiscal Co-Operation Agreement!"

There's thunderous applause as Magistrate Gao raises her fist defiantly in the air. The applause is a recording. There's no way this crowd could make that amount of noise. The faces JiangWei makes out in the audience are by and large a motley mix of white, black and brown, meant to be representative of the American people. Though considering how clean and well-dressed they are, they're probably professional crowd-fillers, specially trained to applaud and cheer SAFCOA's successes at public events.

"Join me in honoring Captain Hui JiangWei!" the magistrate waves a hand at her, prompting more canned clapping. "For her bravery in coordinating the defeat of terrorist forces and delivering us a great victory, we are pleased to award her the highest award of the People's Liberation Army: The Hero's Medal First Class!"

Victory is very relative term. Typically, an attack that leads to the deaths of five hundred civilians, a hundred soldiers, thousands of injured and the destruction of one third of an international airport would not be considered a "victory." But with the SAFCOA Anniversary happening the very next day after the attack, the magistrate had to find a way to re-frame the "incident" as something positive that wouldn't affect the celebrations. That didn't turn out so well.

Despite the heavy stream of carefully tailored media-messages guaranteeing the safety of the anniversary celebrations and the systematic purging of any news related to the attack, most of the visitors had fled the area, finding any means they could to get out of Colorado as fast as possible. Worse, citing "unforseen meetings back in the Mainland," government officials and the Politburo members had also left, leaving behind only a few low-level bureaucrats to represent them in their stead. No amount of media control could hide the fact that the SAFCOA Anniversary celebration was sparsely attended. It was a complete disaster. Magistrate Gao was utterly humiliated, and likely had to weather a heavy stream of berating by her superiors on the Mainland. No wonder the magistrate is furious at JiangWei.

Yet, the newly promoted Captain JiangWei thinks the magistrate should be a little more appreciative as she pins the medal to her chest. The attack could have resulted in a much greater disaster. It was only thanks to her hastily implemented plan that the airport wasn't destroyed in its entirety. After evacuating the concourse, she and Captain XiaoJun had coordinated the evacuation to the established perimeter, while calling in the Qilin transports to train their combined fire on the awful worm-like creatures. In fact, they'd been so successful in getting people out of the area that they could have stopped the creatures minutes after they had emerged, and avoided many of the deaths that had ensued.

But this was not to be. Just as the Qilins were about to fire, the useless, incompetent Major Wen, seeing an opportunity for him to gain some glory in action, chose that moment to play at being "the commanding officer of the airport whose orders you better listen to or else he'll have everyone demoted and have their pays docked." This most definitely didn't turn out well. Instead of allowing the Qilins to fire and sterilize the area, Major Wen demanded that no damage be done to the airport, and ordered all soldiers to engage the enemy directly.

JiangWei had screamed and begged for him not to. Not only did the major ignore her, he encased himself in a ludicrous, personalized hardframe painted in red and embossed with ostentatious gold stars. He then proceeded straight to the concourse, determined to lead the assault himself and reenact some kind of hero-fantasy. This was when the bulk of the soldiers died, not to mention when a number of secondary consequences happened such as,

"They're coming! Oh my God! Save me! Please oh please! They're going to destroy us!" an unhinged voice screams from the back of the stage and interrupting Magistrate Gao's speech.

It's Major Wen. He's desperately trying to pull away from the people working to get him under control; but in his terror-fueled madness, he's proving to be stronger than usual. The poor lunatic has an unhealthy pallor to his face, while his uniform hangs loosely over him from the weight he's lost.

"Get away! What are you doing just sitting here? They're coming! I can see them! Please spare me! We have to get away! Run for your lives! They're going to kill us all!"

"Get him under control!" Magistrate Gao barks, but even though they finally manage to hold Major Wen down, nothing can stop him from releasing several bone-chilling screams. "Weak-minded fool! Mo ming qi miao! Get him out of here! Silence him! Fucking idiot!"

After they drag Major Wen out, the rest of the ceremony is hurried and sullen. JiangWei is surprised he was even brought out at all, but she guesses the magistrate had ordered it to demonstrate that her cousin was fine and the rumors that he'd gone insane after the airport attack were false. Although JiangWei does feel some satisfaction at the major's state, the sentiment is tempered by the knowledge that a whole platoon's worth of soldiers had similarly gone insane by the horrors they witnessed.

Mercifully, the major's attempted assault didn't last long. As soon as he got there with his reluctant soldiers, they were immediately over their heads and fighting to survive. Much as JiangWei had seen at the checkpoint, bullets and high velocity rounds didn't stop the creatures, and only caused them to lash out and crush the soldiers with their bulk and tear them apart with their eyeballed tentacles, all while spewing balls of flesh-melting bile. By the time JiangWei reached them, the major was already reduced to a blithering idiot unable to give any orders.

With XiaoJun's help, JiangWei rallied the remaining troops, having them lay down suppressing fire, as they conducted a ragged retreat. This should have been enough to regain control of the situation, but since the creatures had begun thrashing around in the hunt for more human flesh, they'd begun to spread and cause more damage. JiangWei had no choice but to increase the isolation perimeter by another two hundred meters. Once they'd retreated to a safe distance, the Qilin transports released their missiles along with some hastily arranged railgun emplacements. Their combined firepower was the most ordinance that the PLA had ever used in a civilian setting, and yet every bit of it was necessary to successfully destroy the monsters. "I'm going to make sure you get run out of this state. No one does this to my family, especially not a worthless xiangjiao ren like you," Magistrate Gao hisses. "I'll make sure no one transfers you into their unit. Wo hui ba ni de ming qu diao! You'll get posted to the goddamn Spratleys to do guard-duty at a guano-covered lighthouse."

A posting in the Spratelys is the worst possible posting that every soldier fears. It's usually reserved for service men and women who couldn't be effectively court-marshalled and were essentially sent into exile into the South China Sea. But the isolation actually sounds appealing to JiangWei, especially at this point in the minutely choreographed show that is her awards ceremony - which must ploddingly go on in spite of the unmentionable moment of lunacy that everyone conveniently no longer remembers. Naturally, more unpleasantness is to come.

A few hours later, as she's sipping wine in a packed ballroom filled with officers and well-connected civilians, she's being conspicuously left alone. Besides a few token well-wishers with empty smiles and half-hearted bows, no one is talking to her. Everyone is giving her a wide berth. While this is something that doesn't particularly bother her and is in fact very much welcome, it does mean that the magistrate's threat to isolate her was not only very real, but that the bitch has taken steps to act on it immediately. Unless she can find some kind of way out, JiangWei's military career is effectively over.

She's tempted to stomp over to the other side of the room and confront the magistrate, even though she's surrounded by protective cocoon of sycophants and laughing generals. She feels a twitch in the things in her right eye and arm. Visions of gory vindication flash in her mind, tickling her slackening will with the satisfaction of tearing out the magistrate's spleen and stuffing it down her throat. She forces herself to avert her gaze and look to the ceiling, concentrating her eyes on the enormous gold star embedded there, forcing herself to be calm, imagining herself far away.

Unfortunately, just as she's finding some measure of mental peace, she's startled out of her reveries.

"Ah! Captain Hui, I'm happy to find you alone. I've been eager to meet you."

JiangWei looks sharply down, meeting the gaze of a sallow-faced man. The bars on his epaulets mark him as a colonel. Reflexively, she moves to salute him, but he waves her off.

"As you were, captain. Please. No need to salute me. You're the hero after all," the colonel says sweetly.

The man is repellent. His head is wide and flat, not unlike an over-ripe melon. His hair is obviously dyed black and much of it not his own. It's shiny with gel and slicked over in a wavy pattern that's fashionable for men half his age. His uniform is stiff and wide, but it can't hide the fact that he's largely composed of flaccid muscles and questionable values. This shouldn't be possible with the stringent fitness requirements for all PLA soldiers. Either his poor posture is secretly hiding a superfit human at the peak of fitness, or he has extraordinary political influence to avoid having to meet the physical standards.

"Please allow me to introduce myself. My name is Colonel Mao Li, but my friends call my LaoMao, as I hope you will. I'm the commander of the 9th Western Regiment of the Rocky Mountain Irregulars."

"I... uh, thank you, colonel. It's a pleasure to meet you," JiangWei says, but she frowns as she tries to place the regiment he referred to. "I apologize, but I'm not sure I'm familiar with your unit. Where are you based?"

"Ah, yes. It's understandable you haven't heard of us," Colonel Mao sighs, shaking his head. "My regiment is based in Fort Garland about three hours south of here. Never heard of it? I suppose that's not a surprise either. We're a self-organized regiment of loyal Chinese citizens and sympathizers. We started off as a militia, but we've been officially recognized by the PLA last year. Finally! After all those years, our hard work has been recognized. Patrolling the state borders for illegal immigrants and enforcing the laws among those baigui is not an easy task, especially in those remote mountain towns. Somebody has to enforce the SAFCOA rules out there though!"

A militia member. That would definitely explain why JiangWei hasn't heard of this so-called colonel and his regiment. She'd heard that the volunteer militias were starting to be integrated into the PLA. They were a disorderly, unpredictable group as they tended to be formed by over-zealous Chinese settlers determined to stake out their claims, regardless how many of the locals they're displacing. Certainly, they have the SAFCOA laws backing them, but instead of going through the courts, they much preferred the "efficiency" of their own paramilitary organizations that they formed haphazardly and stocked themselves with second-hand arms and uniforms from disused PLA storage units, so as to give themselves a patina of legitimacy. In practice, they're little more than lynch mobs, arbitrarily enforcing the rules that suit them the most, while benefiting grandly from bribes, kickbacks and protection money.

"Well, Colonel Mao, it's a pleasure to meet you, but if you'll excuse me, I have to..."

"Please, I would really appreciate the pleasure of your time," the colonel interrupts silkily as he places his soft paw on her arm. JiangWei moves to pull away, but he catches her attention with, "Do you know where you'll be going for your next posting, captain?"

"I'm not certain, sir," JiangWei replies coolly. "My future plans haven't been finalized and I haven't received my new orders. However, I anticipate I may be posted somewhere where my services would be most needed. As you well know from your regiment's hard work, ensuring the security of SAFCOA is increasingly difficult. Given my specialized skills, I'll likely be placed in a flash-point somewhere."

To this, Colonel Mao's face splits into a wide grin filled with brilliantly polished teeth. "That's not what I've heard, captain. The magistrate has taken steps to prevent us from... how to put this... consuming 'bananas'? Surely, you know that too." Quickly releasing her arm, and taking a half-step back, he hastens to add. "Please take no offense. I know you're a full Chinese citizen, but the politics of this matter are terrible and shocking. I personally appreciate all people who serve the Motherland, no matter what their background. I'll have you know that many xiangjiao ren serve with distinction in my regiment. But the magistrate is another matter. She's old-fashioned, you know. And unfortunately, she's known to be vindictive. I'm afraid you've gotten on her bad side. But please believe me, I wish only to help."

"Oh?"

Colonel Mao nods earnestly. "Unlike some people in higher quarters, I recognize how valuable you are to the protection of SAFCOA. It would be such a waste to push you aside. Tai lang fei!" The colonel heaves another sigh. "But I would never dream of doing this to you. I would see your skills used. I would see you honored and celebrated."

"I see..." JiangWei narrows her eyes. "And I imagine you have a proposal for me and my skills?"

"Of course! I would like you to consider serving as my second-in-command with the 9th Western Regiment of the Rocky Mountain Irregulars," Colonel Mao beams. "Now, I know what you may be thinking: it's just a backwater posting with no glory or any import. But I'd have to beg to differ! We are quite busy with suppressing uprisings and constant conflicts with the local redneck yokel baigui. Those stupid Americans are so stubborn, you know. Still clinging to their past dreams, as if their time hasn't long past. Really, such ignorance and stupidity is incredible! So, our regiment's main duties have been to... educate those yokels about the new rules that their own government has agreed to. Of course, most of them refuse to believe the notices we send out, so we have to make examples of the most intransigent individuals and pre-emptively enforce full asset re-possessions and enrollment in SAFCOA-sanctioned employment programs. Unfortunately, this only works half the time and we're still encountering resistance. We are nothing if not persistent though!"

JiangWei keeps her expression neutral. It's such a surprise that the locals would be resistant to the colonel's draconian practices. It's fools like him, whose abusive practices breed the kind of antagonism that leads to the very blowback that kills soldiers and civilians. She damn well should kill the fool, as it would ultimately benefit her fellow soldiers - the real ones, that is.

With a polite bow, she says, "Thank you for your kind offer, Colonel Mao, but..."

"Please! Call me LaoMao!"

"Ah, yes. Thank you, colonel... LaoMao... But I imagine you already have a second-in-command and I wouldn't want offend them by taking their place..."

"Nonsense! That fool would be only too happy to take your orders! And if he doesn't, I'll make sure he gets put on the next round of repossessions... Just kidding of course!" Colonel Mao chortles. "Seriously, I do have a most loyal group of personal bodyguards. They make sure my orders are followed to the letter. They better, considering how expensive they are. I demand nothing but the most utmost discipline in my troops. Fortunately, it's only in rare cases that I need to punish my soldiers, because I reward them so well! It's something that you can most definitely look forward to as well! There are many many perks to our posting, you know. Just to give you an idea, I make sure all my troops have at least one personal servant attending to their needs... all their needs, naturally. Well-serviced and relaxed troops who have had their steam let out are the most effective troops, wouldn't you agree? You, of course, would have the first choice of your personal attendants and I would certainly start you off with at least two. Even though it's in the boonies, we have some good-looking ones that may suit your taste. And, let's not forget that I would arrange another promotion for you and a pay raise!"

Only with great restraint does JiangWei stay calm. She very nearly lost it when he started winking at her suggestively towards the end. She's about to demonstrate where this fucking colonel can shove his proposal and degenerate regiment when someone comes along from the side and claps them both jovially on the back.

"LaoMao! Captain Hui! So good to see you!"

JiangWei turns to see the surprising sight of Colonel Fung. Colonel Mao is the first to react:

"LaoFung! It's so great to see you too! I had no idea you were going to be here too! We should go and have dinner together! Do you remember the good times we had last time? Ah, such fun! I know of a place where we could get some crispy-skin sage grouse and hongsao river otter. They're local endangered species, you know. Almost extinct, so it's best we eat them while they're still available. "

"Certainly, certainly. I'll look at my schedule, but I may not be in town long enough for dinner," Colonel Fung says, clasping the colonel's rubbery arms. Glancing at JiangWei, he says, "I see you're trying to recruit our heroic captain! I overheard the wonderful offer you're making her. Truly, you're a most generous commanding officer. She would be crazy not to accept it, right?"

As Colonel Mao chuckles happily to himself. JiangWei readies her fist to deck them both, but Colonel Fung turns and stops JiangWei with a quick wink.

"Would you mind if I spoke to her for a moment? There are some details about a project with Internal Security that I would like her opinion on. I'd love to involve you and your expertise as well, LaoMao, but you know how political these things are. I promise I'll be getting you those intelligence documents you requested though! But for now if you'll excuse us..."

Colonel Mao takes the offer of a face-saving exit, but not before dropping a few more pleasantries and again reminding JiangWei of the wonderful opportunities of working with the repulsive bastard. When he's safely gone, Colonel Fung says,

"Seems like I intervened right in the nick of time, didn't I? However, I don't think anyone would have been that bothered if you'd given LaoMao a fine thrashing. We've been tolerating him and his kind because they do have their uses. You'll be happy to know though that some purges are being planned down the line to clean them up."

JiangWei peers at Colonel Fung and studies him carefully. She hasn't seen him since the airport attack. Not for lack of trying. She sent him dozens of requests to meet assuming he would want to debrief her about what happened. But not a word. Of course, she has no desire to undergo the grilling of an in-depth debriefing - but Colonel Fung seems to be the only one who actually knows anything about the Elder Gods, not to mention the only one who could counteract the magistrate's backstabbing maneuvers.

"Sir, I've been trying to contact you..."

"Yes, I know," Colonel Fung nods. "I've been busy. There have been some interesting consequences of the latest attack at the airport. My superiors have seen the need to develop new resources to address these attacks."

"New resources, sir?"

"Yes. A few innovations to help us out. It hasn't been the easiest to set up, and it's taken all my attention to align the appropriate materials and expertise. However, I'm pleased to say our new toy is ready for field testing," Colonel Fung grins. "I've come to talk to you about it, but after what you've gone through, I would completely understand if you would prefer to retire. So I'd like to know if you're seriously considering taking Colonel Mao up on his generous offer and his acceptance of xiangjiao ren, or... if you'd like to do be still involved in the Internal Security efforts to suppress the Libertarians of the Void."

"Yes I would! I wish to continue with you!" JiangWei says a bit too quickly. "I mean, yes sir, I would like to be involved in the fight against the Libertarians of the Void. But, I'm not sure it's up to me anymore. I believe Magistrate Gao has taken steps to have me exiled."

"Oh, don't worry about her," Colonel Fung smiles. "The priorities of Internal Security supersede her whims. You'll be entirely protected from her influence once we have you transferred over to my department - which you are agreeing to, correct? You'll of course have to sign a few non-disclosure agreements to dedicate yourself willingly to our cause, but you seem to be eager to do so."

JiangWei nods vigorously. She's willing to sign and do anything to get away from the magistrate's bitch machinations and the ridiculous Colonel Mao.

"Excellent. I knew I could depend on you. Meet me back at the base tomorrow. I'll introduce you to your new team."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 14

Dormitory 4C. Lucky Jade Sativa Plantation. Nederland, Colorado. Friday, August 21st, 2065. Shit Day.

I lurch awake with a jerk, nearly hitting my head against the bunk bed above me. I'm drenched in sweat and panting heavily. At least, this time I don't wake screaming at the top of my lungs.

The other field workers in the dorm, exhausted from the sun-beaten days, haven't been thrilled at being woken up in the middle of night by my night-terror screams. I've received more than a few threats that if I don't keep quiet in the night they'll throw me out of the dorm. Looking down at the sheets knotted around me, I see why I didn't make a sound this time: I'd been chewing on my blanket, stuffing wads of it in my mouth, possibly attempting to smother myself. Hopefully, one day that will succeed.

"Pat. Are you alright?" Sam asks from the bunk beside me. "Nightmares again?"

I want to snap at zir, telling zir that no fucking shit it was another goddamned nightmare that woke me - and not because I was having an issue with the attentive hospitality service of our wonderfully amenable guards who I'm certain would only be too happy to adjust the temperature of our sweltering, mold-filled dorm so we could sleep more comfortably.

"Yeah. Another nightmare. Sorry about that."

"Same thing again?"

"Yeah."

"Do you want to talk about it this time?"

I swallow another angry reply. "No. I really don't. Let's just go back to sleep, ok?"

But, even as I pull the sheets back over me, I know going back to sleep is not only futile, but pointless. The clock says it's 3:32 am - only 28 minutes from when we have the morning reveille. We all hate that clock. The damn thing displays the time in giant blood red numbers on the ceiling. The guards say it's so we can stay on schedule more easily, but it just makes the passage of time feel even more oppressive and inescapable. It's no wonder that people don't last very long as weed plantation workers. Oh. Sorry. We're not supposed to call it weed. Cannabis. That's the proper, respectable name we're supposed to use.

Someone attuned to history may want to point out the inherent fucked-upness of me, a Black person, working in brutal conditions on a plantation. Perhaps I should be outraged. But the reality is that we're way passed being drowned in shit that's fucked. To the point that I'm actually happy I'm here. Because the sad truth is that I'm lucky to have this job - even though of all the Occupation jobs, being a cannabis field worker is the most dreaded. But it's either this, or being caught by the PLA, tortured and put on display.

It's categorically a shit job. Our daily schedule involves waking up deep within the hairy ass-crack of dawn and working for the whole day until the punishing sun sets. The tasks vary from day to day, but it always involves some work around the rows of towering seven-foot tall marijuana bushes. Mondays, Tuesdays and Wednesdays are long, tedious pruning days. Since the breeds we cultivate are heavily genetically modified to grow at absurd rates, they require constant, back-breaking effort to keep the leaves and branches from getting out of control and swallowing the precious, crystal-covered buds. Pruning days are known as "sticky days" as we invariably end up covered in a thick coating of sap that we have to spend the entire evening scrubbing off our overalls so they can be functional for the next day.

We actually look forward to pruning days. They're significantly better than Thursdays and Fridays, which are the Shit Days. The name is both literal and figurative. Because the cannabis plants grow so quickly, they consume a proportionally large amount of nutrients. To satisfy that demand, we spend Shit Days hauling buckets of chicken and pig manure back and forth from the retaining tanks, and ladle exactly a gallon and a half of the fertilizer around the base of the plants. Most of the other plantations use chemical pellets and nitrogen-cocktails, but we have the "luck" to be on an organic cannabis plantation where those o-so-terrible, yet blissfully odorless chemicals are forbidden. So instead of getting cancer some time down the line, we're splattered with urine-soaked feces. Give me the cancer any day.

But even Shit Days are better than Saturdays, which are harvest days. What? You may ask. How could harvest days be bad? Wouldn't it be relaxing and satisfying, as it represents the culmination of our hard work? Wouldn't it be nice to prance up and down the rows plucking fist-sized buds from the plants and dropping them in our aesthetically pleasing wicker baskets? Yeah, right. To start, our harvest bins are heavy, temperature-controlled containers with a digital readout on the side indicating our harvesting rate and how close we are to the day's quotas - which have a tendency to increase each week.

To avoid having the sun prematurely dry the buds, we only have three hours for the harvest between 5:30 to 8:30am. We spend the rest of the day hunched over worktables trimming the buds. This is done indoors under the surveillance cameras tracking our every move. You'd think this would be a good thing because we're out of the sun, but the trimming-hall is so cold, many pass out from hypothermia. And, if you don't finish trimming, then you have to continue working into Sunday, chewing away the one rest day we're granted. Given my one-handedness, I always work Sundays.

Beeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeep! Beeeeeeeeep!

The alarm is met with a chorus of tired of groans. We drag ourselves out of bed, pull on our overalls and head to the cafeteria. We're given a half-hour to have breakfast and get to the field, so there's not much time for idle chitchat. Still, there's a low hum of subdued whispers as we're each given a plastic cup of hot, sweetened soy milk and a plain manto bun.

"Friday, isn't it?" Sam mutters.

"Yeah. Shit Day," I reply, with the manto in crook of my arm and the warm cup cradled in my remaining hand. We're headed to our usual seats in an isolated corner of the cafeteria.

"Kinda takes the fun out of TGIF, doesn't it?" ze says, with a hint of a smile in zir voice.

"Yeah." I summon a weak chuckle even though ze's made the joke already. In spite of everything, ze has stayed positive and consistently made attempts to make me smile.

But whatever good humor is left in me has been worn to a small nub - with the nub itself being ground to dust by the horrible nightmares that have been leaving me raw from sleep deprivation.

Since escaping the destruction of the airport, there hasn't been a night when I haven't been plagued by terrifying visions. Sometimes, they're as simple as reliving the brutal murders and mutilations I witnessed and performed, only with much more vivid screaming, blood, gore and pain. For some reason, my dreams have become wild exaggerations of my memories that leave me screaming in terror. I'm almost certain the dreams are exaggerations of my memories. Surely, there couldn't have been that much blood-curdling screeching. Surely I couldn't also have felt every minute searing agony the dying people had felt. Or could I have? Perhaps I did feel the hot slice of the blade sliding across my neck as I watched Misha be killed. Perhaps I did feel my body tear and rend and chewed on, as I watched Chen Taitai's body be consumed by the shub-nigguling. With my fears and trauma seeping into my sanity, I can't be sure that the ghostly, lingering agonies are figments or realities.

If only if was just that.

If only it were as innocuous as a case of warped memories, then my nightmares would be manageable. But of course that's not all. They visit me. I hear them. I hear the Elder Gods howling for me. Always, a wave of suffocating cold comes before their arrival, spreading under my skin like a million fanged spiders crawling up my nerves and laying a trail of burning venom. I can't move. I can't hide. And then the pressure of the Void pushes against my senses, forcing itself on me, until my mind collapses on itself and then... I'm flooded by their presences swarming over me, greedily competing for chunks of mind to chew on and spit on to the pile of writhing bodies melting into puddles of burnt flesh, while again and again my hand is devoured and reformed and then devoured again...

It's usually then that I wake screaming. It's also then that I regret that I hadn't been killed, and I curse the lucky circumstances that kept me from the peace and silence of death.

After finding Sam, we fled with the crowd trying to get away from the Great Wyrms. Because of the ensuing chaos, we were able to get away unmolested by security. What soldiers we encountered, if they weren't rushing towards the monsters or paralyzed in speechless shock, impatiently waved us through check-points, trying to evacuate the area as quickly as possible. Just as we got onto the buses and drove off, the Qilins opened fire, shaking the ground and launching plumes of dust into the air. No one bothered stopping us and search the buses, as all security and emergency vehicles had been ordered to converge on the airport. It was a full six hours later that the security checkpoints went back to normal, and by then Sam and I were long gone.

We knew it wouldn't be long before they'd try to find us again, so we had a heated debate on where to go. It took some time for me to accept that it would be a matter of "we." I didn't want Sam to come with me wherever I was going. I was obviously too dangerous and too much of a person of interest for the Occupation for it to be safe for Sam. Yet, Sam pointed out that I'd already damned zir by coming to get zir in the food court; my fetching zir would certainly have been seen on the surveillance footage, so ze was as screwed as I was. This made me feel ridiculous for not thinking of it, but I had to confess ze was right.

We bounced around ideas. We considered escaping the country, but neither of us had enough money to pay the smugglers, nor did we have the proper connections. It was more likely whatever smuggler we approached would sell us out for a reward, or harvest our organs, or both. Purchasing new identities had similar issues, as it required getting a battery of surgeries to evade the facial recognition monitors and genetic samplers. From what I've heard, the gene-splicing re-identifying procedure was unreliable at best, and often resulted in deaths.

Our only solution it seemed, was to head to one the place they wouldn't think to search for us: right under their noses in Nederland.

The small mountain town is only an hour away from Boulder, but more importantly, it's mainly considered a punishment settlement for those most delinquent on their debt repayment plans or who have been blacklisted for one reason or another. Once you were blacklisted, the cannabis plantations were the only place that would hire you. But, on the plus side, we knew there would be little to no security presence there, since no one except lost causes and desperate people went there anyway.

When we arrived at the dilapidated mountain town, we inquired around, asking for the most run-down plantation, assuming they would have least chance of having monitoring devices able to identify us. This lead us to the Lucky Jade Sativa plantation on the edge of town. They hired us seconds after we showed up. They barely looked at us when they threw us time-keeper bracelets and assigned us to our dorms. We later learned that this is case with all plantations. Since there were severe labor shortages, plantations have a policy of hiring anyone - even one-handed people like me who are very obviously running away from something.

So far, it's been about two weeks that we've been here. Much longer than anticipated. Our initial idea was that we would keep our heads down and wait for the heat to die down while we consider what our next steps could be. To be clear, I haven't talked a word about our next steps to Sam. Partially because of our daily exhaustion, but also partially because I still wasn't convinced I should be involving Sam. In fact, I'm still trying to figure out a way to gather enough pay-tokens to strike out on my own, maybe find small town where the Occupation hasn't touched and start a new life. But where could that possibly be? No place worthwhile to go to has been left untouched by the Occupation and our inescapable bad credit.

My thoughts are disrupted by two women sitting down loudly next to us. I immediately turn away, avoiding eye contact. The woman next to me is clearing her throat and making ahem noises, apparently trying to get my attention. Still ignoring her, I shimmy away, but the woman nudges closer to me until her hips are practically touching mine. I shimmy away again, and again she follows me. This little game continues until I've run out of bench space, and I'm forced to change tables, but just as I'm about to stand up, I'm arrested by the woman saying,

"Well, hubby! Where have you been?"

The voice is unmistakable and impossible. And yet, I turn around and recognize my ex-"wife."

"Eliza? What are you doing here?"

Eliza smirks. "What's it look like, dumb ass? I'm working on the plantation too." Indeed, she's wearing the same overalls we're all given. Her previously pale skin has darkened a number of shades, and her hair is tightly bound in a practical ponytail.

"Yes, I see that," I reply testily. "But didn't you have that housekeeping job in Boulder?"

"You mean the job that I was fired from for being married to a nutcase who decided to go ape-shit and assault Occupation soldiers while they were peacefully having their meals?" Eliza points out. "Who do you think would hire me after that? You fucking owe me, you fat turd. I'm going to roast you over coals for having done that to me."

Oh, right.

"I'm sorry, Eliza... I... I should have realized that... I'll find a way to make it up to you..."

I'm cut off by Eliza swishing her hand in my face.

"Forget it. I'm just messing with you. That was over a month ago. I'm over it now." Eliza then surprises me in further by laughing. Incredibly, it sounds genuine. I'm so startled my jaw unhinges. As far as I recall, this is the first time I've ever heard her do that. "You know what? I should be thanking you, my dear Pat. I was pretty pissed when you forced me to come up to the plantations, but after I got here, I realized how good it was. So thanks!"

Obviously, the sun has melted her mind. I definitely need to get away from the plantation sooner than latter.

"Well, it's nice to see you, Eliza. I'm glad you're doing well. If you don't mind, I'll just..."

"But where are my manners?" Eliza lays a firm hand on my arm. "I haven't introduced you to my partner. My real one that is. This is my wife Sarah. We've been together for ten years. Could you imagine that? It wasn't easy with the Occupation, but here we are!"

I nod mechanically, as she introduces me to the redheaded beside her. Sarah is a little taller than Eliza with a somewhat more lithe frame. Her cheeks are sunburnt and flaking, but otherwise she appears in good health like Eliza.

But that's completely and totally not the point. I snap out of my daze, look, wildly around us to see if anyone heard her, and hiss:

"Jesusfuck, Eliza! Keep your voice down. Do you want people to know that..."

Eliza ignores me, extending a hand to Sam.

"And is this your real partner too? Weren't you separated? Oh, you must have gotten back together again. How sweet! I love happy endings. What was your name again? Nick? John? No! Sam, right? Sorry, I'm not the best with names. Do either of you have preferred pronouns? Ours are pretty conventional, as we identify as cis-queer and she/her are fine for us. I could have asked when we were 'married,' Pat, but at the time I felt it was safer for the two of us not to know too much about each other. It's so nice to get back into the habit of asking preferred gender pronouns, don't you agree?"

I'm completely aghast.

Sam politely shakes both Eliza and Sarah's hands. Ze is slightly calmer than me, as ze says, "It's a pleasure to see you again as well. I wish we could meet under better circumstances. My preferred pronouns are ze/zir. Same as Pat... But Pat is right. We should keep our voices down..."

"For fuck's sake, Eliza! Are you insane? Do you want to get us killed?" I splutter-whisper, grabbing Eliza's arm. "Just shut up! Sam's not my partner. We use normal fucking pronouns. We're nothing and we're straight men, ok? That's all we are and we don't know you!"

Eliza brushes me off, laughs again, and horrifies me further by squeezing Sarah by the waist and exchanging an open kiss.

"Relax, Pat. Chill the fuck out, already. It's fine. Really it is," Eliza says. "That's one of the reasons I'm happy to be here and be a cannabis field worker. We don't have to hide anymore. You don't have to hide anymore. Things can go back to the way they were before the Occupation."

"What? What the hell are you talking about? If the guards or the overseers hear you or see you behaving like that, they'll report us and we'll be..."

"Pat. Shut up for a minute, okay? Have you taken a careful look at the guards? Really taken a look at them?" Eliza asks. "There are no Chinese guards. Not one Occupation soldier in sight, or even a surveillance drone to identify us. They're all Americans like us, and they don't care."

I tear my eyes off her to look around, quickly confirming her words. It's true, I haven't seen any Chinese soldiers or any surveillance drones. But just because there aren't any Chinese Occupation soldiers, it doesn't mean their rules won't be enforced by the guards here, regardless of whether they're Americans. There are plenty of Americans willing to survive and even profit by being Occupation proxies.

"Don't care? Did you forget that the guards follow the Occupation rules! They're paid by them! They'll fucking make us follow..."

"Wow, will you stop freaking out? Sheesh! So high-maintenance! Is this why you two broke up? I don't blame you," Eliza says to Sam.

But she seems to finally have had enough of her fun as she says in a soothing voice, "Listen, you two. I swear to you. There's nothing to worry about. I would have told you sooner, but I only noticed you a few days ago, and when I tried to get your attention, you just ignored me. Seriously, Sarah and I have been here for a month now and we've discovered to our pleasant surprise that we could be who we want to be here."

To demonstrate this, Eliza and Sarah again share a long kiss in front of us.

"But how is that possible?" Sam frowns. "Pat's right. Even though the guards are American, there's no guarantee they won't turn us in."

Eliza grins. "It's because of who owns this plantation. Actually, it's more like who owns the entire town of Nederland! A while ago, during the marijuana boom of the 2020s, this entire town was filled with cannabis start-ups. Most of them collapsed in the 30s when weed was legalized in the country and around the world. But here in this valley, the plantations were bought up and maintained by one guy: Don Cruzio, owner and founder of Cruzio Enterpises. I'm sure you know of him."

Of course I do. Everyone does. For a little while, Don Cruzio was heavily in real estate and kept slapping his name on every building and resort he built. I thought he had gone bankrupt though. In fact, I'm positive he went bankrupt, as it had hit every single tabloid channel with every juicy, detail involving his wives, mistresses and children. So if that's the case, I don't understand how he could have avoided being forced into a debt-repayment plan like the rest of us.

But Eliza helpful provides an explanation:

"Don Cruzio was forward thinking enough to make deals with the Chinese at the get-go. It made him a lot of enemies here, but in the long run it meant he could operate as he wished with very little oversight. People called him a traitor and much worse, but look! The results speak for themselves! He's the one who runs Nederland, not the Occupation. I swear to you, he's a patriotic, true American. He runs this place just like it was before the Chinese came, and he protects us from the Occupation."

It sounds far too good to be true.

I retort with the obvious. "So why doesn't he free us then? Or work with the Resistance? And why don't more people know about this?"

"Oh, come on!" Eliza snorts. "You don't really think he could just get up and start fighting back, do you? He'd be destroyed in an instant! Just look at those losers who started their little Resistance that's nothing now. Working with the Chinese is a necessary compromise he made to create this arrangement here. That's why most people don't know about this place: if people knew, word would get out and the Occupation would come in and investigate. It's not the best situation, sure, and it's also hard work to be here, sure, but if you play your cards right, you can make life a lot easier here."

Eliza grins again. "Look, I see you don't believe me, but maybe you'll believe Big Don himself. You're in luck. Looks like he's coming in to make an announcement himself!"

I look around to where Eliza is pointing, but all I see is about a half-dozen lightly armed security guards coming into the cafeteria headed straight in our direction. This can't be good. The first thing I think is that we're fucked. We've obviously been overheard by hidden monitoring devices. Eliza was a trap. I knew I should have run away the instant she starting talking. She was probably told to keep me talking so they could identify me. And now the guards are here to drag us away and kill us.

The same fears seem to be going through Sam's mind, as ze reaches under the table to grab my hand in a nervous, clammy grip. There's no doubt in our minds that we're about to be lynched.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 15

We're not lynched.

Instead, the guards turn sharply to the right and line up against the wall. Two of them heave in a wooden podium and set it down in the open area next to the doors. Excited tittering fills the cafeteria. The guards have evenly split to take up parade rest positions on either side of the podium. They're relaxed and beaming genially, without any hint of threat.

As the anticipation builds, the doors bursts open, and in comes a well-groomed man, dressed in the standard business-casual uniform of white button-down shirt and dark gray pants. His bleach-blond hair is topped with a bright red ball-cap emblazoned with 'Cruzio Enterprises' in gold Gothic-style lettering. Incredibly, everyone stands to greet him, clapping and hooting, as he blows flamboyant kisses. He saunters over to the podium.

"Thank you! Thank you! You guys are too phenomenal. There's no need to clap! I'm just a regular guy like you." The man, Don Cruzio, better known as "Big Don", is an oldish-looking man in his sixties, with a wide paunch hanging over his belt. In spite of his evident age, his complexion is tanned a rich bronzed orange while being healthy, clear and bright. It makes me wonder if he has a private stash of creams and moisturizers to maintain his look.

"I have a stupendously exciting announcement to make, but before I make it, I just want to say how wonderful and beautiful you all are. Without you, Cruzio Enterprises would never function. You, the workers, are just amazing, spectacular and fantastic. I'm so proud to be employing phenomenal people like you. Yes! Even though our loser, corrupt politicians have made it unfashionable to say this... I'm proud to be American!"

The applause and hollering is deafening. Sam and I look at each other in puzzlement. Did we fall into a time warp and land in a completely different era?

"Big Don! We love you!" someone yells.

"Thank you! I love you too! I love all of you!" Big Don effuses. "I'm so proud! So so proud! Slowly, but surely, I promise you, we'll take back our country and we'll get out of debt! And you know how? It's all thanks to your brilliant and beautiful hard work. Together, we've made the Cruzio Enterprise brand of cannabis famous over the world! Everyone knows that seeing the Cruzio label on the package means the best quality cannabis and the best highs. I've been told - and I've seen with own eyes - people fight over the last of package of..."

Big Don consults a paper in front of him.

"Lucky Jade Sativa that you wonderful people help produce. It's been rated among the top 5 best cannabis varieties in the entire state of Colorado, and no wonder! It's a distinct, unique variety specially grown high-mountain cannabis that can only be cultivated in this very special Nederland terroir. Not only is it organic, it's smooth, easy to smoke and with a delicious minty aftertaste! Please! Please give yourselves a round of applause for the amazing, wonderful and phenomenal work that you, my dear and beautiful Americans, do!"

My bullshit detector goes off in my head, not unlike the simultaneous triggering of earthquake, tsunami, nuclear, and bio-terrorism alarm sirens. This Big Don is just another demagogic huckster-businessman, feeding his employees meaningless pre-canned pep talks. In many ways, he really is a product of a bygone era. There was a time when his variety of entrepreneurship was the only kind the nation had, with every major corporation having a form of personality cult feeding the galaxy-sized egos of their CEOs. After the Occupation though, they disappeared, as they were bought out by their more efficient Chinese counterparts, who replaced their blasts of motivating hot air with straight-forward threats of bodily harm - which turned out to be more effective, and much less time-consuming. It's also far less expensive, as it doesn't involve doling out freebies like:

"To thank you, please accept this small gift as a token of my appreciation!" Big Don says, eliciting excited squeals from the crowd. "Come on! Bring them out! Pinner joints for everyone! Hand-made for you by your neighboring cannabis plantation and fellow member of the Cruzio Enterprises, the Mighty Fortune Joint! Don't be shy! Come and get one. Make you sure you all get one. I want everyone to enjoy it. I want everyone to know that Big Don loves you! Remember that!"

Free joints!

Not that I'm unappreciative of them, but really, for the amount of work we do, we should be getting free samples on a regular basis. I know for a fact that after trimming we always end up with unusable fillings that could easily be passed to us - even a small fraction of it - but that are instead collected for cannabis oil extraction. I further note that we should be getting samples of our own product and not the skanky stuff from Mighty Fortune that we know is laden with chemicals and pesticides. But, despite my internal protest, I line up like everyone else and gratefully accept my thin joint. It'll likely last no more than five or six puffs, but I know I'll enjoy it dearly.

"Everyone got one? Good. Now don't light it up just yet! We still have a full day's work ahead of us, don't we?" More like, we have to work, while he gets to go around making his speeches and basking in adoration; but the crowd still chuckles. "Let's not forget my announcement! That's what I came for! I know just you're going to love this. It's a fabulous, beautiful announcement and I'm very excited to share it with you."

Taking a deep breath, he says,

"As part of the Colorado Cannabis Mountain Association, I'm pleased to be the host of this year's Mid-Autumn Festival on September 15th. It's going to be a spectacular All-American event! All the field workers from the whole region will be coming to Nederland to celebrate with us. It'll be a great party to remember! Even better, I know many of you are already asking... will the Occupation be here? Will the Chinese be there? And I can guarantee you, that no! None of the Occupation will be here. Why? Because they'll be down in Boulder celebrating their ZhongQiu Jie in their own way. Isn't that perfect? And I say we let them do their own thing, because they'll leave us alone! You know the best part? We'll make out Mid-Autumn Festival the most American ever! You'll see! I'll be bringing in fireworks, music, hotdogs, popcorn, pop, energy drinks, and apple pie! You name it, I'll have it there!"

And the crowd goes wild.

Everyone around us is jumping up and down, screaming how happy they are and how much they want to give their undying love to Big Don and have his children. Obviously, there must be a catch. There must be something more going on that we can't see that will result in a mighty and awful blow-back. Surely, people can see how transparently ridiculous Big Don's claims are.

"There you see! I told you! This place is great!" Eliza says, slapping my shoulder triumphantly.

I'm trying to detect any hint of irony in Eliza's words, bracing myself for the inevitable gotcha moment where she lets me in on the joke - but she seems completely earnest, as she adds her jubilant cries to the crowd. They wave their goodbyes and scream their farewells as Big Don makes his grand exit.

Sam is as confused as I am. I look down at my cup of soymilk, wondering if they maybe spiked it with a mild hallucinogen or opiate.

"Big Don is great. A true American. One of the last ones. Gets me every time," Eliza wipes a tear from her eye.

"Yes, he is... He seems that way anyway," I reply cautiously. "He's obviously very generous and everyone loves him, but is that all there is? I mean, do you think he may have another agenda?"

Eliza nods understandingly. "Cynicism. I don't blame you for it. Of course, you would have your doubts. I certainly had mine when Sarah and I got here. But Big Don is the Real Deal. The Real McCoy."

I'm at a loss on how to proceed further in the face of Eliza's starry-eyed faith, so I'm glad when Sam adds zir own line of questioning:

"I think what Pat is trying to say is that if Big Don is the owner of these plantations then he's also running them to make profit. So that's why we're wondering if there may be another plan behind his Mid-Autumn Festival, as incredibly and wonderfully generous as it is."

"Well, obviously, he's out to make money!" Eliza smirks. "He's one of America's best entrepreneurs! That's what he does best, and that's also how he continues to run this place."

With a knowing smile, she takes on a more serious, less fawning and level-headed demeanor. "I get your questions. I'm not that clueless. I know what you're thinking: Big Don is going to screw us over somehow. That's what you're thinking, right? Screwing people over is what these evil corporate business people do. And I don't blame you for thinking that. It's what we've learned after suffering the Occupation. How could we not doubt it? But listen to me: thinking like that will just turn us Americans against each other. If we don't work together, we'll never get our country back."

Eliza straightens her back and lifts her chin, pointing it in the direction of the brave new future.

"We have to look past the lies and the traumas of the Occupation. We have to remember the glories of the Old Days. America used to be the leader of the world! We can make that happen again if we just rediscover the American Way. If there's one thing, one great and amazing thing that Big Don has helped me remember is that even though corporate America was focused on profits, they were also dedicated to charity and making donations for the good of everyone. It's the great trickle-down process of wealth! Sure, Big Don is going to make a profit. That's what he does, and we're proud of him for it. But he also gives so much back. That's what the Mid-Autumn Festival will be all about."

She's definitely insane. I have no idea how Eliza could possibly have gotten that way - she's never struck me as being easily tricked - but I know a loony when I see one, and it's always best to nod, smile, and back away.

"Well, that's very nice to hear, Eliza. We're both happy that that's the case. A true American, for sure..."

Eliza slaps me again. "Hey! Don't brush me off. I'm fucking being serious, asswipe."

"Ok, ok. I get it. Thank you. We need to get to work now..." I nod and smile, trying to get some distance.

"Alright, alright. I know I came on too strong," Eliza sighs, raising her hands. "But I'm not messing around with you. Look, I won't deny it: Big Don's claims sound ridiculous and totally out there. Yes, it's also true that he profits off our labor and exploits us, while tossing us scraps like these cheap-ass pinners to keep us happy. But what you don't get is that in the middle of all that, we're allowed to have opportunities to make things better for ourselves by making our own deals and starting our own enterprises."

Nothing she's saying is particularly convincing, and it clearly shows on our faces, since she smiles mischievously and says,

"Still don't believe me? Ok. What would you say if I told you that I've never had to work an extra day on Sunday. In fact, I even finish early on Saturday. Hell, last weekend I took a nice little hike with Sarah and took in the fresh air. How?" She asks our blinking, unbelieving expressions. "You should talk to Henrietta over there. The short Latina with the red bandanna. She can set you up with someone who would be willing to trade their harvesting and trimming speeds for a small favor, like say that pinner we got today. Same goes for pruning. Sarah here is just terrible at it, so she's got someone to help her out, in exchange for washing their clothes for the whole week. You're worried about the guards, I know you are. But what did I tell you about them? They're one of us! They're totally ok with it. We all pay into a fund to have them look the other way, and besides they've become friends anyway. They're helping us out with our enterprises. The more enterprises there are, the more it benefits them! Business! Trade! Just like America used to be! Real opportunities for everyone!"

"Is there someone to help spread the fertilizer on Shit Days?" Sam asks.

Eliza grimaces. "No, nobody gets out of Shit Day."

"And what if you have nothing to trade? Or what if you need help with everything?" I brandish my stump.

"Are you sure, you don't have anything to offer, Pat? Everyone's got something," Eliza says. "Aren't you a chef? You have those skills, don't you? I overheard you talking with Sam on the bus. You could have had a pretty decent food cart going."

Again, I show her my stump. "Not with this, I can't. I can't do shit with just one hand. It's kind of you to offer, Eliza, but I think that..."

"Whoa. Hold up. I just got a major brain storm here. A beauuutiful idea as Big Don would say," Eliza splays her hands in the air with great flair and wriggles vigorous jazz fingers under our noses. "I have to admit I've been mulling the idea ever since I caught sight of you and Sam here last week. What if I got you a prosthetic? Would you be willing to cook then?"

"A prosthetic? Where would you get that from? The friendly neighborhood prosthetic shop?"

"Don't be an asshole, Pat. Would you?"

"Fine. I guess I would, but how much would it cost me? How would I..."

Eliza tuts me quiet. "So many questions, Pat. Don't you worry. You just need to know that I've got a project I can use your skills on. You too Sam. I'll get you your prosthetic. It'll be waiting for you when we're done work tonight. Try it on, and then let's chat again tomorrow. But I know you'll say yes, so I want you to be ready to help out tomorrow night, got it? And now... let's go play in shit!"

On cue, the work siren sounds, sparing Sam and I the effort of finding a way to disengage from Eliza's cracked lunacy - no matter how beautiful, amazing and other random superlatives it may be. As we file out, the workers are still chattering in excitement about Big Don's announcement. Sam and I exchange dubious looks, while ze circles a finger around his ear and rolls his eyes. I chuckle. I have no idea what has happened to Eliza, but I have no intention of having it happening to me.

However, Eliza's claim that there were people with their own "businesses" was worth exploring more, as it meant there was a blackmarket I could use to figure out some escape options. Till now, I hadn't taken a close look at my co-workers, as I'd been trying to stay as low-profile as possible, but now that I do, I start seeing signs of secret trades and negotiations going on. There's an urgent whisper here, a casual palming there, and furtive exchange of looks and nods. From the small clusters of people forming, I can make a few guesses who might be most promising to approach. There's Henrietta, of course, as Eliza mentioned, who seems to have her own protective posse of older women orbiting around her, but there's also a younger man, someone I believe is named Mitch, who looks distinctly cleaner than any of us -- and if that wasn't enough to mark Mitch as an Important Player, his trading high-fives with the guards amply does. I log all this in my mind for later, when I know I'll be needing something to distract my mind.

...like when I'm carrying sloshing buckets of manure.

It's entirely as bad as it sounds. Even though I wrap three bandannas over my nose and mouth, the odors of shit-soaked ammonia still fill my nostrils. It's impossible to get used to it. Not when flecks of shit keep splashing onto my face and arms so that the smell follows me everywhere. To make things worse, as soon as the hot mountain sun appears, it starts baking the fertilizer, activating the bacterial colonies and releasing even more sulfurous gases. The only very mild grace is that the fertilizer itself comes pre-blended and fermented, making it fairly easy to apply. It would have been very difficult indeed if we'd have been forced to crush floating turds in our hands and smear them into the soil. Another unforseable bad thing about the fertilizer being pre-blended is that it bears an uncanny resemblance to hot chocolate - an association that my mind can't unmake. It's extremely unlikely I'll ever be able to enjoy a hot cocoa again.

This is great? This is the new-American paradise Eliza was describing? What the hell is Eliza thinking? Or maybe I need two hands to properly get the full benefits of the luxurious spa-resort that is the Lucky Jade Sativa cannabis plantation. Or maybe I just need to get the fuck out of this place where the people are bonkers and I get full-day shit-baths twice a week. These thoughts, and many more like them, accompany me throughout the day. By the end of it, I've one hundred percent made up my mind to leave by the end of the week no matter what. I don't even care if I have walk into the forest and risk being eaten by bears or cannibals. I just want out of here. But that isn't to be.

When I return to the dorms, I find a small package waiting on my mattress. It's wrapped in crinkly brown paper. I'm hesitant to pick it up. It can't possibly be what I think it is - and, in my exhausted state, I'm not sure I can bring myself to check it out.

"Is that what I think it is?" Sam asks, from zir bunk. Since ze finished hours before me, ze's been in bed for some time, while I've only just finished peeling off my overalls and rinsing myself off with the communal hose.

"I don't know. I'm not sure I want to know," I sigh.

"Are you hungry? I saved you some food here..."

I sigh again. "Yeah. I am. Starving. Thank you, Sam. But what I'd really like is a toke. I've been thinking about it all day. Want to go outside with me? We can open this fucking mystery package then."

With food in me and a few slow puffs into my joint, I'm considerably more relaxed. I don't remember the last time I've had a chance to smoke up. It's of course banned under the Occupation for no discernible reason other than to piss us off. The official reason is that it decreases productivity and our ability to make rational decisions. However, it's generally suspected that the ban is to increase its price on the blackmarket, while they keep a stranglehold on the valuable export market.

"Keff... Keff... Shit, is this some skanky low quality stuff. Did they scrape this off the floor or something? Would have been nice to try the nice sativa we grow, huh?" Sam mutters between drags. When I don't reply, ze nudges me. "So are you going to open that package?"

I make an irritated grunt, but I nevertheless pick up the package from between my feet, and peel apart the wrapping. When it's half-way open, I already know what it is, but I still can't believe it.

A prosthetic hand is sitting in my lap.

"Unfuckingbelievable. Where did she find it?" Sam whispers.

"No clue. Maybe there really is a neighborhood prosthetic shop." I hold the prosthetic up to the dim light. It's a battered and stained old thing. It's surprisingly heavy and sturdy-feeling, even though it appears to be just a silicone hand attached to short, adjustable sleeve.

"Does it work?"

"Guess there's only way to find out."

I stuff my stump into prosthetic's sleeve, wriggling it all the way down, and tighten the strap. I feel a slight pinprick of the sensors connecting to my nerves, and I watch in amazement as the prosthetic gears start to whir and warm up. For a second, as the prosthetic calibrates to me, nothing happens, making me think it may be a dud.

"Doesn't seem like it's working. Maybe there's a switch or something... Oh, wait! There it goes!"

Maybe it's the weed or the exhaustion, but I'm giddy when the prosthetic starts flexing open and closed. I hadn't made any commands, so I'm guessing the sensors are still adjusting to my nerve feeds. After a few minutes though, my stump is tingly and warm, and when I focus, I'm able to make a fist and form a tight grip.

"It fucking works! This thing is going to make my life so much easier!" I say happily. My elation immediately disappears when I see Sam's brooding expression. I know what he's thinking.

"So you think we should work for Eliza then?"

Sam grimaces. "Maybe. If she can get a prosthetic for you, what else can she get? Maybe it's worth it."

"But where is she getting this?"

"I'm not sure I want to know."

"Yeah, me neither. But what are our options otherwise?"

"I don't know..."

We continue debating the issue for another half-hour until we're too tired and irritable to form full sentences. We reach no resolutions, except a tentative understanding that maybe we would give it a try, just to see.

For my part however, there's only one thing going through my mind: how much will this cost and will the payment end being with my blood?

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 16

Front lobby waiting room. Western Region PLA Base, Colorado Springs. August 29, 2065. 1021 hours.

JiangWei works hard to keep her humiliation in check. After pacing back and forth in the lobby from 0931 hours to 0951 hours, waiting for the receptionist - a nervous, pimply private who wilted under her glare - to get his commanding officer, but then failing to do so as no one could be found, she finally decided to take a seat and wait as the private dashed off, attempting to find someone, anyone really, who could get the terrifying the one-eyed, mechanical-armed soldier out of the lobby. She has no expectation of him finding anyone to deal with her soon, because this unbelievable, insulting treatment is part of a pattern she has endured today.

The indignity of waiting to enter her own base was preceded by the outrage that happened at 0735 hours, when, in attempting to take a troop transport from Boulder to Colorado Springs, the sergeant had apologetically told her that she didn't have the proper permissions to do so. Livid, JiangWei very nearly got into a fight with the hapless sergeant, demanding to know why she, a fellow PLA soldier, recipient of the Hero's Medal First Class, wouldn't be allowed to take a troop transport. But apparently, all her permissions had been put on hold, as her status was placed "in transition" during which her passes and security clearances would undergo a formal review, while all her linkernode communications would only be allowed to proceed if formally approved by the local intelligence censor. Technically, there's nothing surprising about this, since this happens whenever any officer is in between assignments. But typically, the review is a formality that requires just a matter of seconds; in her case, it's been held up by an endless series of information requests.

As a result, JiangWei had to take civilian transportation to the base, using her own money and taking her three times the time. Arriving at 0901 hours, she'd hoped that would be it, as many of the soldiers knew her there. She assumed it would be friendly territory. But assumption is the mother of every fucked-up situation, as JiangWei discovered, and the mother of that mother was the fucking magistrate. The bitch's influence had spread to the base. When she got there, she was told that since her clearances are in flux, she no longer is even allowed to step foot on the base. She tried to get someone to fetch Colonel Fung, but no one claimed to know him. The sergeant at the gate had told her in a hushed voice that the magistrate had made a special announcement, letting them know that if anyone let her in the base, they would pass under an immediate review that would end their careers.

It's been exactly 30 minutes now that she's been waiting in the rigid plastic chair, her arms folded as she crossed, uncrossed, and recrossed her legs, yet no one, not even the private, has appeared. They're perhaps thinking that by ignoring her, she'll eventually decide to go away. There's no way that's going to happen. She wouldn't give that magistrate bitch the satisfaction. She tells herself she won't lose her cool. She won't flip out. But that will be easier said than done. With fury detonating in her mind like relentless cluster-bombs, she stares at the giant PLA red and gold seal suspended in the lobby, repeating her Oath of Service over and over again, trying dispel the flooding visions of getting into a hardframe, finding the magistrate and then stomping on her head repeatedly until her skull, her limited brains and her idiotic face is mashed into a slurry...

"Captain Hui! So sorry to have kept you waiting!" Colonel Fung cries, marching into the lobby. "I had no idea you were here until the kind sergeant at the front gates sent me a private message. Did you not try to reach me via linkernode?"

Jumping to attention, JiangWei salutes and replies, "Sir, I was not able to. My linkernode has been blocked. I am currently under review. My security clearances and communications are..."

"Ah, say no more. One moment," the colonel says, a finger in air, as he sends a command to his linkernode.

There's a blip in JiangWei's field of vision, as a new private contact is added to her network, as well as high-priority privileges to access the entire military network. Just like that, JiangWei has been integrated again.

"There. That should do it. Sorry I didn't think of it sooner. I should have known Magistrate Gao would have taken steps to shut you down. I didn't think it would be happening so quickly though!"

"Yes, thank you, sir. This will help me very much," JiangWei says, adding with bitter sarcasm: "But aren't you concerned you will also be placed under review? I believe Magistrate Gao has said that this would be the case for anyone who dares interact with me."

Colonel Fung chuckles merrily. "Ah, yes. Magistrate Gao. Her grudges will always burn bright and strong, won't they? As I mentioned before, I have very little to fear from her. Internal Security functions under a different administrative wing, even though I occasionally report to her. And 'reporting' to her is best qualified as my giving the courtesy of informing her before certain operations happen. Otherwise, my actions are quite independent. But enough politics! There's much to do today, and I would like to bring you to your new barracks and bring you into the fold as soon as possible. Come along now!"

With a spring, JiangWei follows the colonel out the door, walking through the base at a brisk pace. As usual, the hallways are bustling, though the notable difference is that the people they pass avert their eyes and scurry away. This infuriates JiangWei even more.

She resists the temptation to slam her face into theirs, demanding if they knew that she'd saved countless soldiers' lives, that she'd fought off insane threats to the motherland, and that they should be fucking treating her like a goddamned hero, not a contagious, diseased freak. And maybe if they did treat her properly, she wants to scream at them, maybe then she wouldn't have the urge to take back the lives she'd saved and let the horrific creatures loose onto the base, their homes and their loved ones so they can rend their bodies and minds and desecrate their ungrateful corpses with...

"Here we are, Captain. It's something of a walk to get to our facilities, but for security reasons we do need to be in a remote part of the base," the colonel says, startling JiangWei out of her thoughts. She shakes her head clear. Her mind has been wandering lately - to put it mildly - and no amount of caffeine and stimulants have been preventing it.

They've stopped in front of a set of two huge iron-cast doors. Inset into one of them is a biometric reader, into which the colonel places his index while leaning over to let it scan his eyes. There's a positive ping, and the doors swing inwards, revealing the inside of a brightly-lit open space. At first glance, it seems like an ordinary barracks space, where the only distinguishing feature is...

"Is that smell coming from in there?" JiangWei says wrinkling her nose at the disgusting, yet familiar odor.

"Yes, it is. That's how you know you're in the right place!" the colonel says cheerfully. "The physical composition of the Elder Gods, if that's what you want to call it, is a combination of carbon-nitrogenous asters and sulfur-ammonia helix chains. That's why they reek of shit, piss and dying things whenever they appear, and also why they smell so much worse when they start breaking down. We have a few of them back there for study. Come on, let me show you around. You'll be here quite a bit, so let me get you familiar with it."

"Yes, sir," JiangWei says automatically, but as she follows the colonel through a series of PVC vats, connected with a myriad of tubing and steaming valves, she pauses to look around with a harsh sense of deja-vu, "What is this place, sir? This looks like the equipment from the basement we raided in Superior."

"Yes, good eye. We recreated this based on the videos from you and your colleagues' linkernode feeds," the colonel says. "It's part of what this facility and organization is tasked with doing, among other things. The group you'll be joining shortly is a research and development organization dedicated to understanding, managing and, ideally, harnessing the powers of the Elder Gods. Thanks to our laborious work, we've made some strides in our understandings into what those beings are. But really, it's thanks to you and the samples you've helped us obtain that we've been able to make some more significant breakthroughs in our operational capabilities."

"Sir, I don't understand. Operational capabilities? What are the final goals of this organization and what..."

"You'll see! You'll see! So eager to learn. Excellent! I'm pleased I made the right choice. Come along, don't just stand there!" the colonel slaps JiangWei on the back. "There are many more interesting things to see than those vats."

JiangWei snaps to attention. She'd become mesmerized by the solution bubbling in the vats, and, without realizing it, she'd walked closer to one of them as if strangely attracted to the horrible fumes. When the colonel had slapped her on the back, her face was just a foot away from one of them.

It's strange. Strong and overpowering as the smell is, it somehow doesn't bother her. She supposes it must be because the worst has past and she's gotten used to it. But, as she walks past the rows of vats, she feels an electric energy coursing through her that she hasn't felt for at least a month. No longer does she feel the suffocating exhaustion weighing down and blurring her senses and her thoughts. Instead, a sharp alertness and aliveness snakes through her veins, putting a bounce in her step and a vivid interest in everything around her. She wouldn't go so far as claiming she's feeling happy, but she feels good. Damned good.

The colonel leads her past the vats and into an open space, where waiting are five people standing awkwardly in front of large iron box the size of a shipping container. They're all wearing tinted goggles, as well as matching sets of heavy overalls and leather gloves. JiangWei narrows her eyes and stiffens, as she recognizes them. They're the "doctors" who had put the things in arm and eye socket.

"You... you're the fuckers who..." JiangWei growls, her fists clenching.

"Good! I see you recognize them! However, I don't believe you've been formally introduced to our team of researchers here," Colonel Fung says. Walking over to the researchers, he claps each on the shoulder in turn: "This tall fellow here, is Dr. Mo. He's our resident biologist with a particular background in parasitology and xenobiology. This lady is Dr. Hu, a theoretical materials developer by training, but her real passion is constructing things with the crazy specifications we give her. This person here is Dr. Lin, an expert on obscure lore and rituals, and a most crucial member of the team..."

None of the names register for JiangWei. She has no intention of remembering them. The farthest she's gone in thinking about them is that she should refrain from murdering them right now, as it may jeopardize her future position in the organization... which now that she thinks of it, she has no idea what either are.

"Sir, what is this organization exactly? What's in that container? And what would my role be in this?" JiangWei asks.

Colonel Fung gives her a cocky wink. "Alright. Very well. Your desire for answers is entirely understandable. I promise that I will tell you all, and you will get to see inside of that container, which I guarantee will please you very much. However, there are few non-disclosure contracts I'd like you to sign." Unfurling his datashroud, he toggles a few icons and hands it JiangWei. "Now, if you'll sign there and there... And initials there... and one more time stating you've read the agreement, which I suggest you peruse on your own time since it's just the basic non-disclosure act... and one more signature at the middle and the bottom... And now I'd like you to draw your blood with that knife, drop it into the container there and read the small statement that I'm sending to your linkernode right now."

"Excuse me, sir?"

With the same indulgent smile, Colonel Fung points to the knife that Dr. Lin is extending hilt-first to her and the dirty ceramic cup in Dr. Hu's hand, and repeats,

"Cut your hand with that knife, drop the blood into that container and read the incantation displayed on your linkernode."

JiangWei recoils. "Sir, this is very unusual. I'm not sure I'm comfortable with this. I'm fine with signing the non-disclosure statements, but what is the purpose of this particular step? Why is my blood necessary?"

"Captain. I would like to tell you, but for confidentiality reasons, I cannot," the colonel states simply. "Now, this is the final step for you to be integrated into our organization. If you wish to join us, please proceed."

JiangWei reaches out to the knife, but hesitates again, as something nags her in the back of her mind. "Sir, are you certain this is necessary? I've signed those multiple non-disclosure forms. I've made my oath to serve our country. Why would we need this?"

Colonel Fung sighs. "Captain Hui. As I've said, I cannot tell you those details until you're given the proper security clearances. If you're unwilling, I entirely understand. I would be disappointed of course, as we would have to find one of our secondary candidates, none of whom are as promising as you are. And, since you're unwilling to work with this organization, then perhaps you may have some luck with Colonel Mao. Or you may have some luck with Magistrate Gao if you apologize to her. She's been known to sometimes take pity on people if they abase themselves enough."

That seals it for JiangWei. Without another word, she grabs the knife, grits her teeth and cuts into her hand. As blood trickles into the cup, she reads the strange words flashing in front of her retinal display:

"Hrong vreelac min! Jiri shugguth-cthulac, gom'ka! Masdo verlin'cannouk d'an! Nevas tee-hi! Nevas tee-hi!"

Immediately, a dizzying lightness fills a corner of her head, expanding into a nauseating coldness that almost makes her lose consciousness. She's kept awake by the agony of searing heat, blazing from within the things in her eye socket and arm. When she's done, the knife falls from her hand, and she settles into a squat, taking heaving breaths to keep from throwing up. Through her star-speckled, swimming vision, she watches Dr. Hu take the cup of blood and rush into the iron container.

"Most excellent. I'm so delighted... Did it work? Yes? Good," the colonel says, thumping JiangWei's back and looking to the doctors for a positive response before coaxing her back to her feet. "I can't tell you happy I am that you've joined us. Your presence will accelerate our projects and activities. It's an exciting time, captain! You're at the forefront of some ground-breaking work!"

JiangWei has to steady her voice so she doesn't give the snapping response she would like to give: "And what kind of work is this, sir?"

"Only the most important kind!" Colonel Fung crows. "This organization is dedicated to defeating the Libertarians of the Void, by specifically using their own weapons against them. You, my dear captain, will be heading a small squad of specially chosen soldiers that will hunt them down and destroy them."

"I see..." JiangWei says skeptically. "May I ask under whose oversight will I be operating under? Will I be reporting to you? And has this received approval by the SAFCOA agreements?"

Colonel Fung's face freezes a micron. Still smiling, he replies in a voice lined with a hint of icy steel: "Are you doubting me, captain? Are you having second thoughts?"

"No, sir!" JiangWei says quickly. "It's just that it seems like this operation would need more official backing to proceed."

"Ah, yes. I see what you mean," the colonel nods. "If you have any doubts about the authority of this organizations or its legitimacy, feel free to inspect the new security clearances that you now have. You now have the highest clearance possible, and nothing will impede you. If you deem it fit, you second any resource for your missions. Even the magistrate will have to step aside since you can state operational priority. I see from your expression that you'll like that. Of course, it goes without saying that we are a blackops organization so you won't see any record of our activities anywhere. Does that make sense?"

"I understand, sir. Thank you for explaining the situation to me," JiangWei replies neutrally, as she verifies her new security access on her linkernode. As the colonel said, she'd been given the highest clearances any operative could have. Barring a nuclear strike, she now has the authority to requisition any equipment or personnel to achieve her goals. And yet, it's still odd. "Sir, this appears to be a fairly unorthodox approach..."

"As is our enemy! Unorthodox enemies require unorthodox methods, don't they?" the colonel says reasonably. Pointing to her arm, he says, "But look at the results! See how successful we've been with your... ah... upgrades! I've read the reports, captain, and everyone, besides the magistrate that is, is impressed by your actions and what you've done. Clearly, so many lives have been saved by how quickly you managed to locate and identify the enemy. You're now part of something greater, don't you agree?"

JiangWei isn't sure if she agrees, but she says, "Yes, sir."

"Good! Now, come. Let me introduce you to our newest creation."

The conversation is hardly done for JiangWei, but she's forced to follow the colonel as he leads her to the iron container. As they'd been talking, the doctors had assembled around the container's door. Most are constructing an enclosure with iron rods, but Dr. Lin is standing with his head bowed over a large, heavy-looking book with one hand outstretched. He's mumbling something that JiangWei can't quite hear, but she feels the things in her respond with what could only be described as... pleasure.

"Are we ready? Yes?" the colonel asks. "Dr. Hu, if you don't mind transferring the controls over to the captain's linkernode and explaining how to input the commands."

As the rat-faced doctor approaches her, a new program loads into JiangWei's linkernode. A drone-interface opens within her retinal display. It's a standard interface that's initiated through sub-vocal commands with a full set of programmable protocols - but even without the doctor's explanations, she knows something is different about it. The interface is controlling no ordinary drone. Whatever it is that's inside the container, it's calling out to her straight into her mind in a low, plaintive ululation, begging to be released.

Shoving the doctor aside, JiangWei whispers the drone activation command, and immediately, metallic clinking sounds from the container and something trots out. It's a prowlerbot like none she's ever seen before. It's twice the size of the average drone, with the bulk and height of a full-sized bear. Even so, its limbs are thinner and clearly designed for speed, and they each end in heavy paws bearing viciously long claws. It's the head that really sets it apart. It's festooned with the standard panoply of sensors, but it's entirely made of iron, including its over-sized metal jaw. Most curiously, there's a small pane of dull glass on its forehead, where, unless JiangWei's mind is playing tricks on her, something dark and globular flashes briefly before sinking back into darkness.

"Looks like you got the hang of it without a problem!" Colonel Fung says. "Doesn't seem like you'll have any problems with our modified prowlerbot. You'll be using it to hunt down the agents of the Libertarians of the Void!"

JiangWei grinds her teeth. The things in her are squirming and flipping about with impossible bestial giddiness, infecting her with a twisted excitement that she barely keeps in check.

"Sir, is this a good idea? I..."

"And one more thing!" the colonel interrupts. "I'd like to introduce you to the first member of your squad. I've taken the liberty to choose her, but you'll be able to choose the rest of your team. Bring her in!"

Before she can pull the colonel away and discuss her concerns, the front doors open again and slam shut, followed by the smart, determined walk of a fellow professional soldier. JiangWei holds tense not knowing what to expect, but relaxes as soon as she sees a six-foot tall woman with a roundish face come around the corner.

"XiaoJun? What are you doing here?"

"What's it look like I'm here for? I'm here to help you out," XiaoJun grunts, but then looks around and wrinkles her nose. "Tamade. What the hell is that smell?"

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 17

Storage unit D21. Lucky Jade Sativa Plantation. Nederland, Colorado. August 31st, 2065. 7pm.

I have to admit. I had my doubts. Not that I'm totally sold on this deal, of course. Let's just say my skepticism is down to a low-level remission - but ready to metastasize into full blown panic and alarm the moment anything remotely suspicious strikes.

As you can imagine, a lot of it has to with my getting a new hand. It's incredible how much a little thing like that can improve your mental state when you go from having just one hand to two, especially when it involves doing two-handed plantation tasks like clipping and harvesting. But having two hands is most poignantly beneficial when it comes to performing mundane tasks like pulling on my goddamn clothes or carrying more than one blasted item - or basically doing anything that used to make feel like a goddamned useless loser dependent on the charity of others.

The prosthetic isn't perfect. Outdated derelict that it is, I can't make it do much more than grip things with the strength a firm handshake and make a flimsy fist. It also runs out of juice after about four hours of use, forcing me to recharge its batteries with the plug-in recharger that Eliza had included in the package. But I've learned to work with that. The most important part is that it can hold tools and grab things. So to make the battery last, I only turn it on to get a grip on a tool or to form a useful position, like a claw to grab branches, and then quickly shut it off for as long as I'm working. This way I can keep it going for a full day, and then recharge the battery overnight. It's not ideal, but it's galaxies away from where I was.

Eliza was right that Sam and I would agree to do what she wanted. How couldn't we agree to work with her after being given such a life-changing device? At the very least we were curious what else she may have that could improve our lives. After confirming our participation during breakfast, she told us to meet in the cafeteria later that evening at 8pm - and to take long showers so we smelled and looked decent.

Since it was Saturday and harvest day, we didn't have a chance to discuss much more, as we were too busy working frenetically in the fields and then in the trimming rooms. Very notably for me, the prosthetic significantly sped up my work, to the extent that I even had time to have dinner in the cafeteria with Sam as opposed to needing zir to put something aside for me. Even just those extra few hours gave me a renewed sense of freedom and relaxation that I couldn't help but luxuriate in. Hell, I even had the time to catch a glimpse of the sunset, before cleaning myself off as requested.

As soon as we showed up at the cafeteria doors, we found it locked and completely dark. But seconds after appearing, Eliza popped out the side door, whispering for us to come in. She herded us into the kitchen, where she pointed to a pile of produce and assorted mystery scraps and ordered,

"Alright, Chef Pat, make something good out of this. Sam, you assist Pat. Make it delicious and tasty, ok? You've got one hour. And you guys are serving too, so be sure to have your game faces on."

I looked at the pile of food critically, sorting them through my head into usable, useless but recoverable, and completely useless and disgusting. Judging from the yellowing leaves, rough-cut shapes and dubious-looking packages, it was mostly discards that were recovered by some enterprising dumpster-diver. So long as I wasn't expected to make ground-breaking molecular gastronomic creations, it was stuff I could work with.

"How many people am I cooking for? What kind of food are they expecting and what kind of food have they responded well to in the past?" I asked. Looking at the chicken scraps, bruised thai peppers, and the scrunched up buns, I was already imagining that I could shape them into spicy meat-ballish finger-food. "And do I have access to the other ingredients too? Like salt, pepper, oils and spices?"

"Spices? What do you think this place is? You can use your magical spices if you can find them," Eliza snorted. "In fact, you can use whatever you find here, but don't expect to find any other 'spice' besides salt and maybe pepper. Just don't use it all up, so they don't have anything to work with tomorrow. You'll be cooking for about a dozen people, and as for what they're expecting... To be frank, they're expecting anything edible. The last person I had cooking was a nimrod who could make a pre-made five course meal taste like reheated turds. If you can do better than that, then you'll do great. Don't worry. I'm not expecting you to make a fancy-pants dinner. Just make something snacky, something that will make people chill and relax, not toss their cookies. Ok?"

"And... could you tell us what kind of event this is? Who the guests are? What kind of service are they expecting?" Sam asked in turn.

"Jeez, the two of you are work! I can't believe I'm the one doing the favor here! This better be worth it and not turn out to be a waste of my time," Eliza rolled her eyes. "It's just a chill-out time I organize every Saturday for folks who are interested and willing to pay the entrance fee. There's music, poker games and dancing. You know, everything a Saturday night needs after a long week's work. Mostly it's going to be the plantation guards, but... Jesus, will you two chill out? Don't give me that look. They're cool. They're Americans like us, like I told you. And much like us, they need a break too. But unlike us, they have enough pay-tokens to spare. Win-win, ok? As for the service, they're not expecting white-tablecloths and an uptight maitre d' wiping their ass. Just be casual, friendly and attentive. Is that too much to ask? No? So, get to it!"

We still had many questions, but, with fiftyish minutes left to make something edible out trash-rescued food, we launched ourselves into this dubious, refugee camp version of Iron Chef.

I immediately had Sam chopping up the wilty cilantro and parsley, while I started portioning out the meat - which, as it turned out, had not just chicken bits, but also a pack of sausages. Neither looked particularly wise to eat, but I could tell they were so heavily laden with preservatives that even if they were several years past their expiration date they would still taste roughly like salty nitrated "meat." With just a few tweaks, like employing the miracle of the deep-fryer, applying dabs of whisked, slightly moldy cheese-product and providing a variety of salty dipping sauces, I knew I could make them above-average tasty.

In the end, brilliant chef that I am, I managed to cobble together five platters of fairly decent finger-foods. Mixing the chicken with liberal amounts of desiccated ginger and garlic and then mashing it into a slurry of stale bread and curdled simuli-milk, I made some pretty authentic-looking deep-fried chicken-balls. Since I only used half of the chicken for the balls, I cut the rest into strips, pounded them very thin, and then rolled them with the cilantro-parsely sorta-pesto. I finished them off by giving them a good sear and topping them off with a quickly done chili-sauce that I concocted using some cloudy vinegar that I found in the back of a cupboard.

With the sausages, I again split them in half, and used one portion to make mini-hot dogs with buns made out of finely shredded not-too-green-but-overlookable-green potatoes that I fried into thin latkes. With the other portion, I blended them into a fine paste that I sweetened with flaccid carrot puree and shaped them into quenelles that I placed on top of crackers made of fried stale rice. And finally, I made a variety of fake-out crudites, made by lightly sauteeing the remaining vegetables, which mostly consisted of leafy, browning greens and broccoli stems. I knew they weren't great, but then I knew no one would care since I stacked them around a bright-orange bowl of totally-not queso sauce made out of immersion-blended soy-oil and initiation cheese packets.

I have to say I did far better than I had anticipated, though that had largely to do with the fact that the stuff that Eliza provided wasn't as terrible as I initially thought. Wherever she got it from, it definitely wasn't from the plantation cafeteria or the guard canteen. A lot of the stuff actually had some flavor to it, albeit highly artificial and chemical versions of it. Really, it was something you might find discarded from a lower-middle-class home-kitchen - none of would be present within a twenty mile radius of Nederland.

However, the origins of Eliza's sketchy food didn't trouble me too much, as the reactions to my hasty creations were appropriately ebullient and effusive:

"Holy shit this is good! What is this? I've never had anything like this in... I don't know how long!"

"There's. A. Party. In. My. Mouth. And none of you are invited. Only me!"

"Give this to me! Get away! Mine! All mine! I'll kill you if you take it from me! I'll kill you!"

"Who made this? I'm going to do jizz all over their beautiful brain! I'm back home!

"Oh my god... I'm crying this is so good..."

With much fanfare, I was brought out to be celebrated and fortunately no bodily fluids were involved. I can't remember the last time I'd felt a similarly validating experience, and from the plantation guards no less - people who I'd been worried about, if not downright terrified of. The evening continued much as Eliza said it would, with music being played on a scratchy, antique CD player, sporadic card games with friendly gambling and the occasional outburst of jerky dancing whenever a song would last long enough not to skip and garble. And throughout the evening, the simple, wholesome good fun was punctuated by the constant praise of my food. The only complaint was that everyone wanted more.

The next day, Eliza told me that it had been the most successful gathering she'd ever organized, and it had to do with my significantly better food that put people in an excellent mood. The guards were so appreciative that, in addition to their entrance fee, they gave her a handful of joints - actual thick joints and not the measly pinners we were given. She gave Sam and I one to share. It was, as Eliza said, a win-win for everyone. In fact, the evening went so well that the guards requested that the gatherings happen more frequently, to which Eliza was quick to assent to and rope Sam and I into it again.

Which is why, two days later, I'm back cooking again. This time there's significantly more food, though pretty much the same quality. I still only have an hour to whip something together. We were told also that there's about two dozen people, but I should cook for at least thirty. Apparently word has spread quickly about my food, and the guards from the neighboring plantations clamored to be part of the gatherings too. It's nothing my years as a chef can't handle. That's what I tell myself, as I struggle to keep a good grip on my knife with my prosthetic hand. I'm really grateful Sam is here to help me.

As before, the first thing I do is to separate the protein from the produce and the carbs to get a sense of what I have to work with. I wasn't sure what I was going to make, but after sussing out how many pieces of grey-flecked cheese and simuli-meat products there are, I have the perfect idea in mind that I know they'll go bonkers over. I again have Sam chopping, though this time I have zir cutting up the dented cabbage heads into thin strips and when ze's done with that I have zir dicing the half-dozen cucumbers and tomatoes and finally julienning the two bags of mushy potatoes and onions. I go about trimming the fattiest pieces of the meats, though not to cast it away - which would be unconscionable - but to save them, blend them, reshape them into strips and then fry them until they're crispy and brown. I have to slap Sam's hand numerous times to keep zir from eating them.

I then shape the rest of the meats into small pingpong-ball sized nuggets, press them with my thumb, and in the indentation, I place a piece of simuli-cheese; I then fry these lightly on both sides, pressing firmly so I'm sure the cheese is melted inside. With that done, I rush to tear apart the loaves of stale bread, mushing it all until one big mass with as much of the milk I can find, and I then carefully cut into round disks that I toast until crispy. Meanwhile, once Sam is done chopping, I give him instructions to mix and salt the cabbage, and then sweeten the cucumbers and tomatoes with broken and mashed pieces of hard candy, while adding a dash of vinegar and ample peppers. As ze's doing this, I've taken the julienned potatoes and the onions, dredged them in oily mix with pounded ramen noodles as a batter and deep fried them, giving them beautiful golden, crispy layer. We finish just a few minutes before the start of Eliza's gathering.

I could have made quite a few things from the pile of scraps the Eliza left me. The simplest would be some kind stir-fry, dumpling, soup or tossed noodle dish. But I knew Chinese food would definitely not fly with this group. So instead, I've shaped, grilled and deep fried my way to what they're actually craving. Mounded on the serving plates are neat piles of fries and onion rings, mostly classic coleslaw, and most importantly, several dozen bite-sized hamburger sliders dabbed with "relish" and "ketchup." The patties are stuffed with cheese and, for the piece-de-resistance, topped with a piece of crispy fat that, if squint your eyes hard enough, is essentially bacon. Burgers and fries. The classic American meal.

We're mobbed by the guests, as soon as Sam and I bring out the platters. Moments later, the moaning cries of successive foodgasms erupt:

"I don't believe it. I can't remember the last time... Oh, man... Oh, man..."

"You were right. I didn't believe you, but you were right. I'm so happy right now I can die."

"What is this sauce? I can fucking bathe in this! Awwwww, damn! This is fucking heaven!"

"Holy shit! Burgers and fries! BURGERS AND FRIES, PEOPLE!"

Success!

Was there any doubt, I think, as I unwisely let my ego inflate. It's a strange sensation, given how long it's been. For that unwise moment, my self-worth unearths its way back from the nervous, fearful rubble it had hidden itself under, tentatively standing upright so I can bask in everyone's praise.

However, it promptly retracts when I see Eliza come over with a stocky, solidly-built, balding man, who I recognize instantly. It's Mr. Klesick, the overseer of all of Nederland's plantations and the commander of the entire guard force. Though we don't see him often since he manages both the field workers and the guards, whenever he does appear, it usually presages someone being punished or quotas being increased. I grab Sam by the elbow and try to "casually" turn us away to retreat into the kitchen. But I'm stopped when Eliza yells out:

"Pat! Where are you going? There's someone here who would like to say hello!"

Shit. I freeze, putting on my best smile, as I stutter, "I'm just headed to get another platter here... and the... uh... sauce is low..."

"Come on! I see plenty of food here to hold us for a bit!" Eliza rushes forward to grab Sam and I by the waist. "Mr. Klesick here would like to say hello."

"Uh... hello... sir... Mr. Klesick sir..."

Mr. Klesick laughs, extending his hand to pat our rigid shoulders with what could be possibly described as avuncular warmth. I'm not sure what's more surprising. Being touched by him in a non-threatening manner, or seeing his normally stony expression cracking into the believable laughter of a fellow human being.

"Please, just call me Billy. We're not at work, here. Didn't Eliza tell you that this is a place where we can relax and be how we want to be? I wanted to stop by and tell you how appreciative I am of the food. The Occupation has changed us all, so having these reminders of how it was before we lost our freedom is just so wonderful. Thanks a lot, guys."

I'm about to mutter some bland comment and run away, but again Eliza freezes me with absolute terror when she corrects Mr. Klesick with,

"Actually, Billy, both of them identify as agender. They prefer the pronouns ze and zir."

With fear coursing through me, I blurt desperately to correct Eliza's insane revelation: "Guys is fine. We're guys! Yes! We use normal pronouns now. We're men. That's all we are."

Mr. Klesick and Eliza exchange a smile, chuckle and shake their heads.

"I would be happy to refer to you with the pronouns you prefer," Mr. Klesick says. "Like I said, we're not at work here. If it makes you more comfortable, my former partner preferred the pronoun 'they' - that is, they did before the Occupation had them executed for being part of the Resistance. We've all lost something of what we were. It would be a shame if we forgot how far we'd come with accepting non-binary genders, before we regressed to what we are now. Please, relax. Be how you are. It's a pleasure meeting you two, and please enjoy yourselves. Keep up the good work."

Sam and I nod automatically, stiffly thanking Mr. Klesick as he turns around and joins the party. Being in shock, it takes a few tries for Eliza to get our attention.

"Hey! Will you two chill out? I told you we're fine here!" Eliza says, waving her hand in front of our faces. "Billy is totally cool. Who do you think helped me organize this? He actually used to be a native from Nederland, so he's always been an open and progressive Ned-head. He's had to take up his persona because of the Occupation. I happen to know that he's queer like the many of us here, even though he presents himself as cis-het. Go figure, huh?" Eliza laughs, as she waves to the party-goers. "Look around you, everyone's here to have a good time with no judgment. They're all grateful for your amazing food. Do you think anyone would touch you now? Light up if it'll help, but for fuck's sake, relax and join the party!"

Eliza thrusts a handful of joints into our hands, and leaves us to join the group and play hostess. Still uncertain what to believe or do, we stand stock still. But everyone does seem incredibly relaxed. Not only that, the crowd isn't just composed of guards this time, but includes a small number of field workers mingling with the guards with much ease and laughter. It's hard to accept, even though a part of me desperately wants to.

"Well, when in Rome, I guess..." Sam says, lighting a joint, taking a puff and handing it over to me.

"Incredible. Just incredible..." I say between drags. "Do you think that we should believe her?"

Sam shrugs. "Looks like it, doesn't it? Come on. Let's dance!"

The music blaring, I let myself follow Sam and join the others in their wild dancing. It's a dizzying, fantastic feeling. There's singing, hooting and more dancing. Amidst the peals laughter, there's joyful hugging and kissing among everyone, which is followed by tender caresses and making out. As I watch the honest and clean revelry, my previous fears and anxiety melt away, and I become progressively more relaxed. It's wonderful.

Soon, I pass out in exhaustion, a happy grin plastered on my face.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 18

Dormitory 4C. Lucky Jade Sativa Plantation. A few hours later.

I wake with a muffled cry, lurching out of my bed, my eyes flinging open, as I try to escape the horrific visions. As usual, I'm drenched in sweat and my heart is racing, but something has changed. I'm still terrified, of course, but it's not same kind of mind-melting, soul-consuming terror that obliterates my every rational thought with the urge to flee all life, all existence, and anything at all that would bring me into contact with the Elder Gods.

No, for what feels like an eternity, my terror is of the more conventional sort borne out of an ordinary nightmare that - refreshingly - holds its worst horrors at a hazy, toothless distance.

"Are you alright, Pat?" Sam asks sleepily.

"Yeah," I reply. I always feel guilty for waking zir up every night we've been here, but then again ze has always been a light sleeper.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

I glance at the ceiling clock and see it's only 2am. Since there's still time to fall back asleep, I'm about to say no and tell zir to go back to sleep, but I chew my lip, glancing at Sam's sincerely concerned expression.

"Yeah. Do you mind?"

"Pat. Of course not. You know I'm always happy to talk. Shall we go outside? I think it's a clear night so it'll be nice to check out the stars over the water."

As softly as we can, we pull on our clothes and pad out of the dormitory. It's chilly outside, but as Sam said, the skies are clear, and since it's the new moon tonight, the night's darkness is only broken by the twinkling of stars. It's been a long time since I've been in a frame of mind to appreciate the sea of stars, but as my eyes adjust to the dim light, I'm momentarily awed by the enormous beauty of it.

We stumble out of the plantation's main compound, following the main road up a short ways. We're heading to a small knoll overlooking Nederland and the reservoir behind it. There are only a few lights visible in the town itself, as it's essentially abandoned and used only for ceremonial purposes. Nearly all the town's "residents" are field workers like Sam and I, living in the packed plantation dormitories. And since electricity is strictly rationed by the Occupation, there are few lights even among the plantations.

But because of the darkness, I'm able to make out the bobbing shimmering surface of water at the edge of town. It's Barker Meadow Reservoir. It once supplied the water for a hydroelectric dam that now stands as a derelict memory of the once prolific American public works projects. Though the reservoir no longer provides electricity, it still flows down through a short rocky canyon to serve as one of Boulder's main water sources.

We find a fallen log to sit on, but we don't exchange a word. I'm guessing Sam is waiting for me to start. I'm not sure what to say. There's much I'd like to be able get off my chest, though I have no idea if I want to tell zir what I've gone through or, more importantly, even if it's wise to do so. So instead, I say,

"Some party, huh?"

Sam chuckles. "Crazy. One of the best I've been to in some time."

"Yeah, don't think I've partied like that since... shit... before the Occupation even."

"What?" Sam says with mock outrage. "We had a few good ones in the beginning. Remember the ones I organized for us at the restaurant? How about the invitation-only party at the Gold Leaf Kale that lasted until 10am the next day? We managed to have a couple of good ones there before it... uh..."

"Before it was shut down?" I finish with a note of bitterness. We fall into awkward silence, as uncomfortable memories flood back to the two of us. I make an effort to push past it. "Eliza knows her stuff, huh? I'm glad she got us involved. How do you think she set all that up?"

"Good question. I've been wondering that myself," Sam says. "But I'm not complaining! Hell, I think I'm still a little high. I'm not even sure how many joints we lit up! I'm pretty sure you had one huge one all to yourself"

I grin, "Yeah... yeah... good times..."

Oh, how our standards have changed. If I were to honestly assess the party, I'd say that it ranked somewhere above a teenager's basement party to which someone had secretly smuggled drugs, but you had to be constantly quiet at because you were under the constant threat of being busted by ornery parents sleeping upstairs.

Nevertheless, even though the music was tinny, choppy and repetitive, it was still music we danced wildly to. And, while the party came to an abrupt end at midnight so the guards could take their posts, we still partied and laughed as if it was the best party we'd ever attended in our lives. Considering how flushed and giddy we were afterwards when we made our way back to the dorms, maybe it was. If it's anything to go by, my lungs are still stinging from the heavenly, weedy smoke I inhaled, and my mouth is still vaguely cottony dry. It's amazing I'm even awake right now. I suppose violent, apocalyptic nightmares have a tendency to break even the most numbing of highs.

With a big sigh, I say, "I'm not sure what to tell you, Sam. The things I've seen... The things I've done... I don't know if I can even begin to describe it."

"It's alright, Pat. Why don't you tell me what you can? Anything you're comfortable with," Sam places a reassuring hand on my leg. "Those monsters we saw were pretty terrible. I'm guessing you saw them up close right? I still remember that thing that attacked the checkpoint. I can imagine why seeing those things would cause nightmares. Did you see them in at the airport too? Is that what happened too? I guess you must have been exposed to them when they first appeared."

I look at Sam incredulously, and bark a hoarse laugh, realizing that I hadn't told zir anything at all. For all ze knows, I was just an innocent bystander who was accidentally "exposed" to the horrors of the Elder Gods. Ze has no idea that I was one of the ones who had summoned the Great Wyrms and released them onto their paths of destruction. Ze has no idea what I've done to make it happen. How much blood I've spilled. Ze has no idea how close I was to allowing it to happen and letting everyone, including him, get killed in an orgy of death.

I'm wracked with doubts again, uncertain what to reveal. I'm afraid ze will be disgusted and repulsed by what I've done - which I would be entirely justifiable. But I'm so tired of being alone. But I don't want to be pushed away. I feel my eyes water, as I realize how desperate I am for support and comfort that I don't think I deserve. Mustering my courage, I say,

"Sam, I'll tell you what happened to me. I'll tell you why I've been waking up every night terrified out of my wits, but will you promise to listen to me until the end and not leave before I finish?" Seeing Sam nod without hesitation, shake my head and say, "Remember when we chatted about the Libertarians of the Void in the bus? How we talked about how they're probably not real? Well, they're real. Actually, scratch that. I'm not sure if they're real anymore, since I was screwed over by a murderous lunatic. However, I can tell you with absolute certainty that the powers they've been rumored to use, the Elder Gods, are real. Very fucking real. I know this because I summoned them myself. I've touched the Elder Gods. It all started after I'd made that first attempt to attack the soldiers in the diner..."

My pent-up words spill out in a rush. At first, I choose my words carefully, trying to portray myself in a positive light and not as the killer that I am; but as I relive the events in my mind, I know I can't hide the facts: I'm a murderer. I had willingly set in motion events that could have killed thousands and thousands of people - and I would have reveled in the joy of it.

I tell Sam about having been rescued from prison after having tried to commit suicide, and also how close I was to brutalizing my propaganda manager. I tell Sam about that bastard James and the others. How he taught me to summon the Elder Gods. Not with words and rituals, but through my willingness to repeatedly stab Chen Taitai to death. I tell Sam that though James was the one who killed Misha, Jessie and Katrina, it was because of me that the verlihulu grew into Great Wyrms, burst forth and destroyed the airport.

True, it was only at the last minute that I pushed away in horror after having touched the Void, but the unshakable fact is that the only way that it could have worked was because I wanted the Elder Gods to arise and that a part of me wanted to see everything destroyed and ground into their abominable nothingness. It's because of this inherent nihilistic desire within me that I'm still haunted by the Elder Gods.

When I'm done, Sam is silent for a painfully long time. I'm grateful that, as I spoke, it was too dark for me to see Sam's expression. I could, however, hear zir gasps and I could feel zir shift away and take zir hand away from my leg. I'm only mildly heartened that Sam didn't get up and run away in absolute disgusted shock. I muse that ze may only be frozen in surprise and any minute now ze would be getting as far away from me as ze can, so ze would have nothing to do with the repulsive monster that I am, leaving me rightfully alone and isolated, far away from decent human contact.

Not for the first time, I contemplate whether it would be best for me to remove myself from this world. This time though is the first time when I think I would actually be able to power over my cowardice and kill myself. Seeing as how a knife to the neck didn't work too well the last time, I figure that maybe going a classic way would be best, like a suicide through hanging. Now that I think of it, I'd seen a coil of electrical cord in the dorm as well as a solid pine tree just outside the plantation that would serve my needs just fine.

Resigning myself to my fate, I say, "Look Sam. I understand how you feel and I know you don't want to have anything to do with me. I get it. I just wanted to say that I appreciate you having listened to me and..."

Sam shuts me up by enveloping me in tight hug. As I feel Sam's tears falling on my neck, tears finally flow freely from my own eyes. I shudder with relieved, gasping sobs. Ze pats my back and rocks me back and forth.

"Oh, Pat. My dearest, Pat," Sam says, at last releasing me, and wiping tears from zir face. "I had no idea. Why didn't you tell me before? No, that's a pointless question. I can understand why. I'm not sure I would have trusted anyone to tell if that had happened to me. Your story... what you did... It's just so... so incredible. I just can't believe that you, my dearest Pat, could have killed people and been part of that insanity..."

Sam shudders. "But then again, I can believe it. These last few years of the Occupation have been painful. Those bastards have walled us in, treated us like animals, and removed all hope from us. We have no one fighting for us, no resistance, no government, no foreign countries speaking for us. Everything we might have done to fight back was taken away from us. Even suicide bombing isn't possible anymore with surveillance drones and prowlerbots taking out any threat before it happens. So what other choice do we have? It's no surprise that in our lowest moment those Libertarians of the Void would be pushed to use something as awful as the Elder Gods."

Sam suddenly grips my arm with a desperate intensity I know too well.

"But Pat, are the Elder Gods what we have to use in order to free us from the Occupation? I know you're saying that you have to kill people to summon them, but wouldn't it be worth it? What would a few sacrificed lives be to gain our freedom? Since nothing else works, doesn't it make sense to use the Elder Gods? They're the only things that have worked so far, so why don't we use them to kick the Occupation out and regain our country? Wouldn't it be a small price to pay?"

I try to keep it in. But I can't. I explode screaming, roughly disengaging myself from zir, "Fuck Sam! Weren't you listening to me?" I'm so angry it takes a few minutes to calm down. I tell myself Sam doesn't understand, and that zir thoughts aren't unlike mine - before I touched the Elder Gods.

"I'm sorry, Sam, but you just don't understand. The Elder Gods are not just tools that we can use and just bury away. They're... they... Fuck, I don't know what the fuck they are, but I've seen them, Sam, and I know that they would never be content with just coming into this world briefly and then disappearing. Every time they come and get a taste of the life here, they want more. They want to devour everything, to consume everything, but it's not just that... They want to desecrate everything here and even life itself because Sam... they hate life. They hate our very existence and once they're free in this world, there's nothing that could stop them until everything is gone." I pound my head with my fist trying to get the memory of it out of my mind. "Why do you think I wake up screaming every night? Why do think I'm terrified of falling asleep? They want me too, Sam. They want me because they know I have some kind of power that can release them, and I can feel them clawing at the boundaries of my awareness trying to get in. Jesusfuck, Sam. I can't take it anymore. I just can't..."

I bury my face in my hands, trying hard to push back the visions of the Void that returned as I spoke. As I calm back down, Sam has again wrapped me a tight embrace.

"Ok, Pat. Ok," Sam whispers. "It's not something I understand, but I trust you. I won't bring it up again."

"Thanks," I reply, giving zir arm an appreciative squeeze.

Then with a smile in zir voice, ze says, "You know, that's a pretty good example of me not listening to you properly and making you feel as if you weren't heard. As I recall that was one of the things you complained about when we were together. There you were, telling me that the Elder Gods are a hard 'no', but then I just went on pushing you and asking you if we should be using them. Shit, no wonder you broke up with me. I'm such an ass!"

"Oh, Sam. You're not an ass..." I grin weakly at Sam's self-deprecation, but I try to match zir mood by teasing zir: "But you're right. You never did listen to me. Remember when we were visiting Arizona and you said you wanted to eat at that taco shop, and I told you that it would be a very bad idea?"

"That was a great place!" Sam protests, but I can hear zir relief as we fall into an old argument that always cracks us up.

"It was a super sketchy place, Sam."

"It had great reviews!"

"We agreed it was for another restaurant that had closed."

"Oh, come on. It looked like a classic mom n' pop place."

"It was a shit hole."

"It was just a little rustic!"

"Sam, I could see the rats in the kitchen. They were as long as my forearm."

"Yeah, but the food wasn't too bad!"

"Wasn't too bad? You were sharting and projectile vomiting two hours later!"

We laugh, defusing the previous tension. It wasn't the most natural interaction, but it nevertheless gave us comfort and put smiles on our faces. Sam leans into me, and I wrap my arm around zir shoulder in turn.

"So, can I ask you something?" Sam says.

"Yeah?"

"What do you think of this place? Working on the cannabis plantation, I mean," Sam specifies

I frown. "You mean besides the fact that we're slave labor for an egotistical demagogue and we're covered in shit twice a week?"

"Don't be a smart ass. I'm not kidding," Sam says, sitting up straight. Even in the dark, I can tell ze has zir serious face on.

"I was being serious too," I reply. "I don't trust that Big Don clown, and it's not like we're getting regular massages for the work we're doing."

"Yeah, that's true, but when was the last time that you felt free like you did last night?" Sam places a hand on my chest. "And don't lie to me about that, Pat. I know you were happy last night. I saw you dance. I saw you smile. You were having a good time. When's the last time we were in a situation like that?"

"I don't remember," I admit. "But we don't know what the cost is and how the hell Eliza is even doing this..."

"Of course, it has a cost. What doesn't?" Sam interrupts. "But look at what it means for us! We don't have to hide anymore! We're among people who accept us! People who appreciate us!"

"And in exchange, we work with shit twice a week," I say, though without any sarcasm this time. "Yeah, I see your point. It's not perfect though and..."

"What's perfect, Pat? And where will we find it?" Sam sighs. "Do you really think we'll get the old days back? I think that ship has sailed, caught fire and sank to the depths of the ocean. Shouldn't we be happy for what we have and make the best of it?"

I consider Sam's words. Ze is right that the likelihood of a free America ever materializing again are extremely remote. Ze is equally correct that this is the best situation that we've had in a long time. And while we do have to do hard labor that's frequently unpleasant, there's no Chinese Occupation soldiers around to enforce their brutal, repressive rules. As Eliza said, the plantation guards are Americans like us, and they've proven themselves not to be threatening at all, but just regular people trying to make the best of an imperfect situation and willing to bend the rules so we can all derive some mutual enjoyment.

"I guess, you're right, but... but..." I say, but then I can't find a rebuttal to add attach to my 'but' so I continue. "Oh, Sam. You've always been the more optimistic one, haven't you?"

"You know it," Sam says, giving my leg an affectionate squeeze and wrapping a hand around my thigh. "Did you miss me?"

"I guess I did, Sam. It's been a long time," I say, leaning closer to zir.

"Why did we break up again, Pat?" ze asks, zir face close to mine,

There were many reasons I could cite, but, with hope warming my heart, I say as my press my lips onto zirs, "I don't remember, Sam."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 19

Abandoned farm. Outskirts of Erie County, Colorado. September 2nd, 2065. 2102 hours.

"Can you confirm the number of individuals we're dealing with? Is it five or is it six?" JiangWei demands to the squad through her linkernode.

One of XiaoPan's former platoon members, a surly sergeant named LaoGao, replies, "I'm sorry, captain. It's still unclear. The first thermal scan showed five people on the upper floors, but another person seems to have come up from the basement. Sir, I would be very happy to confirm those numbers for you, if we were only to allow us to advance the hundred meters to get visual confirmation..."

"No! Do not proceed! Is that clear? Continue monitoring!" JiangWei barks.

"Whoa. Relax there. LaoGao just wants to do his job, ok?" XiaoJun says on a private line. "Are you sure we can't just send them in? The people can't be more than country bumpkins. They have no weapons and no electronics. They don't even have power. They're just walking around with candles. Remind me again why we can't just send a couple of our squad and take them down?"

JiangWei steadies the excited tension quivering in her, much of which she knows is not her own. It's coming not only from the things inside her, but also from the modified prowlerbot stationed in its transportation container. It's been increasingly difficult disentangling her feelings and sensations from what is hers or not, so her default has been to clamp down on everything - including, unfortunately the freedom of her squad.

"I'm sorry, XiaoJun. I'm just not comfortable with sending people in until we know what we're dealing with. I told you how it ended the last time it seemed like the suspects looked inoffensive, right?" JiangWei replies.

XiaoJun grunts. "Yeah, I remember. I also saw the footage from Superior. I still find it hard to believe what I saw. But fine, I'm okay with playing it safe for now." After a brief pause though, likely after sending messages to the squad to quell their impatient questions, she says, "Look, we've established they have nothing even remotely similar to a warning system, digital or analog. Nothing in the fields around the farmhouse seems to have been disturbed for the last year or so. How about we send something in to get a visual? Maybe a microdrone to get a closer look?"

JiangWei reluctantly concedes. "Alright. Positive on the microdone. Send in one of the crawlers."

"The crawlers? Why a crawler? It'll take forever for it walk up there. Why don't we just use one of the flyers and have it attach to the windows?" XiaoJun complains. Both the flyers and crawlers would nearly be invisible, as they're indistinguishable from the insects they're based on, but, as XiaoJun said, the beetle-shaped flyers would be able to quickly hover over, while the cockroach-shaped crawler would have to slowly make its way across the ground.

"Yes, I know it'll take longer, but I'm not interested in what's in the upper levels. I want to see what's in the basement and only the crawler drone can do that," JiangWei explains. "XiaoJun. Can you please trust me on this?"

"Alright, alright, fine..." XiaoJun grumbles again. "I suppose you found these guys in the first place even though they didn't show on any of our scans. How did you know to look here, anyway?"

JiangWei doesn't reply. It's not the first time that XiaoJun has asked - and she knows it echoes the same questions of the rest of the squad have been asking amongst themselves. So far, she's answered in evasive generalities, citing gut instinct and experience, which obviously hasn't been particularly convincing. But, as much as she trusts XiaoJun and the squad, JiangWei couldn't very tell them that she's being guided by the very horrors they're sent to destroy.

She knew to come here because the damned, disgusting things in her body had led her to the place - just as they had led her to the people at the airport. Even though they're kilometers away from any kind of populated center. Even though that the stated residents of the place - a young married couple who had been positively identified by matching their thermal scans to their checkpoint records - had no sign of suspicious activity on their records. She knew to come here.

But there's a difference now. Even if the things in her body wouldn't have led her here, then the modified prowlerbot would have. She had tried to convince herself that it was just her imagination. She tried to remind herself that it was just another inanimate drone. But as visions came to her and entwined with those of the things inside her, she began to see, even without closing her real eye, the haunting noxious energies emanating all around. Because this time, they were coming from a waist-high perspective that could only be prowlerbot.

Does she trust XiaoJun and the squad? She does, doesn't she? She desperately wants to, but it's impossibly and frustratingly confusing for her to know for sure. She's spent the last few days training and working with them, getting used to each other. Really, it was more like XiaoJun and the squad getting used to her, since they already knew each other. Even though Colonel Fung assured her she could request anyone including any of the high-ranking spec-ops teams, she asked XiaoJun to recruit people she trusted from her own platoon at the airport. She figured that not only would XiaoJun's choices be pre-vetted, they'd also be well trained and reliable. Most importantly though, they'd be cautious and take her warnings seriously given their experience fighting the abominations at the airports.

"Visual confirmation of five individuals," LaoGao announces, sending the images to JiangWei, as soon as the crawler moves into position. "About time, don't you think?"

"Agreed. I've had enough of squatting in the dark like this," a soldier named Ah-Qing growls irritably. As the heavy munitions member in the squad, her hardframe is laden down with twice the armament.

"Can we storm them yet? I don't remember having to sit around doing nothing since basic training," LaoGao asks plaintively.

"That's a negative. Hold until the crawler has given us intel on the basement," XiaoJun says.

"But that's going to take..."

"Shut the fuck up, and wait, you bastards. Just goddamned wait, or do you want the same creatures attacking you? You wanna go up against something like that without aerial support?" XiaoJun snaps, effectively silencing the complaints. "Didn't fucking think so. We wait. That crawler is nearly there so we'll have..."

"Hold on. Someone is coming out," LaoGao interrupts. "White male. In his thirties. Trying to identify him... Success. Individual's name is Westin Lane. No previous citations on his record. He's a janitor at Boulder Hospital, with minimal security clearance. Looks like he's approaching my position."

"What's he doing? Is holding anything? Is he going to get anything?" JiangWei asks.

"Negative, he's just in the field... ah, wait a minute. He's holding something," LaoGao confirms. "He's holding his dick. He's taking a piss. What should we do?"

JiangWei grinds her teeth. It would be risky to apprehend the man, but it would be a fast way to get a threat assessment as the crawler gets closer. "Grab him. Be quiet about it. I'm coming over. XiaoJun, meet me there. Maybe we can do this without any incident. Everyone get ready. Prime your hardframes for rapid insertion. We could be moving in a minute."

A few seconds later, JiangWei is standing with XiaoJun and watching as LaoGao easily restrains the struggling man with his hardframe. One gauntleted hand is clapped over the man's mouth, muffling his angry protests. He's a hollow-eyed, hollow-cheeked man with wispy hair. He looks like he hasn't had a full meal in some time. Based on the salary on his record, that's probably the case. As JiangWei and XiaoJun approach, he stops his futile wriggling, probably realizing how screwed he is.

"Mr. Westin Lane, I imagine you know who we are," JiangWei says. "I also imagine you know we have the authority to kill you and your friends if we see the need for it. However, you should be relieved to know I want you and your friends alive. I'll get your sentence reduced if you help, but if you don't..." JiangWei consults his file rapidly. "I'll have your two daughters sent to a penal colony up north. They're fourteen and fifteen, aren't they? Pretty girls. And you've been lucky enough that they've had pretty decent jobs. If they're sent to the penal colonies though... I don't think I need you to imagine what will happen to them there and what they'll need to do to survive. Do you understand me?" The man nods. "If I have the sergeant here release you and let you speak, will you be smart enough to cooperate?" The man nods again. "Alright. Let him go."

JiangWei waits for the man to catch his breath. "Tell me, Mr. Lane. How many people are in there besides you?"

"Seven people."

"Seven, huh? We see only five upstairs, but I imagine the other two are in the basement?"

"Yeah."

JiangWei was about to follow up, but suddenly stops when she feels a familiar cold tingling building in the back of her head. It's faint and weak, unlike the harsh, overwhelming jabs she felt at the airport or Superior. Either way, it suggests something is about to happen, and she needs to stop it before it kills everyone.

Abruptly standing up, she links with the crawler drone, and curses when she sees it's only reached the side basement window and hasn't been able to investigate the entire area. However, based on its initial scan, it reveals there are two heat signatures down there. Reassuringly, there's no evidence of the vats and equipment that she'd seen before. None that the crawler could see anyway. They could be hidden. She really wants to be certain about what they're getting into, but as the coldness and twitching in her arm and eye socket build, she knows they must act soon.

Unfortunately, the choice in the matter is removed when Mr. Westin Lane suddenly rediscovers his spine, and starts hollering:

"THEY FOUND US! FREE AMERICA! GLORY TO THE LIBERTARIANS OF THE VOI... urgh!"

A quick smack to the face from LaoGao is all that's needed to shut the man up, but the damage is done. Notices from the rest of the squad say that the people in the house have started scrambling around with one of them retreating into the basement. They're probably trying to enact whatever pitiful defense measures they may have.

"Damn fool!" JiangWei curses, delivering a kick to the man's prone body.

"So much for 'no incidents'," XiaoJun sighs. "Now, can we go in?"

"Fuck! Damn it! Yes! Go in! Get those idiots! ...NO! WAIT! STOP!" JiangWei blurts out, as she starts to see a noxious miasmic glow begin to seep from the basement.

She can't risk any squad members being exposed to whatever is potentially in there, but she still wants to capture some of these people alive. She's also torn by the acute need to stop whatever is happening in the basement.

So, much against what she'd been originally planning, she orders:

"This is an extraction mission only! Track whoever is on the main floor and retrieve them. But do not, I repeat do NOT pursue them into the basement. Retrieve and return asap. I will be releasing the prowlerbot to go after the people in the basement. Execute!"

"Yes, sir!" a chorus replies, and the squad surges forward.

At full speed, the squad storms the house, grabs the four people still on the main floor, and retreats back out, leaving unmolested the three people down in the basement. This all takes only a few seconds, and in that period, JiangWei is supposed to release the prowlerbot with orders to suppress whatever is in the house.

And yet, with the drone's interface blinking expectantly in her vision, she hesitates. Why, damn it, why? Why the hell is she hesitating about releasing the prowlerbot? They've trained with it numerous times, and it's always performed flawlessly. Never once was there anything suspicious about its behavior, nor did it deviate at all from any of its orders or break past any of the in-built safeguards the programmers had put in place. So why is she wasting precious seconds keeping the prowlerbot from doing the work it was designed to do? Damn it!

"JiangWei! The prowlerbot! What are you doing?" XiaoJun hisses.

JiangWei clenches her jaw, hating every single paralyzing moment of doubt and dread, but she ultimately barks, "Fuck! Releasing prowlerbot now! Stay out of its way, people! Ah-Qing! Call in our aerial support. We may need to get out of here fast."

"Yes, sir!" Ah-Qing replies. "Two Qilins on the way. They should be here in..."

But JiangWei doesn't hear the response as the prowlerbot bursts from its enclosure. Its vidfeed flashes into her retinal display. As she watches it tear through the house and head straight into the basement, she's suffused with electrifying, feral excitement. With all her stubborn will, she shuts the vidfeed and pushes back the uninvited, alien sensations, focusing instead on the drone's command interface. She watches as the blinking red blip of the prowlerbot approaches and snuffes out the three blinking blue blips of the people foolish enough to have gone down there.

A message from the prowlerbot flashes in her vision:

<OPERATION COMPLETE. AREA SECURE.>

Even without the message, JiangWei would have known this, as the growing coldness in her head has evaporated. The satisfied presence in her mind, however, and the rolling in her eye and arm don't stop, and, if anything, are filled with bloated self-contentment.

"Hey. You ok?" XiaoJun asks, patting JiangWei on the arm.

"Fine. I'm fine," JiangWei mutters.

"Well, looks like the operation went smoothly," XiaoJun says. "We got the suspects out with minimal damage to them with zero casualties on our side, while our prowlerbot took out whatever was in the basement. I think that was the fastest intervention I've ever seen, to be honest. Best and most important of all, no freaky shit happened."

"Excellent, that's great," JiangWei nods abstractly, her mind still tripping over itself with crawling sensations.

Her attention sharply returns when XiaoJun whacks her hard on her hardframe's chestplate. "Hey. Pull yourself together. You've got a squad to command, remember? We depend on you."

"Right. Shit. Sorry about that," JiangWei shakes her head.

"Keep it for later, ok?" XiaoJun says gruffly. "Now, come on. Let's check out what we caught."

The prisoners aren't much to look at. They're sitting on the ground, their hands bound behind their backs with zipties. Like the first man, the rest of them are gaunt and ragged-looking. In total, they're two men and two women. It would be easy to assume that they're two couples, but based on their body language and their records they're not. The hope was that they would capture someone from the Libertarians of the Void so they could squeeze some reliable intel out of them. But that seems unlikely now.

"My name is Captain Hui," JiangWei begins. "If you cooperate and tell me what you know about the Libertarians of the Void, I'll see to it that you'll have more lenient treatment, and maybe even a reduction of your debt load. Mr. Lane here was kind enough to help us in the beginning, so I'll make a note to..."

"You bastard!" one of the women screams at Mr. Lane, as she lunges at him. She's sitting next to him, but because her hands around bound, she topples over. "I'm going to fucking kill you! How could you betray us?"

"I didn't! I just told them how many we were! And then I warned you! I warned you didn't I?" Mr. Lane protests, flinching as far away as he can.

"Oh, leave him alone. They would have found us sooner or later," the second man says morosely, as he curls into himself. "I knew I shouldn't have joined you. I'll cooperate. I'll tell you what I know, but unfortunately I don't know shit."

This admission is rewarded with a wad of spittle landing across his face, as the second woman curses him with utter contempt: "You weak asswipe. Traitor. We shouldn't have offered for you to join. Only Sandra and Joseph have shown themselves willing to use the Elder Gods. You guys are just betrayers and useless sacks of shit. No wonder the Libertarians of the Void won't come to us."

"Oh, let it go, already," the second man says, rolling his eyes, as he tries to wipe the spit off with his shoulder. "If Sandra and Joseph were really able to summon the Elder Gods, then why didn't anything happen when they started their ritual circle?"

"Betrayer! I'll make you pay!" the first woman screams again at Mr. Lane, as she squirms on the ground trying to get her feet under her.

"I didn't betray you! I'm telling you, I didn't!" Mr. Lane protests again.

"They failed because you and Westin weren't committed," the second woman retorts to the second man, spitting again. "You're all a waste of flesh. We all are. None of us deserve to live."

"You guys are nuts. I'll say anything to get away from you," the second man says, shaking his head. "Anything is better than this. Can we be taken away now? Please?"

"Get me away too! I'll say anything! I'll tell you everything! Please!" Mr. Lane screams to JiangWei, but as he does so, the first woman manages to get on to her feet, and launches herself on him, screaming,

"I'll kill you! I'm going to tear your eyes out!"

There's no doubt she would have, but with her hands tied behind her back, the only thing she can attack Mr. Lane with is her teeth, which she uses to bite off a chunk of his ear.

"Aiyeeee! Get her off! Get her off!"

It takes a few minutes to get the shit show back into order, but JiangWei has seen enough. The idiots are useless. Internal Security will, of course, still interrogate them and tear through their minds until they revealed every secret they had since pre-school, but it would go nowhere. These people aren't the Libertarians of the Void. They're just a bunch of losers who'd gotten in over their heads. With a wave of her hand, JiangWei has them packaged for transport. She then motions for XiaoJun, LaoGao and Ah-Qing to follow her to her into the house to check on what's in the basement.

They enter the house, their weapons at ready. Although the prowlerbot has given the all-clear, there's still a chance there may be defenses or traps that weren't detected or triggered. Her caution is unwarranted though, as they move through the broken house and into the basement without any issue. And thankfully, unlike Superior, there are no other passageways and no excavated caves. For all intents and purposes, it's just another dusty, unfinished basement with tufts of pink insulation spilling out of torn plastic siding.

However, while there's nothing there that even resembles the dangerous equipment and smells that JiangWei had seen previously, what they find in the basement is no less shocking and takes effort to process.

"What. The. Fuck." LaoGao mutters. "What the hell were these yokels trying to do?"

Two bodies are sprawled on the ground. They're lying in a ten foot-wide pentacle, encircled by jagged symbols. It looks like they've transcribed them from a bunch of blotchy printouts that are spread across the floor in haphazard piles. Though they'll be carefully transcribed and examined, JiangWei somehow knows the symbols are meaningless gibberish. She also somehow knows that whatever they were trying to do was fated to fail from the start. They may have touched the Elder Gods in the beginning, but they would have achieved nothing else.

"Looks like the prowlerbot stopped them in the middle of something," XiaoJun muses, flipping them over with her foot and revealing a man and a woman with their throats are torn out. Their arms and chests are covered in swirling, ritualistic patterns drawn in blood. There's a dark, stained knife lying between them. "I'm guessing this is the couple who owns the place. Wow, that prowlerbot made short work of them. I wonder why it didn't just subdue them? And wasn't there another heat signature you saw down here? Where's the third person? Oh, shit..."

It's then that they notice the prowlerbot sitting in eerie stillness against the wall. Lying in front of it is the corpse of the third person.

It's a child, probably around four or five years old. A little girl judging from the dress. She's been disemboweled and drained of blood. The investigators would likely later show that it was her blood that was used to draw the symbols on the ground. And the ones on her parents' arms and chests. JiangWei doesn't need to look at the couple's record to know that this child was theirs.

But something doesn't seem right about the child. Something about her dimensions seems wrong. Something about her head. As JiangWei looks closer, she sees why. The child's head is half gone.

"Motherfucking hell..." LaoGao whispers, taking a step back.

"Tamade. Zhe me hui zhe yang..." Ah-Qing swears, before throwing up.

A trail of blood leads from the child's body and ends between the prowlerbot's sharp, metal-taloned feet. There, lying like a prize or a chewtoy, is the top half of the child's head, turned upside down and balanced on her mop of blond hair... and angled in such a way that her glazed eyes stare straight at them.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 20

Historic town center. Nederland, Colorado. September 13, 2065. Two days before the Mid-Autumn Festival/ZhongQiu Jie

It's Sunday, our rest day, and I'm working in the noon sun. But I'm not complaining. I'm even happy to do this work without being paid for it.

I am nuts? Not at all! Well, maybe a little. Seriously though. Why would I possibly complain about working if the work is to set up for our own party? Hell, I was so eager this morning to join the work crew, I even got to the assembly point a few minutes early. How's that for being nutty?

Not that it's easy or fast work, as the entirety of Nederland needs to do be gussied up and made ready for the Mid-Autumn Festival. We've been at it since 6:30am, and I don't imagine we'll be done until late this evening. We'll possibly even need to come in tomorrow after the regular workday to put finishing touches on the stage and the bandstand. Most of the morning has been spent cleaning the disused buildings and public areas and making them presentable. After splitting into work crews, we cheerfully went about polishing windows, sweeping the grounds of accumulated debris and adding new coats of paint to fading walls. All to make the outer face of the town have that nice, superficially authentic, old-timey feel.

We also go about decorating the streets, which Big Don insisted must be done beautifully and perfectly according to his grandiose, flashy specifications. Suspended from every lamppost is a Star-Spangled banner, fluttering gently in the "wind" generated by carefully placed fans. Red, white and blue streamers crisscross above the streets while matching blinking lights are garlanded over pretty much every surface possible. Firecrackers are also set up at regular intervals along the main street, though most will be centered around the bandstand and the stage. They'll be timed and connected so that at the right moment, dazzlers and spinners would go off in an orgy of patriotic spectacle.

What takes the most time though is setting up thoroughfare, which will certainly be busiest spot during the party. It's also where I've been posted for the last few hours. I've been helping set up two rows of tents, food stalls and kiosks. They're meant to cater to our every whim. Everything from beer to junk food to all manner of souvenirs will be available, so we can cherish the memory of the event forever. Mind you, there will be a small price to pay for all the items, though nothing more than a few pay-tokens. As Big Don explained, it's a very low and reasonable price meant only to recoup some transportation fees, while the bulk of the cost will be paid for by himself.

"Coming through! Make way!" a few people cry out cheerfully, as they puff and strain. They're carrying heavy rolls of metal rebar meant to reinforce the tents and bandstand.

"One more! Here we come!" someone else yells out from behind. As they shuffle by, a soft voice adds so only I can hear - while my right buttock gets a light squeeze: "Watch your cute butt, Pat."

I jerk my head up, smiling as I meet Sam's eyes as ze goes by. Amidst the hubbub, I doubt anyone saw. But then again, we've slipped in our vigilance, openly trading gentle caresses or sitting more snuggly than necessary. No one seems to mind. In any case, it's nothing compared to Eliza and Sarah's blatant make-out sessions and frequent groping, which also go unacted on.

Are Sam and I together again? Maybe. We do spend an awful lot of our free time together, and there has been the occasional substance-fueled smooching and outdoor lovemaking. To be honest, we haven't talked about our relationship status explicitly. Interestingly, the ambiguity doesn't bother me as much as it did when we were more "officially" in relationship.

I suppose priorities tend to shift somewhat after you get dragged through successive rounds of tortuous hells and multiple levels of public contempt and mockery. Sam would chide me and say that's a cynical interpretations of things. A somewhat nicer, if not fluffier, explanation is that I'm significantly happier than I've been for a long time. Possibly for as long as the Occupation has yoked us. So why would I worry about such small details as whether Sam and I are an "item" or not? In any case, it's not like I need to worry about ze's fidelity, as ze doesn't exactly have many options to hook up with other people here.

The last few weeks have been undeniably good. With the popularity of my cooking, Eliza increased her parties from once a week to four times week. Since she could only get enough food for about thirty people, she told me she'd been forced to put people on a waiting list. Most beneficially for me and Sam, she's been paying us with not only pay-tokens, but extra joints and excess food, both of which I've been able to trade with other field workers to reduce my work load, allowing me to be far better rested and fed. As a happy side-effect, I've lost some weight. Maybe as much as ten pounds!

I can't say the plantation-slave-labor workout is the most orthodox fitness regimen, but the results speak for themselves. My body no longer feels like a disgusting sack of shit that I can barely endure inhabiting. For the first in a long time, I feel good in my body. Comfortable. Unembarrassed. I no longer avert my eyes from any kind of reflective surface, and nor do I feel the familiar sense of repulsion thinking about the corpulent sack of shit that was physical shell. I'd even go so far as to say that I look pretty nice, even somewhat handsome in a solid, big-boned kind of way - a fact that I've gone to some length to enhance with more attention to my hygiene and toilette. Sam has even commented on it a couple of times. And you know what? Sam and I look good together - assuming we're considering ourselves a couple. Of course, we don't look nearly as good as when we were together and had the restaurant... but it's best not to think about that. I'm happy. That's enough for now.

"Hey, asshole! Are you going to help or what?" a surly voice says from beside me.

It's Jane, the woman I've been paired up with to complete setting up the kitchen areas. She's a diminutive, wiry Hispanic woman in her sixties with bushy, jet-black hair. There's a general look of messiness about her that's matched by a distinctly hostile stand-offness and don't-fucking-talk-to-me-ness. I figured she must be a newbie, but to my surprise, I learned that Jane is the field worker with highest seniority in all of the plantations, having been in Nederland for nearly three years. With her experience and knowledge, I thought people would be regularly consulting her to find out how she managed to survive that long, but everyone goes out of their way to avoid or ignore her. In fact, no one was willing to be assigned to her except me - mostly thanks to my newfound geniality.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry about that Jane. Just taking a break," I reply, as I go back to attaching the greasy propane tanks to the ovens. It's taken hours of effort to clean the connections and scour the stove-top, but I'm pleased to say I'm pretty close to test-firing the oven.

"You mean a break in your fucking boyfriend's crotch?" Jane snaps, loudly dragging filthy roasting trays out of the ovens and dunking them into the soapy sink. "Stupid dumb fat idiot. Just get back to work. I don't want to stay here all day, so I can be a fucking target with queer boy here."

Stung, I fall silent, and return to tinkering with the oven. Usually, I'd let Jane's comment slide, but feeling emboldened by the general comfort and acceptance I've experienced so far, I say, "Actually, Sam isn't my boyfriend, and we're not boys. We identify as agender and we prefer the pronouns..."

"Ve/vir? Xe/xir? They? Any of those?" Jane sneers. "Or maybe you prefer ne/nir? That was usually for those who considered themselves neutrois though."

"...I... that is... We prefer ze/zir..."

"Ah, yes. I guess that makes sense for someone who is agender. Good for you. My deepest and most sincerest apologies for not having inquired before assuming what your gender or orientation is. I'm rusty on my diversity training," Jane apologizes with acidic sarcasm.

I'm surprised by how familiar she is with the language and concepts I thought had been pushed away from our collective memories. Assuming there must be only one explanation, I ask, "Do you have a preferred pronoun, Jane? And would you be kind enough to tell me what your gender is?"

Instead of entering into a pleasant conversation about gender and sharing our experiences, Jane hurls a pot lid at my head, hissing, "Fuck you and mind your own fucking business."

The lid whizzes by my head, missing me by a few inches.

Forcing myself to keep calm, I retrieve the lid and put it gently back in the pile of cookware that Jane is working on. I quell my anger by returning to work on the oven and scrubbing the persistent grease stains. Soon, I'm back to feeling calm again, and it even looks like the oven is ready for its test burn. After double-checking the tubes and connections, I turn the valves on and click the pilot light, causing the gaseous hissing to whoomp and light up the stove-top range with a six pale blue burning flames. Success.

But as I turn the oven off, and switch to fixing the deep fryer, I realize the pleasure I should be feeling is tinged with difficult to ignore sour notes. I grimace, as I know exactly what's putting a damper on my good mood. Setting down the fryer's main lines, I take a deep breath and turn to Jane to extend an olive branch,

"I'm sorry for having angered you, Jane. I don't know what you've experienced in the past, but I just want to let you know that you can be accepted for who you are here. There's no more reason to hide anymore from the Occupation. We're among friends and fellow Americans. We're able to live our great tradition of acceptance, tolerance and diversity. I know you probably think this can't possibly be the case. I also felt that way, and walled myself off from everyone else and any kind of hope. But isn't that what the Occupation wants? To break our spirit? To dash our dreams and our memories of what America used to be? I'm telling you now, Jane, that we can't let them do that! There's still hope. Many of us here still believe it and live it as well. Look at my prosthetic! This was something that was given to me in exchange for my skills as a cook. Trading skills for goods! That's the American Way! It's just what we used to do in the old days. And you know what? I can probably help you too. I noticed that you tend to limp on your right foot. I can get you a balm to take away the pain, or I even give you a few pinner joints if you'd like to use that instead."

During my little speech - which I thought was generous and more fucking welcoming than she deserved - Jane continued scrubbing the pans, as she alternately made faces, snorted, and rolled her eyes. When I finished, she said nothing, continuing with her work, and occasionally giving me why-the-fuck-are-you-still-standing-there-you-fucking-imbecile side-eye. Why indeed am I still trying to help this old ungrateful hag? But I try one more time:

"I can speak to Eliza, you know. She can help you out. I don't know if you know this, but she organizes gatherings where people can relax and party for a small fee. If there's anything that will convince you of how good things can be here, that's it. I do the cooking for them, and it's been a hit, if I do say so myself. So far, Sam is the only one who's been helping me, but as more people come, I could use another pair of hands in the kitchen. Nothing complicated. Just some chopping and some plating. You can do that, right? I'd be happy to speak for you, and tell Eliza I could use you. And you know the best part? You'll get paid with pay-tokens and other goods that you'll be able to trade with others for favors to make your life easier."

Jane's response is a glare, followed by guttural spit onto the floor.

"Fuck, you're persistent, I'll give you that. Oh, my. What a wonderful offer you've made lil' ol' me. Surely, I should be kissing your hands and licking your shoes in gratitude right now, huh?"

The thought had crossed my mind.

"Because who hasn't heard of Eliza's fucking parties? Who hasn't been raving about the famous chef... That's you, by the way, lard ass... You're the famous chef who can turn shit into gold that everyone fights over because it reminds them of Good ol'Murica. I'll bet you got a bullshit name all ready to describe your cooking too. Let me guess. New American Cookery? Nouveau Home-Style? Neo Diner Fare?"

I did, in fact, think of a pretty good name that I felt had a nice ring to it: 'Revived American Cooking.' Suppressing my indignation at the woman's mocking, I say amiably,  "Actually, I've decided to call it Rev..."

"Fuck off and shut the fuck up!" Jane snarls, splashing my face with a handful of dirty water. "You probably think you're clever working with Eliza, don't you? You probably think that it's just a smart way to do business that can benefit everyone with the whole trickle-down effect bullshit of Great American Capitalism. And I'll bet you think anyone can do it, right? That you just happened to have the skills so you and your pretty boy Sam - oh, so sorry, pretty agender pal Sam - could be employed by that twit Eliza. You think the others don't want to be part of this 'great opportunity' of yours? Dumb fucker. I want nothing to do with you idiots. You want to fuck yourselves over by making yourselves known to the guards? Be my fucking guest, but leave me out of it."

Wiping the scum off my face, I'm proud that I haven't lashed out in response despite my increasing pissed-offness. It's defused, however, by my conclusion that Jane must have survived some pretty horrible experiences to be so distrustful. I'm of course annoyed that she's throwing away my attempts at kindness, but really I feel more sad than anything that the Occupation has so scarred her so badly that nothing can bring her out of her trauma.

"Well," I say neutrally. "I'm sorry that you feel that way, and I'm sorry you're so doubtful. I suppose we have to agree to disagree, but the guards are Americans like us. They're just trying to make ends meet and make the best out of a bad situation. And if you don't believe that..." I lower my voice and lean in. "...I should tell you that Billy, the overseer of the guards himself, had told me that his previous partner was trans before the Occupation, so he too has suffered, and he's much more open and accepting than he may appear."

Jane sneers. "Fucking Billy told you that story too, huh? Good one. No need to keep it quiet though. He's pretty much told everyone that his partner was trans and used the pronoun 'they'."

"What do you mean?" I frown. "Are you suggesting he's lying?"

"Oh, no! That's always the best part! It's true!" Jane grins a shit-eating smile. "I've seen photos of them and even the vid of them getting married. A touching ceremony, really it was. Small and sweet and not too far from here on the edge of the reservoir."

"So it's as I said then." I turn away to end the completely useless and fruitless conversation. "Billy is another American like us..."

Jane whips a hand out, grabbing me by the arm. "Yes! An American just like us! And just like Big Don, right?"

"Yes, that's right," I struggle to pull away. "Now if you don't mind I have to finish this work here."

"Oh, no. You started this, dumb ass. I'm not finished. Big Don is an American? Sure, he is! Let me tell you how much of a great American he is." Jane's eyes blaze with contempt. "Here's a little tidbit for you. Something you can tell the others about ol'Crazy Jane who's so mysterious and keeps to herself. I was the foreman for one of the largest construction companies in Boulder. That's before the Occupation, and before my partner and I were ran out of town because of the new so-called 'acceptable' gender rules. But let's not get into that shit, 'cause everyone's got a sob-story like mine. No, I want to talk to you about something else. About money. About costing. Because I was a foreman, I know a little about building shit and what shit costs. Do you know how much that one set of scaffolding costs? Do you?"

I shake my head. I don't bother looking at scaffolding she's pointing at, many of which are set up along the thoroughfare. I don't know how much they cost and I don't care. I'm just trying to pull away from the nonsense, but the crazy woman's grip is surprisingly strong.

"At the minimum, that scaffolding costs 1500 dollars - when the American dollar was worth anything in any case. Anyway, as far as I can tell there's about 100 odd sets of them right now. So we're looking at about over a hundred thousand in just scaffolding."

"So what?" I shrug. "Big Don has the money. And besides, he was in construction before and he could have owned them before."

Jane laughs. "Alright, alright. I see you're trying to work it out in your head. But I've got you covered. Now, it could be that Big Don owned them previously, but that can't be the case with the podium and the bandstand. That shit's brand new. How much would it cost with all the parts? Obviously, let's just talk about the materials, and forget about the cost of labor since that's free. Any guesses? No? On the low side, they both cost 250 thousand. How about all the banners and the paint? I'm guessing 50 thousand. Surprised? Yeah, those little things cost more than you think and they add up fast. And then there's the audio-visual system and the wiring. There are speakers everywhere and there's also a vintage plasma screen so everyone can see the fucker's face. How much is that to set up? 100 grand. Then there's the food, the tents, the fireworks and all that other shit. I'd say this whole fancy shebang will cost just shy of two million bucks. Two million fucking bucks! You think he's just going to piss that money away just so he can make us feel like Americans? Where the fuck do you think this money is coming from? The Occupation fucking bankrupted Big Don! He's getting the money from somewhere. Don't kid yourself. This Mid-Autumn Festival is not for us. It's for him. He's making money off this, but no one's asking how."

I finally yank my arm away. "None of that means anything. You're just a nutty conspiracy theorist. The most likely explanation is that Big Don is writing this off as a charity expense. If you haven't forgotten already, and it looks like you have, our nation has long tradition of donations and charity. That's the American Way."

I'm about swoop off in a huff and decisively ignore her and her absurdities, but Jane bursts into uproarious laughing, lasting a full minute before ending in gasping, teary-eyed wheezes.

"Shit, that's a good one. Regular comedian, aren't you, Pat? How old are you? Let me guess. Somewhere between twenty five and thirty? I'm right, aren't I?"

"I don't see why my age has anything to do with this. I've had enough of this..."

"Let me tell you about the American Way," Jane says. "You fucking kids, don't know shit about it. You're fucking lucky to have grown up in a time when we'd already worked through the worst of the insane bigots and their nutso policies. When you were a toddler, there were only a few handfuls of wacked-out conservative towns left, and they were inbreeding themselves into stupidity. By the time you grew up, their variety of religious gender shaming was mostly gone and forgotten. You were lucky enough to grow up thinking that non-binary genders was always accepted and anyone who didn't was just flat out weird. You probably think that most people still agree with that too, right? You fucking asswipe moron. It doesn't take much for people to switch back to the way things were."

Jane slaps her forehead and makes a mocking oooh-ing face.

"But you don't know about that do you? You don't remember the times when the religious nutters went around trying to ban trans people from the bathrooms of their choice? Or denying them basic health care? I'll bet you don't even remember when things boiled over and radical conservative militias tried to secede into their own God-fearing nation and started to systematically bomb gender confirmation medical centers not to mention any restaurant, club, reading group, family that they thought was associated to what they thought was non-gender-normative behavior? No? Doesn't ring a bell? Well you should try to look into that, 'cause that's your precious American Way! Yes, I have no doubt that Big Don is a bonafide American following the Great American Way, but if I were you, I'd ask which American Way he's deciding to follow."

"That's ridiculous. Get away from me," I splutter, though the familiar feeling of fear and paranoia begin to return. "Big Don has done nothing wrong. It makes no sense. The guards are my friends. I've smoked with them, ate with them, and partied with them. I know them. They're decent people."

"Oh, really? Does that look people about to do something decent?" Jane snickers, pointing her finger out the tent.

I very reluctantly turn around. I'm shocked by what I see. It's Big Don, swaggering through the thoroughfare, and headed straight for the half-built stage. Behind him are a dozen of his guards, and they're holding between them a worker.

No, not a worker. A prisoner. And he's terrified.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 21

The only thing blaring through my mind is how fucking screwed I am, and how I should have found a way to get the fuck out of here sooner. From the quick glances at Sam's face and everyone around me, I can tell people are thinking exactly the same thing. Sam is standing a few feet away from me. I'd really like to be clutching zir hand, but after a silent exchange of panicked looks, we drifted apart to keep some distance between us. From the corner of my eye, I see Eliza. She's also standing at a conspicuous distance from Sarah.

After Big Don's surprise arrival, an announcement was made over the scratchy speakers, asking/ordering us to drop what we were doing and to gather in front of the stage. I should have ran then, but instead, I tried to catch the attention of Billy or any of the guards I knew to get some kind of reassurance that everything was ok, that it was no big deal, and that this was going to be just another one of Big Don's rambling pep talks. None of them looked me the eye, maintaining grim, serious expressions. And it was during my wasted effort that the guards stationed themselves around us, effectively corralling us in and eliminating any chance of escape.

There's a taut, breathless quiet as we wait for Big Don and his attendants to set up the microphone equipment around his lectern and put finishing touches on his make-up and hair. On the opposite side of the stage, the prisoner is standing between two guards with his hands bound in front of him. He's a plump, thirtyish Black man, who looks disturbing a lot like me, except that he has long dreads tied behind his head. He's darting his eyes into the crowd, voicelessly pleading for help, but everyone averts their gazes. I'm thankful I don't know the guy, but even I only don't look straight at him for fear of being associated to him.

"Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Why is this making that noise? Can you fix this?" Big Don's voice squeaks over the speakers. Covering his hand over the microphone, he glances back at a pale-faced worker fumbling with a mess of wires. After fiddling with a switch and some levels, the worker gives a shaky thumbs-up.

Big Don's voice comes back on with full force, with the speakers projecting his deep, drawling voice:

"Sorry about that. This equipment is over fifty years old, so it takes some time for it get it working. But you know what? I'm so happy and wonderfully grateful that I have a spectacularly competent staff who can get it to work even in the most difficult of situations! Let's give them hand!"

We clap politely. A few workers wave at us and quickly step further into the background.  Big Don puts on a dramatically mournful expression as he raises his hands to the sky:

"If only we could be here to celebrate our successes and how wonderful we all are! You are so great! So fantastic! Believe me, the one thing I want to do is celebrate us, and what we've created here. If only we can go straight into our Mid-Autumn Festival celebrations so we can drink and party like we all deserve!"

We clap again, but we're more subdued and uncertain as we wait for the dreaded 'but.'

"But something has been brought to my attention that I must take action on. Something that threatens not only us, but our plans and our way of life in Nederland. You know I'm reluctant to do this, because every one of you is precious to me. You know my greatest desire is to improve our lives so we can be happy together and live as Real Americans." Big Don thrusts a hand at the prisoner. "A part of me even wants to help this man! Even though this man has betrayed my trust. Our trust. Believe me, I want to forgive him and keep him with us. But I can't. It just can't work for us. And this makes me sad. I'm so sad. So sad that I am forced to do this. It brings tears to my eyes."

Big Don wipes away the invisible moistness from his eyes, and gestures impatiently for the prisoner to be brought up. The poor guy undoubtedly knows nothing good will happen, forcing the guards to prod him forward so he can stand shame-faced next to Big Don. He almost collapses when Big Don claps a hand on his shoulder and says,

"Let me introduce you to Peter Marshall. He's been working with us for six months now, at the Crazy Jade Fish cannabis plantation. As far as I can tell from his record, he's done great work for us. Beautiful work. No one has complained about his work ethic or how much he harvests. However," Big Don removes his hand from the prisoner's shoulder, and raises a cautionary finger to the vindictive heavens. He's completely secured our unwavering attention. "Peter here has broken a critical rule. A very important rule that has serious implications for our safety and well-being. Now, you know that I don't have many rules, and I'm happy for people to run their own side-businesses if they can advance themselves. That's the American Way that I've promised you. I'm sure you'll agree I've been very lenient and accepting of the things going on in my plantations... and I guarantee you I know everything that goes in my plantations."

An icy puck of fear slams straight into my gut. Like the other field workers around me, I'm only slightly relieved when Big Don continues, "There's only one thing that I forbid. Just one. And Peter here has broken it: do not use any digital devices, especially any devices that can connect to the network. Peter here has done that. What's he been doing? He's been operating a private cinema with an old-model datashroud, and he's been showing the latest vids and shows from the network."

As he lets this information sinks in, whispered conversations break out, some knowingly wagging their fingers at Peter, and others worryingly glancing at each other wondering if they'll be dragged down as well. The quiet returns sharply when Big Don says,

"My friends! You know this isn't my rule! You know this is imposed on us by the Occupation! It's a very unfair rule, I might add, but we must follow this rule because they can track the data-stream down, and once they follow it here, they will come to shut us down. And you realize what means, right? They would search everything in the entire town, and in doing so, they'll find all the small rules we bend, and they will destroy what we've constructed here. They'll even end up posting their own soldiers here and make our lives miserable! Now, is that what you want to happen?"

"No!" we shout out obediently.

"Do you want the Chinese to come up here?"

"NO!"

"Do you want them to destroy our wonderful town?"

"NO!"

"Will you agree not to use any digital devices or any devices that can connect to the network?"

"YES!"

"Good, good," Big Don says approvingly. Turning now to Peter, Big Don says, "As for you..."

It's then that Peter electrically comes back to life and shouts out in a loud, shrilling voice:

"Please don't kill me! Please! I'm so sorry! I'm really sorry that I used the datashroud. I swear I never completely connected to the network! I never even browsed myself! I only used automated VPN programs to download a few things. I saw nothing on the network! Nothing! I honestly thought that it was such a small amount that no one could detect it. Oh, please forgive me, Mr. Big Don! I'll never do it again! Please, oh, please! I don't want to die..."

We watch as Peter descends into tearful incoherence. It's a miserable sight. A few people catcall and yell out that it serves him right, that he threatened all of us, and that he should have known better. But by and large, most of us don't say anything. Peter could have easily been any one of us. The poor guy really should have known better - but any one of us might have taken the risk to use a datashroud if we thought it wouldn't be detected.

But Big Don surprises us with,

"Kill you? You think I'm going to kill you?" he exclaims, his eyes wide. "I'm not going to kill you!"

"You're not?" Peter raises his head hopefully, but then winces and flinches away. "Are you going to beat me?"

"Beat you? Good Lord! Of course, not! How would that be American? I'm not going to kill you or beat you!" Big Don says shaking his head as Peter - and all of us watching - relaxes a teeny-tiny bit. With great sadness, Big Don looks to the sky and sighs. "Oh, what kind of people have we become that your first thought is that I would be killing you or beating you. What has the Occupation done to us? That's the real tragedy here. No, Peter. I'm not going to kill you or hurt you in any way. Your punishment for having betrayed our trust is that you'll no longer be part of our community. I'm sorry, Peter, but I'll have to deport you out of Nederland. I'm not without compassion though, so I'll give you not only your last set of pay-tokens, but also a bus ticket to wherever you want to go. Most importantly, here's a recommendation letter signed by me. I guarantee you that if you show that to anyone, they'll hire you on the spot! God speed and best of luck to wherever you go."

Taken by a tsunami of relief, we break out into spontaneous clapping. Our clapping amplifies as we watch Big Don motion for Peter's hands to be unbound, and proceeds to hand him a white envelope that he waves at to us before shoving towards Peter. It presumably contains the promised recommendation letter and pay-tokens. Big Don shakes the man's hand before letting the guards lead him away.

Many people, including me, yell out with grateful tears streaming down our faces:

"Thank you! Thank you so much!"

"Such class! So much mercy! Amazing!"

"You're so outstanding! We love you Big Don!"

Big Don responds with multiple blown kisses and giant smiles, as he's lead out by his guards over a roar of rapturous cheers.

There! I want to say to Jane. See that? See? I was right! This place is great! But when I go back to the tent to finish setting up, Jane isn't there - nor do I ever see her again. I can't say I'm too sad about not having to share my workspace with that crabby old bitch.

Buoyed by renewed happiness and confidence, we finish the rest of the day chattering animatedly amongst each other and making jokes at Peter's expense. That damned reckless bastard. Sucks to be him now, huh? He should have thought harder before he did such a reckless move. And now he can't even enjoy the fruits of his labor like the rest of us. Well, he's gone now. Which means that we'll just be partying more without him!

Yet, as we celebrate merrily, in the back of our heads, we wonder whether there's anything we're doing that may be similarly punished. As I look around, there are subtle changes in everyone's behavior. Amidst the joy, there's a current of cautiousness underlying it, as people dart quick glances around to each other and at the guards to see if it's still okay. The previous easy, carefree casualness of moments ago has become forced and less genuine. As if to quell the kernels of doubt in our minds, we launch ourselves more deeply into the set-up of the Mid-Autumn Festival celebrations, to prove to ourselves the tangibility of it and to lessen the chance that it would be taken away from us.

Later on that night, after I wake from an unusually fierce dream of an intensity I hadn't felt for a week, Sam and I quietly pad out of the dormitory to our regular spot overlooking the town and the reservoir. As we walk, we carefully avoid any meaningful talk, rehashing instead old jokes and familiar patterns. And why not? It's a lovely night.

The air is cool and brisk with the coming of autumn, while the skies are clear. Hanging over the water is the brilliant moon, just one night shy of being full. With the darkness of the town below, flickering only with a few sporadic lights, it's hard to imagine that the peace and calm will be replaced with a carnavalesque revelry filled with strobing lights, music and firecrackers. I want to be excited about it, ready to jump into it with abandon and get blitzed out of my mind. I really do.

Sam and I chatter idly, circling around what we really want to talk about, but both too scared to talk about it directly. Sam is the first to find the courage to do so when we hit a lull in the conversation:

"Hey, Pat. Did you know that guy?"

I chew my lip. I can play coy and pretend I don't know who ze is talking about, and possibly start a new round of jokes, but I say, "You mean the guy who was sent away? Peter? No, I didn't know him. Did you?"

"Not really," Sam replies after a pause. "Heard about him though. I think Josie, one of the regular guards who comes to Eliza's gatherings told me about his private cinema one time. Says he had some pretty good shows queued up on his datashroud, even though it was an old model so the resolution wasn't particularly good and none of the VR-immersion features were active. But apparently, the network connection was surprisingly strong and reliable, so you could easily follow what's going on in the series if you concentrate. I was going to invite you one night to check out one his shows. You know, like a date night?"

"Right. That would have been sweet. Thanks, I guess. Maybe it's a good thing we never ended up doing that."

"Yeah. Looks like it, huh?"

In a bid to deflate the awkward guilt growing in the two of us, I snap angrily, "Damn it, he really should have known better."

"Yeah, he really should have."

"Even though we're out in the middle of nowhere, the Occupation can still track a data-stream. He should have known."

"Yeah."

"Goddamn it, why did he think he wouldn't be caught? He should have known how risky it would be."

"Yeah."

"It's his own damn fault that it went down that way. If he had followed the rules, he'd have been fine."

"Yeah."

"Big Don is just protecting our interests. He's watching out for us. What he did made sense, right?"

"Yeah."

"Fuck! What bullshit!"

"Yeah."

We hold a moment of silence for Peter.

"Do you think he's actually been sent away? That he's safe?" I ask tentatively.

"No idea. Maybe," Sam shrugs. "I spoke to someone who saw him physically walk on to a bus, so there's at least that."

Meaning, that at least Peter wasn't hauled away and shot in the back of the head - but then again, he may have been driven out of Nederland and then shot in the back of the head where nobody could see.

"Well, that's good," I say. "If that's the case, then maybe the recommendation letter is legit. Right?"

"Yeah. Let's just say yes for now," Sam shrugs and sighs.

I have nothing to add. None of my doubts would be useful to share, nor would they be anything that Sam hadn't thought of either.

"Did you bring a joint? One of the good ones?" I ask with a sigh.

"Yeah. Give me a sec," Sam rummages in zir pocket and pulls out a lighter and thick, neatly rolled joint.

As we trade drags, I notice that it really is one of the good joints. In fact, it's a joint made from the very organic, high-quality weed that we grow ourselves, but that's so impossibly hard to obtain. The smoke is pleasantly devoid of any harsh chemically pangs, and even has a few notes of fruity sweetness. Most wonderfully, the high is slow and gradual. Not in the way where you wonder if you're getting high at all and if you'd been scammed with some crappy, stale trash weed; but in a way that's consistent with a pleasantly, building presence that feels like someone is wrapping you in a thick, fluffy blanket and getting ready to transport you off and tuck you into bed. No wonder they don't share this weed with us.

But despite the excellence of the joint, I start freaking out.

With all that's going on in my damned head, I should have anticipated this. My heart rate speeds to a deafening tattoo in my ears, while my breathing turns into uncontrollable panting. Most painful of all, my thoughts, my visions, all that I've feared, starts piercing the numbing glaze of the weed and coalesces into a jagged boulder of paranoia crushes my chest.

I'm not a newbie at this, so I recognize the signs of my growing freaked-outness. I try my usual tricks, pinching my arms and legs whenever a nasty thought comes along, humming ridiculous earworm songs to smother my fears, and visualizing a nice happy place where I'm gallivanting through my restaurant being showered with praise...

...But I'm powerless when my happy place gets invaded by a bleeding Chen Taitai making demands for her Chinese food, while hairy, lividly pink spiders crawl out of her eyes...

...And then in comes a new customer, Big Don himself. He's at first praising the food, saying how beautiful it is, but then he lurches up, whips out a jagged ritual knife and stabs his belly with it...

...and out of the void of his stomach emerges slippery, clawed squid-like beings that turn their pointed heads at me and open their yellowed reptilian eyes to look straight at me...

I stand up, start pacing back and forth, attempting my breathing exercises once more. In through the nose, out through the mouth, in through the nose, out through the mouth. The whistling of nostrils only succeeds in getting me to the brink of hyperventilation. I start chewing on the insides of my cheeks until a salty, coppery wetness flows over my tongue... and a renewed wave of horrendous visions assault me...

"...I can't... I have to get out of this... What? What the fuck... It's just... It's just so much... Oh, shit, oh, fuck, oh, motherfucking hell..."

Something warm and firm wraps around me, and for a split second I panic again and attempt to thrash free, but then I feel Sam's kisses on my head, as ze murmurs calm words into my ear. At this point in my extremely bad trip, the words are completely incomprehensible, but the slow tone soothes me, taking back down from the brink. When I'm finally calm, ze seats me back down.

"Are you ok, Pat? I don't think I've seen you freak out like that since college."

I force a chuckle. "I'm ok. Thanks, Sam. That weed is pretty intense, huh?"

"Yeah. Is there anything you want to talk about?"

I groan and say, "No, I really don't. But, yes. I really do." I pound my forehead. "Fuck, Sam. Tell me the truth. Do you think we should get the fuck out of here? Do you think it's still safe for us for us to be here?"

Sam shakes zir head. "I want to say yes, Pat. But after today, after what happened, and the fact that no one wants to even talk about it, not even us, I don't know. How about you?"

With very great reluctance, I say. "Same. I think it's best for us to go, Sam. There's a guy I know who can get us passage out. I think his name is Gerald or something. Kinda smelly and weird, and not a lot of people talk to him, but I'm willing deal with him if he's got a secret way out. The only thing is that it's probably too risky for us leave now, since they're watching, but maybe we can get out when things calm down after the Mid-Autumn Festival."

"Yeah, I think you're right, as much as I hate to leave just when things were starting to get good," Sam agrees, adding optimistically, "But at least we'll get to enjoy the party, right?"

After more silence, I tentatively ask, "Did you want to travel together, Sam? I understand if you don't want to. It may be safest for us to travel separately, so we wouldn't bring attention to us."

In response, Sam envelops me in zir arms again. "Oh, Pat. Don't be ridiculous. Of course, I want to. I was afraid you didn't want to be with me."

"I do, Sam. I really do," I reply, surprising myself at how desperately I hug zir back.

Our lovemaking later is brief and urgent. We don't say much afterwards, as if fearful anything we say would shake our decision, or risk anything else befalling us.

For a brief moment, our relationship is renewed - and in our folly, we believe that it's all that matters.

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 22

Worker tenements for "High Performing American Debtors." Longmont, Colorado. September 15th, 2065. ZhongQiu Jie/Mid-Autumn Festival. 1900 hours.

Colonel Fung assured her numerous times JiangWei and her squad are doing a phenomenal job. Every time they return from a mission, he flashes the same greasy smile, and repeats the same praise with a wormy twinkle in his eye. So why does JiangWei hate every moment of her missions?

"Confirm status of lockdown," she sends through her linkernode.

Instead of an immediate response, a number of seconds pass by, prompting XiaoJun to bark angrily, "Captain Hui asked for a status report! LaoGao! Report!"

"Same as before, captain," LaoGao replies, conspicuously without an apology. "As ordered, the whole tenement is pretty much empty within a two-block radius, except for a handful of people. Most of the workers are in Boulder working at the ZhongQiu Jie celebrations. The four suspects appear to be in the basement. Again. Are we going to go in and get them? Or are we going to let our pet tie gou go in and kill them all?"

Tie gou. Metal dog. That's the polite term that LaoGao and the other squad members have been calling the prowlerbot. JiangWei guesses they have more florid names for it - and for her - that they trade on their private lines.

Ignoring the sarcasm, JiangWei replies: "Stand by. We're still waiting on the crawlers to get a visual."

"Right. Like that's going to change anything," LaoGao growls. "Heaven forbid we go in like a normal unit and avoid another bloodbath."

"You're out of line, Sergeant!" XiaoJun snaps furiously. "One more comment like that, and I'm going beat your goddamn ass. Same goes for all of you! Is that clear?"

"Yes, sir," LaoGao and the squad reply sullenly.

On their private line, XiaoJun apologizes: "I'm sorry about that, JiangWei. I'll keep my people in line. I think the non-standard aspects of our operations are getting to them. It's my fault. I should have chosen different people."

"It's fine. They're good people. I don't blame them for how they're feeling," JiangWei replies. "Hopefully, we can go in without having to resort to the prowlerbot."

She doubts it. She's already feeling a coldness creep up behind her eyes. Meanwhile, the crawler isn't even close to starting its reconnaissance. Once the coldness becomes unbearable, JiangWei will have no choice but to release the prowlerbot and put an end to whatever ritual the suspects are trying to complete, resulting in an indiscriminate mess of grisly, nightmare-inducing remains.

JiangWei honestly doesn't blame LaoGao or any of the squad members for their increasing resistance and growing insubordination. Only XiaoJun has stood steadfastly by her in spite of the nastiness and insanity they've witnessed in the last weeks. JiangWei is grateful for her loyalty, but she wonders if that has a limit too.

After their first mission, they've engaged in ten more missions, each ending in same bloody, gore-splattered way. Yet each was considered a success because no soldiers died, and no horrific creatures had been summoned. As Colonel Fung said, they'd delivered another blow to the Libertarians of the Void.

And yet, even though all the suspects had some kind of evidence that could be interpreted as being part of the Libertarians of the Void, JiangWei felt it wasn't the case. Like the first mission, though she felt an initial swell of cold power, she always had the sense that the summoning was fated to peter out and fail, and she would feel no real potency in any of the random assortment of ritual symbols and paraphernalia they found. When she raised her concerns to Colonel Fung, he again smiled and said that he would ask their researchers to look into it, claiming that her suspicion that the suspects didn't have true power was due to the fact that she'd interrupted their ritual before they could completed. This was a logical explanation. But also very unconvincing.

Currently, they're about to storm a workers' tenement located in the town of Longmont a few kilometers north of Boulder. It's a housing complex specially intended to reward "High Performing American Debtors" who have proven themselves to be reliably regular on their debt-payment plans - not to mention entirely subservient to the SAFCOA rules and authority. As opposed to the overcrowded slums of Denver, it's a low-density and low-security building with minimal surveillance drone sweeps and only the occasional prowlerbot patrols. Unsurprisingly, even among these presumably more reliable and trustworthy Americans, they've been lead here to quash seditious acts of terrorism by the terrible Libertarians of the Void.

Not 'they.' They weren't lead here. It's JiangWei. She's been lead here by the things inside her. So the colonel's claims should be correct, shouldn't they?

JiangWei shakes away her doubts, willing the damn crawler drone to hurry up. As before and as it's consistently been, the coldness continues to grow in her head, and now the things in her eye and arm begin to twitch, while she could feel the tie gou prowlerbot pawing to be set free. She's tempted to keep waiting, to see how it will go, perhaps even conceding to allow the squad to go into the basement this time to make the intervention themselves. However, the memories of the previous disasters in Superior and the airport fiercely crash back into her mind, forcing her into action.

"Stand by, everyone. Releasing prowlerbot now," she calls up the prowlerbot's command interface and activates its targeting protocols.

"Tamade, not again!" LaoGao protests. "We can still do this the regular way..."

But there's no stopping the prowlerbot as it tears out of its container with a metallic screech. In seconds, it's in the basement, and just as quickly, it messages JiangWei,

<OPERATION COMPLETE. AREA SECURE.>

"It's done. We're in the clear. Let's go in," JiangWei announces, as the coldness dissipates and the twitching abates. "XiaoJun, LaoGao, Ah-Qing come with me to check out what we got. The rest of you set up a perimeter and call in the Qilin transport."

As they descend into the basement, they find the now familiar combination of meaningless scrawls, toppled candles, and torn books and papers littered on the floor. Amidst the mess are four bodies, sprawled in growing pools of blood. At least there are no children involved this time. The suspects are three men and one woman. All of them have their throats torn out, but the woman, lying in the middle of the men and above a small dais, is naked and tied down. Carven into her chest are a series of jagged patterns, while sticking out of her belly is the handle of a kitchen knife, just a few inches shy of completing the disembowelment. And, as has become usual, the prowlerbot is sitting at rest in the corner, its claws covered in blood and snarled with fleshy bits.

JiangWei is about to give clean-up orders, but LaoGao strides over to the prowlerbot, points a finger at it and demands,

"Why the fuck didn't it use its non-lethal armament? These people could have easily been subdued."

"Shut the fuck up, LaoGao," XiaoJun orders. "It did what it had to. Now get started with clean up and..."

"No! That's bullshit, captain! And you know it!" LaoGao snaps. Turning to JiangWei, he snarls, "I want answers, sir. Real ones. From her. Why are we doing this? Shen jing bing! Why do we trust her? Isn't she a xiangjiao ren? She's not even really Chinese!"

No proper answer comes to mind for JiangWei, so she's grateful when XiaoJun marches up to LaoGao, grabs him by the hardframe and slams him against the wall with enough force to make it shake and crumble.

"You dumb fuck. Are you goddamned blind? Do you not see what these people were doing? Don't you remember what happened at the airport? How many people died putting down those monsters? Do you want the same thing to happen? You should be grateful that we stopped that shit from happening all over again."

"Fuck that!" LaoGao struggles to pull away, his eyes still locked on JiangWei. "That's not what I'm asking. Of course I'm grateful that we didn't have to face any of those crazy monsters. You think I don't remember the people who died? They were my friends too. I joined your team because I wanted to stop that from ever happening again. I'm all for killing if it's necessary, but what the fuck is this?"

LaoGao breaks free from XiaoJun and kicks at the corpses, causing their heads flop around at roly-poly angles. Their throats have been torn so deeply that their heads are hanging by a few strands of gristle.

"It makes no sense! Why was killing them necessary? That prowlerbot has plenty of options to incapacitate them in seconds with paralytics, foam or gas. Wouldn't it make more sense for them to be subdued so we could question them? Are we monsters too?"

"That's enough, soldier! You are relieved of duty! Ah-Qing! Escort him out of here!" XiaoJun hollers.

"No! Get off of me! I demand an explanation! It is my duty as a soldier to refuse illegal and non-humane orders!"

"You fucking idiot! Do you know what kind of terrorists we're fighting? What we need to do to beat them?"

"What terrorism? Where? There are no explosives, no weapons, nothing!"

"That's because we stopped them, you fool! Tso ni de pi! Ah-Qing! What are you doing? Get him out of here!"

"I'm trying sir, but he's not letting me. LaoGao, calm down, you bastard..."

"I'm not going to calm down! This is not legal! I'm filing a goddamned protest!"

"I'll show you where to file your fucking protest, you fucking motherfucker..."

"STOP! ENOUGH!" JiangWei screams, silencing them - though not so much to stop the incipient fight, but to preserve her sanity. As they argued, her head began to throb painfully, as fury twisted in her eye and arm, tempting her with nonsensical violence.

Bringing a shaky control to her breath and thoughts, she says, "Let him go. I'm going to answer your question, LaoGao. You're right. What we're doing is insane. This violence is senseless, and I don't understand it either, but I'm only starting to figure it out. Look, there's lots of things I couldn't tell any of you because it's supposed to be confidential... And before you say anything, yes, I know its bullshit. Which is why I'm going fuck confidentiality and tell you what I can. You guys deserve it."

JiangWei lifts her chin and points to the iron plate over her right eye and then to her metal arm,

"You heard how I got these, right? By fighting those monsters. But you know what they replaced it with? With pieces of the Elder Gods. Yes, I have those things in my eye and my fucking arm. I agreed to do it because I thought it would help us stop those lunatics. How? By giving me the ability to sense them and to feel when they're about to appear. "

She shakes her head, seeing their skeptical and repulsed expressions.

"Don't believe me? They're why I could find them at the airport and they're also why I know to come to these places. It's because I see things... They give me dreams... But that's not it. They also make me feel things. What do I feel? I don't know how to describe it. It's cold. It's crawling. It's alive... Fuck! Each time we get to a location, I get the exact same sensation. A coldness that grows into a migraine. And the last time I felt it and let it happen and continue without stopping... a hellish creature emerged at the airport and many soldiers died. So that's why the prowlerbot goes in before us."

LaoGao seems about to say something, but JiangWei raises her hand to stop him.

"So why does the prowlerbot kill everyone? Colonel Fung tells me that those so-called doctors back at the base had programmed it to sense when it would be necessary to neutralize a threat and to break their ritual. He's never told me the details, but death is apparently the only thing that can totally break their power," JiangWei sighs. "I've been told to trust it and let it run according to its programming... But you're right, LaoGao. Something about the shit that's been going on has been feeling wrong to me too. And unnecessary. These people... they look right, like they're supposed to be part of the Libertarians of the Void... but they don't feel right. Something about them tells me they're not the real threat. So if I feel that, why is our prowlerbot killing them instead of incapacitating them?"

JiangWei glares at the dark pane on the prowlerbot's the iron head, where she sees the flash of something pale flicker underneath.

"The colonel never told me, but my guess is that there's one of those things in the prowlerbot too. My guess is that's why it uses so much violence."

"What? It's one of them too?" LaoGao snarls, pointing his rifle at the prowlerbot.

"Tamade... nan gui..." Ah-Qing adds, stepping backwards.

"Shit! No wonder, JiangWei! That makes a lot of sense," XiaoJun frowns, as she too stares warily at the prowlerbot; but she also casts JiangWei a suspicious look as she continues, "I get how it's confidential and all, but I would have appreciated knowing before."

"Yeah, but what could have I said?" JiangWei grimaces. "The very things we're hunting are inside me too? What you would have that thought about that? Would you have trusted me?"

"Maybe. Maybe not. I don't know. I see your point. But what should we do about that thing?" XiaoJun asks, pointing at the prowlerbot.

"I think we should deactivate it and store it for now. I think it's time I asked the colonel some hard questions," JiangWei replies.

"Deactivate it? Store it? We should destroy that thing!" LaoGao spits.

"Enough, LaoGao. You've made your point."

"And what about her? Shouldn't we be putting her in 'storage' too? She's got those things in her! I knew we should never have trusted a xiangjiao ren!"

"I warned you, LaoGao! Way out of line! I'm gonna make you shut your trap!"

But JiangWei raises her hand. "No. Wait. He's right. I should be watched too. I don't think I can control this anymore. I'm no longer sure if my thoughts are my own or if..."

Before she can complete her thought, she's interrupted by Ah-Qing sending them a red-flagged warning over their linkernodes.

"Uh, sir? I'm sorry to interrupt. I'm detecting an electronic signal. It's faint, but it's definitely an illegal data-stream."

"What? An illegal data-stream? What the fuck are you talking about? Where?" XiaoJun asks, as she toggles her equipment to see for herself.

"From the wall, where you... er... pushed LaoGao into. See how there's some plaster that fell?" Ah-Qing points to the wall beside them. "The signal is coming from there."

Sure enough, as they point their hardframe sensors at the wall, they start detecting a faint, but unmistakable transmission. JiangWei and XiaoJun trade a quick glance, and they immediately fall back to take defensive positions. Their training has kicked in, pushing their arguments into distant memory. LaoGao and Ah-Qing are in front, their weapons powered and their hardframes fully-primed for insertion, while JiangWei and XiaoJun have taken covering positions a few feet behind them.

An illegal data-stream could be something as simple as a signal filled with bootleg entertainment vids and (un)surprisingly large amounts of porn. However, the signal could be trading politicized information and inflammatory media. Far more dangerously, it could be connecting American malcontents to each other through various darknet social media sites with the ultimate intention of organizing them into Resistance groups. This is the prime reason why all digital and networking devices are strictly forbidden to Americans, while massive firewalls throttle and monitor any information they do have access to. Hence, the detection of any unauthorized data-streams triggers SAFCOA standing orders that they be immediately shut down and investigated.

"It's a false wall. The paneling underneath is a signal dampener mesh and the fallen plaster revealed it. I've just called up the floor plans of the place, and it's obvious now that they don't match. There's a hidden room behind there," LaoGao announces. But then adds snarkily, "If we'd let the crawler do its job we'd have seen it."

"Shut your mouth, LaoGao," XiaoJun barks. "Ah-Qing, have you notified the rest of the squad?"

"Yes, sir," Ah-Qing confirms. "They're standing ready to intervene. Do you want me to inform the local security forces to come in too?"

This would be overkill, but XiaoJun casts a quick look at JiangWei, who nods in assent. "Yes, do it." Then to JiangWei, she sends on their private channel: "Do we wait for them to get here?"

"No, we have to do it now. I want to get whatever is behind that wall before they can get away. This could be the real Libertarians of the Void," JiangWei sends back, and then asks Ah-Qing aloud: "Do we have a Qilin coming?"

"Yes, sir. It should be here in five," Ah-Qing says. "They're carrying an extra squad. Should I have them come in and provide extra support?"

"No, have it maintain position at the edge of its firing range in case our breach goes wrong." JiangWei says.

"Sir? But that means we won't be able to do be extracted if..."

XiaoJun cuts off Ah-Qing's protest. "You heard Captain Hui. We're doing this now. LaoGao, what do you think? You have the best sensors here. What do you see? Can we breach?"

LaoGao squints at the data flashing into his linkernode. "Yes, we can. It's not ideal, but my x-band sonar is detecting an empty space behind the wall. And unless the wall is a nano-wire titanium plate, Ah-Qing and I can punch the hole, pull back, and you and Captain Hui can breach."

"Alright. Let's do it," XiaoJun says, following JiangWei in pulling down her visor and activating the hardframe's extra armor plating to make the breach. "On my count. Three... Two... One!"

In a blink of an eye, LaoGao and Ah-Qing flash forward, plunge their powered gauntlets into the wall, and, in an explosion of dust and splinters, pull open a gaping hole, through which JiangWei and XiaoJun leap through, one hand shielding their faces, while the other trains their rifles into the room. In their hardframe's fully armored state, they're able to withstand a barrage of small arms attack and even a few grenades, giving them enough time to lay down suppressing fire and eliminate the enemy.

Yet, the only the threat they find when they breach into a small windowless room is a blond, toad-faced woman, sitting innocently at a desk with her hands raised. A datashroud, the source of the data-stream, is stretched out in front of her. The room is cluttered with all kinds of mechanical equipment, twisted hunks of metal, but most noticeably,

"Oh, shit. What's that fucking smell?" LaoGao curses from behind JiangWei and XiaoJun. "It's worse than the base!"

"No. It's just like it," JiangWei points the rifle at the woman's face. "Whoever you are, you are under arrest. You're coming with us."

The toad-faced woman replies expressionlessly, "Actually, Captain Hui and Captain Ma, I am not. I am Special Agent Kylie Loamen with SAFCOA Internal Security. I am on your side, and I am sorry to say that you have interrupted a sensitive operation."

"Tsao ni ma," XiaoJun growls. "You're lying."

"Not at all," Agent Loamen says calmly. "My agent number is 3049-B2. Please feel free to verify my biometrics. You can also verify with Colonel Fung. He is aware of my activities."

"I'll bet he is," XiaoJun mutters. Waving to LaoGao, she says, "Get her biometrics and see if her story checks out."

"Stick out your hand," LaoGao grumbles, as he takes out a scanner.

"Ah-Qing, restrain the baigui bitch. Any false move, you can twist her head off," XiaoJun orders.

"Captain Ma, that isn't necessary. You'll see that..."

"I decide what's necessary."

"Confirmed. This is Agent Loamen. Tamade."

"Damn hell. Fine. Don't restrain her, but she's coming with us anyway."

"Captain, that isn't necessary, I have to report to..."

"What did I tell you about who decides what's necessary? You're coming with us!"

"Please, captain. If you contact Colonel Fung, you'll see that..."

"Shut up! You're coming back to the base and we're all going to have a nice chat."

"Please be reasonable, captain. Please..."

"Tamade! Why am I arguing with a baigui! JiangWei help me out here! JiangWei?"

The arguing has gone unnoticed by JiangWei. Her eyes had drifted to the datashroud and locked upon it. It's a displaying a map of the Boulder-Denver region, and it's tagged with a series of red flags. It takes her minute to figure out why the flagged locations seem familiar, but she soon sees that they mark each location they had a mission in, including the incidents at the checkpoint, Superior, and the airport.

As she looks over the map and into to the west of Boulder, she sees a flag where they haven't been to, located in a small mountain town - but as soon as she sets her eyes on it to get a better look, a harsh pain explodes in her head. Unable to look more closely at the map, JiangWei curses at Agent Loamen,

"What is this? What is this map?"

"That? That's confidential information. I don't believe you have clearance to see it," the agent says, wriggling free of Ah-Qing and LaoGao and reaching out to the datashroud. "Let me just..."

JiangWei whips out her hand, grabs the agent by her shirt and pulls her close.

"No! You're going to fucking tell what this is about. You've been tracking our locations. Why? What the hell are you doing here? Were you at every site we were at? And what the fuck is going on in that town in the mountains? We've never been there, but something is going to happen there, isn't it? What the fuck is going on..."

"Kroad's lik ta," agent Loamen whispers so only JiangWei can hear.

A paralyzing coldness expands from her right arm and eye, wrapping her in a repulsive, coiled grip. She knows instantly she's trapped in the pulsating tendrils of the Elder Gods, who have manifested themselves at last, making a mockery of the illusion of control she thought she had.

Frozen in that moment of atrocious cold, the agent's mocking voice slithers in to her mind, even as her face remains innocently expressionless:

"Colonel Fung warned me that you would soon outlive your usefulness. It seems that time has come. I could kill you now, crush your mind and feed your pathetic thoughts to the Void, but I want you to watch and be powerless as I kill your squad. I want you to feel helpless and pathetic. I'll wring the life out of them... and I'll do it so wonderfully slowly so you can feel their pain!"

"F-fuck... y-ou..." JiangWei utters, but her mouth locks shut as she feels the icy grip tighten around her.

'Agent' Loamen's response is a lop-sided grin, as she flicks her eyes in the direction of the prowlerbot. Guessing her intent, JiangWei tries to break free to warn the others, to stop Loamen, to do anything, but she can only watch in frustrated anger as the prowlerbot's controls appear in her retinal display and flash to the safeguards. These are quickly circumvented, and its new targeting information is inputted and...

"What the fuck!" XiaoJun screams as the prowlerbot knocks her over, tearing a gash in front of her hardframe, while leaping on to Ah-Qing, who attempts to raise her arm to protect herself from the metal drone. But she moves a fraction too slow, and the monstrous machine has pinned her down.

"What the... Argh!" Ah-Qing screams her final words, as the prowlerbot knocks off her helmet with one swipe of its paw and clamps it's steel jaws around her head, crunching off the top of her skull.

"Motherfucking hell!" LaoGao yells, detonating a spray of exploding rounds onto the prowlerbot, causing it to recoil into a protective ball.

As LaoGao is firing at the prowlerbot, he's lost track of Loamen. JiangWei struggles as she watches Loamen step back, retrieve a jar of greenish fluid from an iron container, and splashe its contents into LaoGao's face in one quick motion.

"Fuck! Yeeeaaaaaargh!" he screams, as the stinking ooze covers his face. Though it doesn't burn him, JiangWei knows something worse will happen as the evil fluid grips his mind.

Flashing JiangWei a smile, Loamen turns to the smoking hulk of the prowlerbot apparently intending to give it new orders, but again exploding rounds burst over its surface.

JiangWei realizes with surprise that the gunfire is coming from XiaoJun. Struggling to push off the floor, XiaoJun somehow survived the prowlerbot's attack, but judging from the blood over her face and chest, just barely. Knowing there's only one hope to stop this madness, JiangWei summons all her angry determination, pushes past the Elder Gods' grip and screams,

"The bitch! Not the bot! Shoot HER!"

Before Loamen can react, several rounds burst into her head, throwing her backwards and into a heap of metal. Instantly, the grip around JiangWei's body and mind releases, and she regains control again. She collapses onto her knees, but not before setting the prowlerbot's controls back into lockdown mode.

"Tamade... can you please tell me what the hell is going on..." XiaoJun begins.

But before she can finish, JiangWei throws herself at her, drags her out the room, and takes shelter around a wall. As she did that, a new round of gunfire is explodes, but this time aimed at them. Out of the corner of her eye, she'd seen LaoGao lurch toward them, his rifle raised and his face devoid of expression.

"What the fuck, LaoGao! Stop firing at us!" XiaoJun screams at the being who was once LaoGao.

"He can't hear you!" JiangWei screams back.

"What do you mean? I'm calling him on his linkernode!" XiaoJun is interrupted by a heavy explosion bursting beside them. "Aw, fuck! He's using his grenade munitions! He'll fucking break through!"

Cursing as she's left with no other choice, JiangWei calls up the drone controls, reactivates the prowlerbot and sets it loose. There's a heavy thud as LaoGao is slammed onto the ground with the sound of metal clashing against metal. This is shortly followed by more gunfire, though it's no longer aimed at JiangWei and XiaoJun. This, however, ends very quickly with meaty crunch. Finally, it's quiet again.

After catching her breath, JiangWei asks, "Are you, ok?"

XiaoJun chuckles in spite of the agony in her face. With her hand pressed against her bleeding chest, she says, "You mean this? I'm fine. It's just a flesh wound. Good thing I have big boobs, though I guess they're cut down to size now. The real question, however," XiaoJun points her rifle at JiangWei, "Is if you're ok. Should I be thanking you or shooting you just to be sure?"

"Damn. I wish I knew, XiaoJun. Maybe you should be shooting me too just to be sure," JiangWei shakes her head. "What happened there... was pretty fucked up."

"No shit," XiaoJun snorts, but seems temporarily satisfied with JiangWei's response as she returns her rifle to her lap. "Ah-Qing killed by that fucking thing. And then LaoGao going nuts. Can you tell me what's going on here?"

"I don't know, but I'm going to fucking make sure that fucker Colonel Fung answers my questions for once," JiangWei says darkly.

"Yeah? You better believe I'll be there for that. I've got some questions of my own," XiaoJun echoes. "The rest of the squad is calling. So is the Qilin with the extra squad. You think it's ok for them to come down?"

JiangWei concentrates hard to see if she feels anything from the things in her, but sensing nothing, she says, "I think so. But have the squad in the Qilin stay back just in case. And tell everyone to be fully armed and ready with heavy munitions. I want them to destroy that fucking prowlerbot."

"Most sensible thing you've said," XiaoJun grins. "I'll have them turn that piece of shit to slag."

Then, coming to a decision, JiangWei says, "And have them bring in an emergency surgery unit right now."

"I told you, I'm fine. A little regen-balm and I'll be good as new..."

"Not for you. For me." JiangWei points to her arm and eye. "I want these goddamn Elder God pieces out of me. But you have to help me, XiaoJun. I think they're going to fight back, and you have to kill me if it looks like I won't make it. Is that clear?"

XiaoJun locks her jaw. "Yes, JiangWei. I understand."

"One more thing too," JiangWei continues. "I want you to force them to keep me conscious through the process."

"Conscious? Are you insane?"

"Probably, but I have to stay awake," JiangWei says. "We've still got work to do. After they take the Elder Gods out of me, we're going to Nederland."

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 23

Historic town center. Nederland, Colorado. September 15th, 2065. Mid-Autumn Festival/Zhongqiu Jie. 7pm.

So far, so good! Hell, I'd even say things are fantastic! And to confirm this and heighten my pleasant buzz, I take another drag and gulp down more beer. Sure, we're dead-tired and sore from our usual pruning tasks from today and yesterday, but it was all forgotten as soon as the party got started a few hours ago. I gotta say, Big Don knows how to throw a party!

Soon after we cleaned up, we streamed into town and gathered around the stage, where waiting was Big Don, welcoming us with open arms and a somewhat longer speech than necessary extolling his great pleasure with our work, our beautiful unified vision of our great Nation, and of course our most wonderful and eternally resilient American Way. It wasn't anything we hadn't heard before in various forms with varying superlatives, but this was so much greater and stupendous - since, the moment he raised his hands into the air to indicate the commencement of the festivities, a battery of fireworks exploded behind him, while all around us, spinners and crackers lit up and spat jubilant red-white-and-blue fire. Deafening as the display was, we cheered and hollered until our throats were sore.

That wasn't all! With a grand wave of his arm, Big Don surprised us by having fifty giant kegs of beer rolled in. Each was plastered with the flag, map, and notable images from each American State. If the beautifully emotional and symbolic patriotism of this act wasn't enough to bring tears to our eyes, Big Don invited us to drink to hearts' content out of these kegs, for free. Granted, the beer in the kegs were the same watered down, vaguely malty and sorta hoppy, yellowish and metallic tasting "beer" (my best guess was that it was rice wine doctored with ample artificial flavor mixes), and not a distinct brew that represented each state (that would have been a nice touch, but far too much to ask) - but we still gravitated to our favorite states and nostalgia-inducing images. Since there were just fifty kegs and hundreds of us, we could get two or three plastic cup-fulls of the stuff before the taps sputtered dry. Still, it was free and it made working for the rest of our drinks and food not seem hardly as bad.

I expect you find it strange that we're working at our own party, but we were told of this far in advance, and like I said, most of the cost of the party was being paid by Big Don and we were just paying for the transportation and other such fees. Besides, did you expect Big Don, savvy entrepreneur that he is, to just give everything away? No, of course not. Obviously. That would make no sense in the healthy free market economy that he's gone through such great pains to cultivate. And it's not at all onerous! In fact, in many ways it's even enjoyable, since we're just working for our fellow friends and peers. Indeed, Big Don is as clever as he is classy.

In order to make sure our party is well-staffed and catered to, we were given work-shifts for the different areas. From the food stalls, to the beer gardens, to the dispensaries, and to carnival games, we were divided off and assigned a short shift. In exchange, we would earn a few pay-tokens during our brief "work," which we could then redeem for any of the wonderful things on offer. Makes sense, right? And honestly, the shifts are an hour on and an hour off, meaning you were guaranteed a time to mill around and party with everyone else. Not only that, the jobs weren't imposed on us, and we could even request one that would fit us best and work to our strengths. For example, Sam and I were allowed to work together at the popcorn and hotdog stall.

"Alight... gimme a... what should I get... I dunno... Maybe ah, um..." a tall, thin pockfaced man waffles. He's swaying a little as he squints at the price list behind us. "What is it you're selling again?"

With a beaming smile, I reply, "We have four sizes of popcorn. Small, medium, large and patriotically jumbo. It's seasoned with generous amounts of salt and genuinely butter-flavored soy-oils. We also have three kinds of hotdogs that we serve on a real gluten-ful bun made of real white, wheat-flour without an ounce of the usual rice-flour filler. The dogs are authentic-tasting simuli-meat yeast-aggregate protein. There's the Philly-Beef dog, Chicken-Parmesan dog and the spicy Italian-Pork dog. Any of those sound good to you?"

"Um... er... I, ah..." the man says, chewing his lip. "And how much is it for the hotdog? I dunno if I have enough here... but a hotdog. Goddamn... a hotdog. I can't remember the last time I tasted one. I just have to get one..."

"It's just one pay-token per dog. For two tokens, you'll get the dog and a small popcorn to go along with it," I say, pointing at the different options. "What do you think? Want to go for it? You can have it dressed the way you like it too, with ketchup, mustard and relish that I made myself."

Still, the man hesitates, frowning at the collection of pay-tokens in his fist. "Two tokens, huh? Two... I dunno... maybe I guess I can... Can I? If I save them I can use them for later..."

Considering how rare it is we have currency in our hands - even though they're just plastic tokens - I'm not that surprised at the man's reluctance to spend them. But my patience is rapidly draining away, so I'm grateful when Eliza comes in from behind and roughly jostles the poor man.

"Alright, what's the hold up here, Vinnie? We're all waiting on some service and some goddamn food, and here you are trying to decide on a fucking hotdog. What the fuck is wrong with you? Those tokens aren't going to turn to gold if you hold onto them longer. You have to spend them! That's how an economy works!"

Vinnie's face pales as he back steps and cowers from Eliza. "I'm just not sure I can afford it... Not all of us are like you, Eliza. I mean, I mean, I mean... I didn't mean that! Really I meant nothing by it, Eliza. I'll just go somewhere else... Sorry..."

"No! You're not going anywhere!" Eliza laughs as she grabs hold of the trembling Vinnie and pounds him on his back. "I'm buying those hotdogs for you! Pat! Get Vinnie here one each of those hotdogs dressed up with the works! And what better to go with them than a big ol'jumbo-sized bag of popcorn!"

His hands filled with food, a wide-eyed Vinnie scurries off with his feast, while Eliza tosses a bunch of tokens onto the counter. She then casually orders two dozen hotdogs that she proceeds to pass out to the people around them - a generosity she announces loudly so everyone can hear and swarm to her. When the rush is finally done, a flushed Eliza crows,

"So! Isn't this the shit? Awesome, huh? Where's my darling? Sarah? Where did you go to? Where's my baby? She hates it when I do these things, but I always tell her: promotion and customer relations are ninety percent of business! How else do you get people to come do business with you? Where is she? Where's my girl? Sarah?"

Finally locating Sarah standing a little further away and haggling pleasantly with a vendor to get some beers spiked with hooch, Eliza rushes over, sweeps her into a tongue-filled kiss, throws more tokens at the vendor, downs both drinks, and pulls a delighted Sarah back to me and Sam.

Wobbling a finger in our direction, she says,

"Listen to me, you two. I've got some big plans for us. Expansion! I want to run our parties every night of the week starting next week! Go big or go home, right? You two are going to help me make it happen. I know what you're thinking. You'll be too tired to work, right? But believe me, I got that covered. You'll only be working half days in the fields from now on. Even on shit days! You'll be set. God damn, I love this place. We're going to make this happen!"

Without waiting for our answers, she cocks an imaginary air-gun and fires it with a wink and an air-kiss, and swaggers away, merrily tossing around more tokens, as a crowd of fawning people gather around her. Apparently, she's decided to become the female version of Big Don.

I exchange a glance with Sam to confirm the plan we've decided on. As much as the Mid-Autumn Festival celebration is raucous and undeniably fun, Eliza will soon have to find someone else to cook the meals for her parties. We're getting out of here. If all goes according to plan, we should be leaving Nederland this coming Saturday after harvest.

I was right that Gerald would be a good bet in finding a passage out of Nederland. Crazy and unkempt as he presents himself, I'd accurately guessed that it was just a front hiding his secret smuggling business. It took some doing - and much tolerating of his spittle-flecked gibberish-filled rants - to get him to admit that he had a way out. But after promising all our pay tokens, joints and all our future earnings until we leave, he'd finally agreed to include us in his smuggling run. He warned us though with a crooked, bony finger that it would be on our heads for us to keep up with him and his pace, and he would do nothing to help us if we fell back and got lost.

When asked what his route would involve, Gerald grinned and said it would begin with bushwacking for three hours in the dark with absolutely no headlamps or flashlights. After crossing the ridge and into the neighboring valley, we would follow a creek until we found a disused raft tethered to a dead pine. We'd then ride that raft for an hour, taking it through three series of class 2 rapids until we reached an abandoned mining shaft. There, hiding within the depths of the mine, would be an isolated community of doomsday religious fanatics who somehow managed to avoid the Occupation's notice. Should the doomsdayers decide not to eat us, they would take us to another city where we could start our lives anew. Admittedly, this sounds like a ridiculous plan born out of huffing solvent fumes. Unfortunately, it's the best and most rational one on offer that doesn't involve certain death.

"My dear beautiful friends!" Big Don's voice crackles over the speakers. "Our guests from the plantations in the other valleys are arriving! Please give them a warm welcome!"

We drop what we're doing to clap for the disembodied voice. I make what sound I can by pounding my prosthetic against the counter. Out in the parking lot, I count ten surprisingly sleek and shiny touring buses pulling in and preparing to disgorge their passengers.

"Oh, what a great, fantastic time this will be for all of us! Now this, I tell you all, this is really what our wonderful nation and the American Way are all about. Let's party it up! Let's have fun!" We cheer, very much ready to continue getting soused and blazed out of our mind, but Big Don isn't finished: "I have one more surprise for you. After this work shift, please do me the pleasure of gathering in front of the stage again. I've got a special show planned for you that I know you'll absolutely love!"

We go wild. If there's one thing Big Don knows how to do with the delicacy of a roast pig being hurled into a giant bullseye made of gravy and biscuits, it's how to pull our strings. We knew the workers from the other plantations would be coming, but this show he's teasing us with is something new. It's likely going to be another ostentatious display of fireworks and blaring music, but regardless of its predictability, we all chat animatedly about it, eager to reach what Big Don probably planned as the grand climax of our party. It's thus with pride and pleasure that we brush off our clothes and straighten our backs as we wait to serve the visiting workers, eager to show off the bounties and pleasures that Big Don has given us.

In moments, Sam and I are mobbed with orders as the thoroughfare becomes choked with the new arrivals. It's definitely nearing an unmanageable level of busyness, but no one complains as one thing visitors bring is a generous amount of tips at every sale. Considering how much we've gotten used to pinching our money and rationing every part of our lives, it's surprising that they're tipping us at all. In fact, when it first happened, I tried to return the pay-tokens trying to explain they overpaid, but they only shook their heads with a kind smile and pushed the tokens back into my hand, saying that it was in thanks for our service and welcome. Strange and surprising as it was, I have to confess my heart pretty much turned into certifiable mush and my chin quivered with suppressed tears. My chest swelled with happiness. I'd nearly forgotten feeling of being appreciated by a complete stranger.

But besides the unexpected gratuities, there's also some other things about them that are a smidge strange, but busy as I was, it takes a little while for those different elements to sink in.

For one thing, they're all wearing the same red t-shirts and red caps, both emblazoned with Big Don's "Cruzio Enterprises" in shiny gold lettering. This, I think, could be easily explained as part of Big Don's generosity in wanting to give them a sense group community. However, they're of notably good quality, causing a part of my mind to wonder why the t-shirts and caps aren't the usual crap he gives us - and, more particularly, why we weren't issued any of them, as it would have been nice to have. I'm a little miffed by this, but this could be due to a variety of reasons like Big Don getting a good deal on a whack of clothes or something else as reasonable as that.

And then there's the fact they're so clean. I mean it's not say that I'm not clean, but as a plantation field worker, there's a limit to how clean you can get without having to spend a whole day soaking in a tub and exfoliating until all the dirt stains come out. These people have no stains on their hands or faces. They're spotless. Maybe, I think - again very reasonably - Big Don insisted they be clean to show respect to us and even provided some heavy duty cleaning products so they could all become uniformly and perfectly clean and white. Speaking of whiteness... as I look around, I note that, despite differences in body sizes and shapes, they're all uniformly ethnically white and Caucasian. They're categorically not the usual medley of White-Black-and-Brown Americans. Maybe they're all from an isolated communities somewhere in the hills, which would be possible. On top of the blinding whiteness... by some extraordinary, coincidence... they're not only all white, but white and blond and all roughly between the ages of forty and forty-five.

"Hey, Sam," I say, when there's a brief lull in the waves of people visiting our stall. "Do you think there's something strange about these visitors?"

"What do you mean?" Sam replies, as ze tears open more packages of hotdogs. "You mean like the tips? Yeah, it's a little strange they're so generous, but I figure they must have better businesses at their plantations or something like that."

I shake my head, squinting my eyes at the crowd again, "No, not the tips. Well, yes the tips are strange, but I'm talking about the people themselves. Is there anything about them that looks odd to you?"

"Odd? What do you mean? You mean like they've got better clothes than us? I did think of that but..."

"No, not that." I'm frustrated at my difficulty in expressing my thoughts. "It's just that that they're so clean and... don't they look similar to you?"

"Clean and similar? Well, they do look like they're mostly white, but don't all white people look the same eventually..."

"Dammit. I'm not kidding around!"

"Ok ok ok. I'm sorry. I just don't see what you mean."

"Fuck! I don't either, but something is weird."

"Like what? Like their hair? Their faces? What do you mean?"

"No! None of those! I don't know. Maybe their faces. Like that guy. Doesn't he seem familiar?"

"Familiar? Like you know him from somewhere?"

"Not that! Didn't we see him before?"

"Maybe. But he could just walking around again."

"And her! Didn't we see her before too?"

"I'm sorry, Pat. I just don't see what you mean."

"I'm just saying that something doesn't feel right..."

Our discussion is interrupted by a new wave of visitors coming up and clamoring for hotdogs and bags of popcorn. As I serve them, I try to study them, hoping to catch any more hints of the strangeness that's nagging me. I'm wondering if I'm just going crazy and everything is just fine and I should just chill out. Indeed, amidst the blur of whiteness and blondness, it's hard not to let my guard down, as all the visitors are flawlessly polite and non-pushy, almost as if they've been coached in proper etiquette, making it a seamless, easy and pleasant experience. I couldn't ask for a better serving experience, and soon my worries drift away.

Towards the end of the wave, two visitors - a man and woman, both white and blond, appearing to be a couple and again impossible to distinguish from everyone else - walk up to our stall.

"Can we have two Philly-Beef hotdogs and one large bag of popcorn, please?" the woman says.

"Certainly," I reply. "Did you want butter-oil on the popcorn?"

The woman whispers something into the man's ear, who replies with a shrug, as he looks away, staring intently at the stalls around us with an eerie stillness.

"Yes, please. Butter-oil on the popcorn," the woman nods politely.

"And did you want the dogs to be all-dressed?"

"Yes, please. All-dressed," the woman nods again, but then says quickly. "Sorry, what does all-dressed consist of? You seem to be the only stall with that option."

I puff my chest up in pride. This is my moment to shine. "Ah! Well, the all-dressed option consists of generous amounts of ketchup, mustard and relish. And it's no surprise we're the only ones with that option, because I made the sauces myself."

"You did?" the woman nudges the man to get his attention. "Can you tell us more about the sauces? How did you make them?"

"Why, of course! I'm so glad you asked," I say, going into chef-mode. "The ketchup is a unique combination of tomatoes, caramelized onions and garlic, slowly reduced over a low heat. It's only at the very end that I finish it off with a puree of bananas and apples, and cook it down once more, so that's where you can get those fruity notes. For the mustard, I couldn't get my hands on mustard seeds, so instead I found a small nub of turmeric, and used that to color a paste of chilies mixed in with a base of vinegar, which I then strained through a cheesecloth and let ferment for two days before stirring in another dash crushed Sichuan peppercorn. And finally, for the relish, I took a whole bunch of cucumbers and..."

I'm stopped, however, by the man suddenly spinning around, wriggling a finger at me and yelling out,

"Tai qiao le! Wo gun ni suo jiu she ta! Bu she ma?"

"...Excuse me?" I say, trying to recover my composure.

But the man, the white and blond-haired man, is now engaged in an animated discussion with the woman, who has grabbed his arm to hiss,

"Yin wen! Ni yao yun yin wen!"

"Aiyaaaa... Mei guan xi," the man waves the woman's concerns off, and points at me. "Ta jiu she ne ge Chef Pat Dunes!"

Hearing my name, I ask, "I'm sorry, do I know you? How do you know my name? And why are you speaking Chinese?"

I'm again ignored, as the man continues to speak to the woman as gesticulations in my direction become more animated.

"Wo men yin gai gen ta zhao yi ge xiang! Tai hao le!"

"Bie zhai jiang le! Wo men bu ke yi zhe yiang..." the woman hisses again, still trying to make the man stop.

"Aiyaaa... Wo gen ni shuo mei guan xi, jiu mei guan xi, hao bu hao! Ta men ken ding hui shi, shuo yi mei guan xi," the man says, rolling his eyes. He points to his temple and demands, "Ni gei wo zhao yi ge xiang!"

"Hao hao hao, ne zhang zai ta qian mien ba..."

And before I know it, the man leaps in front of me and looks back at the women, flashing a smile and a victory sign, as the woman stands strangely still and stares at us intently for a few moments. My Chinese is pretty rudimentary, but I catch a few snipets about something about a picture, about not talking, and then about it being ok, and about death happening anyway or possibly shit happening away, depending on if I heard the inflection properly.

I'm still trying to piece it all together and I'm on the verge of asking them to explain themselves, but a smiling woman swoops in. She's blond and white as well. The only notable difference about her is that her red cap has a bright gold border around its bill.

She's also very fast-talkingly smooth as she ushers away the man and woman with,

"Mr. and Mrs. Smith, so happy to have found you. Come along now, how about I take you to sit down? You know you shouldn't be out for too long. It's not good for your condition and your medication only lasts for an hour."

To an astonished Sam and I, she flashes an apologetic smile.

"So sorry that they've disturbed you. They're a special case, and I do try to keep an eye on them to help them out. The Smiths can be confusing... as you've clearly experienced. You want to know why they're speaking in Chinese, of course." Her face contorts into a tragic-looking moue. "It's such a sad story. So sad. You know, we've all been affected by the Chinese in different ways, and Mr. and Mrs. Smith have been affected among the worst. You see, Mr. Smith lost his business to his debt, and then their children died because they didn't have the health insurance to pay for it. It's a common story as you well know, but in Mr. Smith's case, he coped by trying to integrate into Chinese culture, even going so far as to learn Mandarin and then even pretending not to understand English. Poor Mrs. Smith here has to speak to him in Chinese often times just to communicate! It's of course a form of dementia that we're treating with medication. They're good workers though, and through the generosity of Mr. Don Cruzio we keep them employed on our plantation. Did they trouble you long? Here, have a few more pay-tokens for your trouble. Have an excellent evening! Your hotdogs and homemade sauces are delicious! So authentic! I hope you enjoy the show later too!"

Neither Sam nor I are able to put in a word as the woman with the gold-rimmed cap rambles her somewhat believable explanation and rushes into the crowd with Mr. and Mrs. Smith.

As I try to make sense of what happened, I suddenly start spotting more people with gold-rimmed caps. It's easy to see why I haven't noticed them before. They're in the minority. It looks like there's just a few of them among the plain red-capped visitors. More specifically, it looks like there's just one of them at the head of every large group visitors with the plain red caps. And, as soon as they and their group arrive at a stall, the gold-rimmed caps tend to melt into the background where the servers like myself and Sam don't see them.

It's then I note that the fast-talking woman with the gold-rimmed hat is casting backwards looks at me. She has one hand hovering around her temple, as if she's scratching at something, and the other covering her mouth like she's about to cough - or subvocalize something into her hand. They're familiar gestures from a distant past. It's almost like she's talking into her linkernode. But that can't be right. That's not possible for Americans like us.

But as I look closer at her, a faint flicker flashes across her face as she turns her head. I blink. It must be my eyes. But I start noticing the same flickers over the faces of all our visitors.

"Hey, Sam," I say. "Is it just me? It must be, right? There's this flickering thing I keep seeing over those people's faces. It's almost like they're wearing... "

But two things cut in then, preventing me from finishing my thought. The first is Big Don's voice announcing,

"My dear friends! It's time for the main event! Come on down to the main stage! I've got a beautiful surprise for you!"

And the second, much more alarming, is two pairs of hands roughly landing on Sam and I's shoulders, as two uniformed guards I've never seen before say,

"Looks like we caught you just in time. We have to make sure you don't miss the big show, huh?"

|  |

---|---|---

# Chapter 24

Technically, I don't think it would have even been possible for us to miss the show. Because we are the fucking show.

Those red-capped visiting field workers from Big Don's "other" cannabis plantations aren't workers at all. They're tourists. Chinese fucking tourists. Fucking tourists who are terribly eager to experience our quaint American ways.

It's easy to see through the sham of our celebration - now that I've been dragged away by the guards and marched with Sam and a few others on to the main stage. I'm not surprised that Eliza and Sarah have also been dragged up here, but I see also Billy and some of the guards who were regulars at Eliza's shindigs. We're facing a crowd of red-capped "white and blond" tourists, interspersed with the familiar faces of our fellow field workers. As I look at the tourists, I can now easily spot the flickering on their faces and hands. The flickering is a dead give-away that they're wearing a sim-veils and sim-gloves, masking their features with what they assumed would give them a classic Caucasian "American" look. It's also why I thought I was going crazy thinking I'd seen the same people repeatedly walk by the stall. I did see the "same" people, since they're using variations of the same sim.

Given how obvious it is now, I'm amazed I didn't realize it sooner - or that the field workers in the crowd, the real workers that is, don't see that they're surrounded by fake workers. Even if they don't notice the flickering, the tourists' strange looks - as they pose, smile and steady their faces and stare fixedly at all the sights, decorations, and of course we the prisoners on stage - should be obvious indicators they're taking pics and vids with their retinal-cameras and uploading them to their linkernodes.

But as I think about it, their obliviousness isn't that surprising. They're happily drunk and stoned - a state that Big Don guaranteed with his free booze and plentiful joints before the tourists arrived. We've been very well managed to ensure everything goes smoothly for the tourists. Even now, I can see the people with the gold-rimmed caps - the tour-guides - weaving among the crowd, carefully keeping the tourists away from the workers and minimizing conversation. If any slip-ups do happen, as it did with Sam and I, the field workers are quickly tagged and a few guards rush in to escort them away on some pretense or another. If the multitude of guards and tour-guides can help it, there will be nothing to mar Big Don's show for his well-paying tourists.

What is the show exactly? Well, to start, if I imagine the vid-brochure that the tourists were lured in on, I'll bet they were told they would have a "unique and amazing opportunity to experience first-hand the traditional American Life." They'll do so through Big Don's "patented and carefully constructed full-immersion American theme-park" probably named something suitably inane and obnoxious like the Cruzio Enterprises' Old-Tyme American Way Amusement Experience Theme Park. The big sell was probably the promise that the visiting tourists will get to "mingle with genuine Americans in secret, so they can truly have the experience of being and behaving like an authentic pre-SAFCOA American."

Which is why Big Don had, in his fucking so-called generosity, filled the town with crappy imitation foods and kitchy decorations that was meant to satisfy all the most annoying red-necky stereotypes of Americans. Oh, and of course, I shouldn't forget that as part of the richest con of all, he got us, the Americans on display, to not only set up for all the festivities, but also got us to serve the tourists too. Didn't I say Big Don is as fucking classy as he is fucking clever? Fucking fucker. Jane was right.

But wait! That's not all! It's not the main show! That's just the lead-up to it! Just a tantalizing teaser, if you will! What is the main show? The main hooha? The big shebang? The grand poumba ballyhoo? And what does it have to do with the dozen or so people, including me, kneeling on the stage with our hands tied behind our backs? Well, no one can do it justice except Big Don himself:

"My dearest friends! Welcome! Oh, how beautiful you are! Thank you so much for being part of this great and wonderful Mid-Autumn Festival celebration. You know how much I love you and appreciate your work! This is my small way to thank you and to party like a proper American, with a beer in one hand, a hotdog in the other, and firecrackers going off all around us! God Bless America!"

On cue, firecrackers go off in the background, drowning out slurry, adoring shouts from the crowd. To crown the moment, a giant star-spangled banner, covering the entire wall of a three-story building unfurls, along with matching banners emblazoned with fierce bald-eagles and tri-corned pilgrims looking into the distance with muskets in hand.

"Before we go on, I am sorry to say that I have sad sad saaaad duty ahead of me." Big Don shakes his head slowly, heaving his chest to indicate he's sighing and appropriately saddened with great sadness. "As you know, I am the CEO of the Cruzio Enterprises, and as such, it is my duty to preserve the purity and propriety of our American community. It is a heavy responsibility, but I have to protect us from the evil, sinful ways that would lead us astray from the truths of God. We cannot deviate from our strong traditional family values that have made us into who we are today. We cannot forget the proper teachings of our heritage. We have to uphold the true words of our Constitution and the holy writ of the Good Book. Because we're Real Christian Americans aren't we?"

"Yes! We love you Big Don!" the field workers cry out, probably registering only about a quarter of what he's saying. The red-caps clap politely, and slowly cast their eyes around, uploading and tagging even more pics and vids.

I doubt any of the field workers in the crowd have any iota of religiousness. I've never heard anyone mention anything even remotely Christian, Jewish, Buddhist or anything along those lines. Frankly, had some weirdo attempted to start a parish or tried to preach, they would have been laughed off. The evidence is obvious all around us that any God and/or any deity have decisively abandoned us. Quaint and bizarre as it is, playing the fervent religion card and harping on archaic blather is probably a part of the show for the tourists, who are expecting "real" American behavior.

"But not all of us are proper Americans. Not all of us follow the American Way," Big Don raises his voice warningly, shaking his shake his fist as he starts to deliver his best fire-and-brimstone preacher impression. "Some even go so far as defying the basic nature that God Himself granted us, descending into sin and damning their eternal souls to Satan. Oh, sad and tragic it is that they dare to defy the Will of our Holiness in this manner, but the ways of the Devil are tempting, and too many of us fall sway to the Beast's suggestions."

With a furious swing of his arm, Big Don points at me and the others kneeling on stage. "And these people! People I thought were our friends and fellow God-fearing Americans! These horrible people have betrayed us! They've performed sinful acts and behaved in unspeakable, unacceptable ways. Did our Lord not give us a single nature? He has blessed us with our two genders, our two pure gender orientations... Man and woman! But these people have defiled this sanctity! They've forgotten what it is to be male and female and the roles that we have been given. Each one of these people kneeling before you have committed sins that defile the gender that has been blessed to them! They've engaged in sodomy, non-normative genders and other such incomprehensible acts! Isn't this just the most horrible thing you've heard of?"

Without waiting for the response - most of which is confused blinking - Big Don raises his hands into the air, and bows his head,

"Join me in prayer my friends. Let us ask the Dear Lord to protect us from those sins and shield us from temptation. Let us continue being proper Americans and conserve our Great Nation. Oh, join me in praying for the sinners' souls. Oh, join me in asking for forgiveness for their sins."

"Praise the Lord!"

"Save us!"

"Save our souls!"

"Please, oh, please, spare us!"

The field workers cry out weakly, suddenly discovering their ardent faith in God. They can guess what will happen if they didn't. They've quickly caught on to what they supposed to say, and they're desperately mimicking Big Don in raising their hands and screaming to show how much they agree.

So much for solidarity. Was there even a part of me that thought that my fellow field workers would stand up for us? Fuckers. In the meantime, the tourists are watching in complete rapture, fascinated by the amazing spectacle of classic American conservative religious fervor. I have to hand it to Big Don. He knows how to put on a good show.

Yet, despite all this direness and ridiculousness, I'm still slightly hopeful things will turn out reasonably well, and Sam and I can enact our escape plan. Sure, this may seem a little irrational on my part, but I'm hoping that this will play out like the guy who had been caught getting on the network with the datashroud. Maybe there'll be some big show about punishing us, then we'll cry and beg and pound our chests, and we'll be forgiven and thrown out of town.

For a flaming hot second, this even seems promising, as I watch Big Don walk up to Billy and say,

"Billy. Oh, Billy. You're the overseer of Cruzio Enterprises' guards in Nederland. How could you do this to me? Do you realize how hurt I am?" Big Don shakes his head mournfully, clutching his hands to his chest. "I know you have a history of this kind of deviant behavior, but I thought we've gotten past this. I thought we've cured you of your unnatural attraction to transsexuals. Didn't we send you to that special Christian training camp to teach you the error of your ways? I thought you had changed and you had repented! Tell me, Billy. What do you have to say for yourself?"

Billy begins his reply with something inaudible, but when the guard behind him delivers a nudge in his ribs with a billy club, he bobs his head in apology and leans forward into the microphone that's hastily brought forward:

"Please forgive me, Big Don. I was weak. I don't know what I was thinking. I say my prayers every night, I praise the Lord all day, and I repeat my vows, but my flesh is weak. The temptation of the Devil is everywhere! But I'm trying so hard! Please believe me! I'll do better in the future! I swear it!" Billy starts breaking down into tearful, snot-filled blubbering - that's conveniently framed and picture-perfect with Big Don standing over him, hand resting on his shoulder, with the giant flag in the background. I vaguely wonder if Billy will start speaking in tongues, but instead he hollers with rapturous devotion, "I've seen the light! I've seen the error of my ways! Oh, Big Don. You're so right that we need to be pure to our values. Please forgive my sins! Please save my soul!"

A tense hush takes the crowd as they closely watch for Big Don's reaction. After remaining stock still and striking a noble, thoughtful pose, he finally nods in paternal approval and pats Billy's head slowly with a heavy hand.

"I forgive you Billy. Isn't forgiveness what's taught in the Good Book?" Big Don looks down, meeting Billy's grateful, puppy-dog eyes. "But your actions can't go without punishment can they? Just as the Lord says, 'To erase the stain of a terrible sin, we must cleanse it through the Sacred Fires of Pain!' Strip him down. Give him twenty lashes."

My catechism is a little rusty, but I'm quite certain the Lord or anyone claiming to have interpreted the Lord's words has said no such thing. Despite this though, the crowd claps and cheers Big Don's wisdom and mercy. Billy's shirt is taken off, and he's ceremoniously tied to a wooden post. His back is covered in scars - probably from the previous times he's repented and paid for "the errors of his ways." Soon, the wounds that will form new scars are added to Billy's back, as a guard delivers the lashes with a whip. Yet, the familiarity with which Billy submits to his punishment and the ease with which he exclaimed his repentance makes his ordeal seem expected, if not routine.

When Billy's flagellation is done, Big Don claps him on the arm, says something in his ear - probably to the effect of "I'm proud of you, son" or "Excellent performance as usual" - and moves to the next person kneeling down. This turns out to be another guard, a woman named Jamie who I'd gotten to know well because she liked my burgers so much I had to set aside six just for her when I knew she was coming. Again the same accusations are thrown at her, and again Jamie begs for forgiveness, which is granted, along with ten whip-lashes. This goes for four more people, all guards, until they reach the first non-guard, who happens to be none other than Eliza.

"Well, Eliza. We finally come to you. What do you have to say for yourself?" Big Don says, standing with his hands on his hips as he frowns down at her. "I had such high hopes for you, you know. Such entrepreneurial spirit! It reminds me of myself so long ago when I started up Cruzio Enterprises. I've heard about your little parties. I heard how fun they were. I've been curious about them, and even considered coming to one myself! No harm with just plain fun, right?"

But Big Don crosses his arms. "But that's not all you did. You ran a brothel specializing in deviant, unnatural urges. You encouraged our noble guards here to have sex and pleasure themselves with people of the same gender. For money! Shocking! You've been peddling in sin and disgusting behavior!"

There are a few appropriate gasps in the crowd, but none from the field workers. We all had some idea what Eliza was up to, even though she kept it well hidden. I've suspected her parties had a little more touchy-feelyness than necessary - and that it was unlikely she got so wealthy from her parties' ticket sales alone. But since Sam and I were safely contained within our kitchen duties, I never felt the need to explore it any further. What does it matter that there were a few happy endings or even that money was exchanged for it? Tenderness and softness being so scarce in the Occupation, it's no wonder that people would seek it out; hell, if I hadn't been with Sam, I might have considered participating myself. But that's part of the show, isn't it? For all the tourists know, we've regressed back to the cartoonishly bigoted era of American values.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Eliza?" Big Don says severely. "Do you repent your sins? We have some room for compassion in our hearts in spite of your terrible crimes."

Eliza lifts her head, waits patiently for the microphone to come to her, and contorts her face into clownish sadness, as she mock-pleads,

"Oh, pleeeeease forgive me, Big Don! I've seen the light! I've seen the errors of my ways! I've been a sinner! Save me from the Devil and his delicious sins. I can't believe that I could ever want to lust after another vagina! I realize that I just want a big throbbing penis like yours that you've hidden so well and that can't possibly be minuscule and tiny like we know it is. Oh, please I just want you to stuff me with that gigantic invisible dong of yours and pound me until my sins are gone! Oh, puuuuleeeease forgive me with you big, virile compassion!"

The crowd is silent as Eliza barks a hysterical laugh.

"What? Isn't that what you wanted to hear? You can forgive me now, can't you? As part of Big Don show? Here's what I think of that."

Before anyone can stop her, she horks up a thick wad of spit and launches it straight onto Big Don. It lands with comic precision, right onto his crotch. Chaos ensues as attendants rush onto stage to wipe off Big Don's pants while he yells angrily at the technicians to stop the audio. But Eliza makes herself audible by yelling out,

"Fuck you Big Don! I did what you encouraged us to do. I started a business and I made money, just like you said we could. I lived freely and loved freely, just like it was before the Occupation. Being American and following the American Way. And I believed you, you turdsack asswipe. I should have known that it would be a scam, but I guess I really wanted to believe." Eliza laughs maniacally, as the guards try to get a hold of her, but she's wriggling too much for them to get a good grip. "And what a scam this is! This is such ripe bullshit! All of it! Even for you damned Chinese tourists out there! Oh, you think I couldn't tell with your shitty sim-veils? It took me a minute, but I recognized you as soon as you came in with your tour guides and I knew it was time to get out of here... But Sarah and I were dragged here just before we could get away. Oh, and by the way, fuck you very much too!"

In the crowd, the tourists frown and titter amongst themselves, while the field workers look around in dawning understanding.

"Holy hot fuck! What a bitch-ass gong show this is! And that's what it is, huh, Big Don? A really really really big show that I'll just bet you're making a shit-ton of money off of," Eliza grins. "This isn't just about the Chinese tourists playing bigot-American-for-the-day, is it? This is part of something bigger, isn't that right Big Don? Probably part of some kind of streamed show on the network and this is just your end of season finale that you have every year."

Big Don only looks on impassively, barely reacting. But I see a twinkle in his eye. Showman that he is, he wants people to see how clever he is.

"You know, I wondered how the fuck those guards found me and Sarah." Eliza says. "We'd only just decided to leave minutes before the guards showed up. How did they do it? How did they know what we were planning, when we were whispering to each other with no one around us? There's only one way. They've been monitoring us the whole time. No, not just that. They've been recording us the entire fucking time. That's why you let us start these businesses and live as we used to. That's why you made us put up this dumb ass town fair. And that's fucking why we're not allowed to get on the network. Because if we do, there's a risk we'll discover we're an interactive reality show catering to the Chinese audience. What do you call this show, Big Don? 'Screwing With the Red-Necks in the Mountains'? Ha! I'll bet they know me pretty well too. Do they have a nickname for me? Maybe Eliza the Biaoze?"

"Actually, they call you Eliza the Temptress. And the show is called 'Real Americans, Real Mountains.' I came up with those myself," Big Don's lips curl. "And unfortunately, the show's ratings isn't in the top 20s yet. We're still behind the 'Escape of the Californian Surfers' and 'Rise of the Doomed Texan Resistance.' However, today's classy drama could be exactly what we need to push our ratings into the 10s. You." Big Don gestures for a gold-rimmed red-cap to come up on stage. "Tell them to be patient as we clean this up. Promise them they'll see something they won't forget."

"Ge wei peng yo! Qing deng yi xia!" the tour guide yells out with a big smile. "Wo men zhen zai zhun bei yi ge fei chang hao wan to biao yen! Qing deng yi xia! Wo men gang kuai jiu hui..."

Of course we've been part of a reality television show. What could be more American than that? And what could be more part of the American Way than fucking over and exploiting your fellow Americans?

I bet, if I bothered to look, I'd find camera-whiskers lodged all over the entire valley, from the walls of our dorms (to capture our most private moments), to the ceilings of the cafeteria (to show the miserable slop we have to eat every day), and of course attached to the guard rails in the fields (to properly convey the sweaty hell of our daily labors). And if we went somewhere where there weren't any camera-whiskers, they probably had some gnat-sized vid-drones hovering behind us, making sure we had no moment of privacy.

That's why that tourist had recognized me. He along with all the viewers had been following me and Sam's saga the moment we got to the plantation. I imagine he had been among those who had voted to have me put on stage, so we could adequately suffer for our actions and our attempts to live freely. It must be terribly exciting and satisfying for all them to see us displayed on stage like this.

"Now, Eliza. You've said such unkind words about me and our dear Chinese visitors," Big Don says, as soon as one of the technicians signals he's a go. "It's true I should punish you, but I don't think that lashes would do anything to make you change your mind, would it? But I do still want you to change your ways so you can become a proper Christian and American, and I still want you to repent your sins. So how can I do this since you'll prove to be difficult? Well, since it would be obviously useless to punish you, how about I punish someone who matters to you? Like perhaps your partner, or your 'wife' as you call her? Shall I ask Sarah if she would be willing to repent for you?"

Eliza stares at Big Don, and spits on the floor. "Fuck you."

"Good! I thought so! I'll ask, Sarah then," Big Don smiles. "Maybe I should have nice long private chat with her over dinner. And who knows what will happen then? Maybe she would treat my penis with more respect than you. What do you think?" Big Don laughs, seeing Eliza pale. "Just kidding. Do you think I would dirty my dick with any of you bitches? Disgusting. No, I'm just going to have her whipped. Strip her down! Give her a hundred lashes!"

"No! Wait! I repent! I'm sorry!" Sarah cries out, as the guards grab her and tear her shirt off. "Eliza is the one who made me do it! She's evil! You can save me, Big Don! Please grant me forgiveness!"

Big Don laughs with glee. "Ah, my dear Sarah. It's too late for that. Your fate is out of my hands. It's in your wife's hands now. All she has to do is repent for her actions, and I'll consider stopping your punishment."

As if that isn't enough, he slaps his face in mock surprise. Pointing at the rest of us on stage, he says, "But wait a minute. There's more to this than just Eliza, isn't there? She also brought in these other people. Strip them down too and give them all a hundred lashes! Let Eliza see the true consequences of her unholy ways!"

And so, we're all dragged and tied to the wooden posts that had been brought up as Big Don started to taunt Eliza. He'd clearly anticipated that there would be a mass whipping. It's probably a spectacle that does wonders for ratings. I wouldn't know, as I used to be more of a crime-show watcher than a reality-show watcher.

I can't argue that the whipping certainly increases the drama with Big Don continually yelling at Eliza, asking if she's ready repent. As he does so, he holds her chin up roughly, forcing her to watch as Sarah screams and bleeds along with the rest of us. Still, in spite of the beating and in spite of our collective pleading and howls, Eliza refuses to submit. In response, Big Don demands the guards whip us harder. And when that fails to break her, he screams they continue whipping even past the hundred lashes, and even though Sarah has fallen silent after losing consciousness, her back flayed into raw, bloody meat. Unsurprisingly, a number of us have fallen unconscious from the pain, including Sam.

But not me. I'm still wide awake. In fact, I'm surprised I haven't lost consciousness as well, but perhaps what holds me is the disgust and hate mounting in me. I'm disgusted at my own naivete in trusting Eliza and working in her scheme. I should have always kept alone. I should never have worked or been involved with anyone and especially not Sam. I'm disgusted at my gullibility into being lulled into the hope that Big Don's plantations could have possibly been something different. That I was naive enough to believe in the myth that there may be some decency left in this pathetic "nation."

And I hate.

I hate Big Don.

I hate the people out there.

I hate the Chinese, and hate the Occupation, this place, and what's turned us into.

Most of all, I hate the knowledge that our miserable condition has nothing to do with the Occupation or the plantations, but everything to do with us and what we've done to ourselves.  Which is why I hate the field workers clapping at our whipping. Those Americans are clapping at our suffering. They think that if they cheer along with the tourists, they will be spared. They won't. They're all fuckers. I hate their spinelessness and cowardice... and I hate them with all my soul, because I know I have the very same weaknesses as they do. I fucking hate it all, and I hate myself.

"Do you repent, bitch? Do you?" Big Don demands again, delivering a hard smack across Eliza's face.

"Fuck you," Eliza croaks. "Someone's going to get you. You'll pay."

Big Don laughs. "Me? You think someone is going to get me? From where? From what? We're all in this together, moron. There's no one else. Just us. Just this."

Big Don throws a punch into Eliza's face, knocking her out and tossing her to the floor. "Alright. I've had enough. I'm getting bored. Untie them. We'll get them to repent and then we'll start shooting the losers."

The whipping finally stops, and we're untied from the posts and jerked back to facing the crowd. There, lying across the stage, I see Eliza's unconscious body sprawled in front of us. Blood is splattered everywhere, streaming from our wounds and pooling on the stage.

"Am I live? Is everything recording?" Big Don asks his technicians. Then, turning to us, he says, "Do you repent for your sins? Do you wish for absolution?"

"Yes," we mutter mechanically.

I can barely feel my back through the haze of pain, but I definitely feel the popcorn and the rocks being thrown in our direction. Through the corner of my eye, I can see that only a few of us are still conscious. The rest have passed out, but at least three are dead. The guards had tried to wake them up with swift kicks to the stomach, and when that didn't produce any signs of life, they dragged the corpses to the front of the stage and plopped them in front of us. Those who are unconscious and still hanging on to life are propped up by the guards to demonstrate they too are wanting forgiveness. Eliza, of course, is pulled up, but so is Sarah, her head lolling around like a ragdoll, and so is Sam. I'm surprised ze isn't dead. It would have been better if ze were. Better for us all.

"Good! Then repeat after me: I promise never to engage in deviant behavior."

"I promise never to engage in deviant behavior."

"I swear to the Lord we will never do so."

"I swear to the..."

Fuck this.

Nothing.

None of this is worth continuing.

It should all be thrown to the Void.

As the others continue intoning their inanities, I take the only action that is worth taking. Dipping my fingers into a puddle of blood, I intone under my breath,

"Hrong duc Niggurath nic'Un verlihulu. Jiri ginp mo'adrd yog-shuc-MAC. Eeeelak, gom'ka. Jabba nik turr."

The words and the ritual flow smoothly out of my mouth, as if they'd always been there waiting to be set free. With my good hand, I draw the twisted symbols across my legs and arms. With my prosthetic, I reach back and use its rigid fingers to claw against my bleeding back, tearing apart my flesh and covering its plastic appendages with my own blood and rent flesh. My hands bloody with pain and suffering, and with all my hatred, despair and agony engulfing my heart and soul, I open myself up to the Void...

...For a delicious, agonizing moment, there is no time, no existence. There is just the purity of all-consuming Void... and a coldness descends around me and consumes my mind.

The fools around me remain distracted by their pathetic posing and groveling and rambling and fucking picture-taking. But soon enough, there are murmurs and complaints as a sulfurous, rotting odor begins to spread. If they would just look, they would see that a yellow mist has formed around the dead bodies on stage. Their skin has turned a distinct, darkish shade of green. I note some motions in the crowd as some of the concerned tour-guides try to track the smell down. Useless. Even if they did find the source, there would be nothing they could do nothing to stop it.

Already, I see slight twitchings in one of the corpses, and then distinct shudderings coursing over its dead flesh. They're mild and brief at first, but they're unmistakbly growing in unnatural intensity. A couple of guards, responding to alarmed and repulsed cries, approach the body and fire more rounds into it. But the shuddering doesn't stop. It builds. It builds into violent shaking until the body is shaking from side to side and bouncing up and down. There's more cries and shrill demands for someone to do something, but I sense an ecstatic explosion of a thousand ice picks plunging into my mind, as at last, the shaking of the body culminates and ends with the wet sounds of flesh being torn apart.

The body has split straight down from its nose to the navel, as if a giant claw had pierced it from the inside. Out of the crevice of the body's flesh, a dark oily ooze bubbles out, releasing an unbearable acrid stench that causes the crowd to back away. Many of the tourists continue to record the events, perhaps still under the impression this is part of the show. But when a thick mass of tentacles jut out of the body, writhing and contorting in the air, the horrified screaming really begins. All the tour-guides' attempts to calm people down and to assure them that everything is under control are in vain. Shooting erupts from the guards at Big Don's urging, but nothing can stop the tentacles from growing larger and larger, as it pulls the rest of its body out, slowly revealing more of its monstrous body.

With a slick, sucking sound, the Elder God pulls itself out of the mangled corpse. It's the size of small van. On one end are hundreds of leathery, black tentacles, flexing and twisting. On the other is a distended squid-like head, covered in hundreds of blinking eyes and thousands of lamprey-like ringed mouths filled with dagger-like teeth. The screaming is now totally out of control, sparking sporadic running. The bulk of the crowd though continues to stare and record. Again, Big Don's guards fires, but besides blowing out a few of the monster's eyes, none of the bullets pierce the beast's scaley hide.

Abruptly, the Elder God rights itself, bringing itself into a sitting position over its tentacles. Convulsions pulse across its head, as portions of it swell and stretch. Then, with an ear-bleeding screech from all its mouths, the head splits apart like the petals of a flower made of putrid flesh. Clustered within are hundreds of lividly pink toads, clutching each other with their clawed feet like so many diseased grapes. As they turn their heads, they reveal blood-red eyes, hungrily darting their gaze around, looking for targets.

In a swarming rush, the pink toads leap out, pouncing into the crowd and pinning people down. When they open their mouths, there are no teeth to chew flesh or to gnaw on bone. There is no mercy in this. For from their swelling gullets, the toads spew a stream of viscous vomit, and where it lands, it melts the flesh of their victims into a slurry that the toads then slurp up with long, green proboscises. Much to my satisfaction, one of the toads lands squarely on Big Don's chest and disgorges a stream a flesh-melting vomit straight upon his face, muffling his hoarse cries and ending the pompous fucker's existence for good. It's pandemonium as everyone attempts to flee the toads.

I am satisfied. I feel the Elder Gods' presence crawling into my mind and wriggling into my flesh. The pain is atrocious, but I don't complain. I'm delighting in their wonderful destruction and watching with joy as they desecrate everything with their presence. Nothing! Absolutely nothing can stop them! Even when the guards are bold enough to shoot and kill the toads, they end up being splattered in the toad's sickly green blood, causing them to go mad and shoot everyone around them. And there are so many more toads to come, as those who have feasted on human flesh, begin to couple with each other, and from their stomachs come bursting thousands more miniature toads eager to consume more human flesh.

But as much there's destruction happening before me, I see a limit to it. We are after all, in a small, isolated mountain town with far too few people to kill. There's so much more suffering and deaths I would like them to inflict. Reaching out with mind, I direct a throng of the toads into the reservoir, where I induce them to mate and breed in an orgy of slippery frenzy. In minutes, there's thousands upon thousands of them, croaking for flesh. I am happy to oblige their hunger. I send them into the current, bursting past the reservoir, and tumbling down the river that feeds into the canyon leading down from the mountains.

Down and down they go following the stream, and mere moments after their glorious eruption, they arrive like a pink, pulsing froth upon banks of Boulder. Smelling flesh, smelling the disgusting life of all the accursed living humans, the toads leap out and swarm into the city, consuming and destroying everything as they go. Through their eyes, I see the flesh-liquefying horror and madness they bring. No one is spared. No matter if they're Chinese, American, or a doddering old man or a thumb-sucking brat, they are all set upon and deliciously murdered. All will be devoured by the awesome nothingness of the Void. It is simply perfect.

Predictably, there is resistance from the Occupation security forces, thinking that perhaps that it is something as inanely and uselessly political as a rebellion. Pathetic. Naturally, they fight back by firing their bullets at the Elder God spawn. But as with the guards, those splattered by the toads' blood are rendered into berserk killers, who in turn spread wantonly indiscriminate death. Ultimately, I know it's possible they'll learn how to fight them. Indeed, perhaps the thumping I hear in the distance, harkening the arrival of Qilin transports, will prove effective in stopping the toads. Regardless, I am pleased to know that the Elder Gods have now been decisively freed into this disgusting world, and they will wipe the all the useless life out of existence.

It is nearly done.

I shake myself away from the Elder Gods' vision. Looking around me, I see everyone who can has run away. Only toads feasting on bodies and disgorging yet more writhing spawn remain. My turn to join the Void has come. Seeing a dead guard sprawled not too far from me, I get to my feet and rummage around his body until I find his gun. After fumbling around to cock it, I lift it to my head and...

A hand bats the gun away.

A familiar voice says,

"Not yet, my dear Pat. We still need you. We can't go wasting the most powerful ritual-master we have ever seen, now can we?"

I look up and see James' smiling face. He's barely recognizable. His face is a mess of scars, sores, and badly healed flesh. Behind him are a handful of people standing calmly and looking on in approval at the annihilation around them. Among them is a man in a Chinese officer's uniform.

"You have proven yourself to the Libertarians of the Void. We would like you to join us," James says, and then adds with a grin. "I knew you could do it Pat. The others had their doubts, but I told Colonel Fung here that I knew you could if you had just the right circumstances. Just imagine the things we'll do, Pat! Just imagine the wonderful death and destruction we'll bring! The world will learn to fear the Elder Gods!"

I smile at the horror.

|  |

---|---|---

# Epilogue

Somewhere above the Front Range. Boulder County, Colorado. September 20, 2065. Five days after the 'Public Disturbance.'

It took three full days to end the nightmare that engulfed Nederland, Boulder and the surrounding region.

JiangWei guesses the upcoming inquiry would reveal that, like the incident at the Denver airport, the madness could have been suppressed sooner had there been a "clearer command structure and consistent orders." In other words, things would have gone much better if the clueless high-ranking imbeciles, like Magistrate Gao and her cronies hadn't interfered and prevented crucial personnel and equipment from being deployed. The results of the inquiry would of course be carefully suppressed. Instead, only a meaningless public statement will be issued, long after the propaganda officials judged the public had forgotten what happened and had become distracted by some other more manageable scandal.

Yet, having the "Boulder County Public Disturbance" - as it's being officially called - disappear from memory would be extremely unlikely. While the inquiry results could be tucked away behind layers of encryption, it would much more difficult to suppress and erase the hundreds of millions of pics and vids of the atrocious deaths, impossible creatures and blazing scenes of destruction that flooded virtually every single social media platform. Naturally, Internal Security would attempt to block it through draconian filters and aggressive profile take-downs. This would be futile.

By the time they got a handle on the event, too much had spilled onto the network. The Elder God monstrosities of the "The Boulder County Apocalypse" - as it's unofficially called - became the only thing talked about on every news channel. And even when the Chinese media was forbidden from discussing it, all the international outlets continued to do so, and the Chinese public found ways to circumvent firewalls to get their news fix.

Much to JiangWei's dismay, not only were people hungry to know about the event itself, they also wanted to know every single detail about her. As far as the public knew, she was the brave, heroic captain who had taken control of the SAFCOA security forces and saved Boulder County from disaster. To say the least, JiangWei isn't thrilled about how she was thrust once again into the limelight. Especially their condescending obsession with her "remarkably loyal" performance, in spite of her xiangjiao ren background. Then again, the attention did protect her from the magistrate's reprisals. Since this annoying media obsession with her continued on for some time, Internal Security and propaganda managers' had to admit JiangWei's role as a savior, and again, they had place her on a pedestal to tout her Great Victory for the Motherland, promising she would be rewarded with a shower of medals and honors for her amazing, patriotic service.

In reality, JiangWei played only a nominal role in the operation. During most of the action, she was barely clinging to consciousness through a cocktail of painkillers and stimulants. After they'd removed the pieces of the Elder Gods - a process that required XiaoJun forcing the reluctant surgeon to operate at gunpoint - JiangWei had tried numerous times to leap into battle, despite only having a single arm and eye. It took XiaoJun slapping sense into her to finally get her to sit back and direct the action from the safety of a Qilin. Incapacitated as she was, JiangWei could only point out where they needed to go, emphasizing they needed to focus their attention on not just Boulder, but on Nederland as well, since that was where the toad creatures were originating from. Had they not listened to her, the insanity would have continued for at least a week. For the rest of it, XiaoJun was the one to thank. Using her vast network of contacts, she'd rallied the SAFCOA troops, convincing them to ignore their commanding officers' clueless orders and instead had them coordinate their efforts with her and JiangWei. It was a dirty, gritty battle, but once they unified command, they finally made progress and beat the Elder Gods back.

Now, a couple of days after the operation was declared over, JiangWei and XiaoJun have taken a Qilin to get an aerial tour of the aftermath. They're currently hovering over the smoldering remains of Boulder. It's unrecognizable. Gone are the cute old-style houses meant to mimic retro-upscale-hipster-style mountain living. Gone also are the carefully manicured lawns and rose-granite facades of the town center. Gone, of course, are the wealthy Chinese residents, ambling through town, window-shopping in all the Hong Kongnese and Russian designer stores, as they consume faux-American food specially tailored to their tastes. Instead, the city is an abandoned wasteland, pock-marked with explosions that leveled entire blocks. The rubble that is now Boulder is no different from the smoking remains of an urban war-zone right after a no-holds barred anti-terrorist operation designed to pummel intransigent insurgents into submission.

"Some fucking ridiculous shit, huh? Apparently, about 30% of the city was destroyed, while about 25% of the remaining houses are no longer livable," XiaoJun says, shaking her head. She then snorts, and laughs darkly, "We probably caused about 250 million yuan in damage. But you know what? I'll bet those rich bastards will be moving back in a month, with the place all renovated and even more fancy and exclusive than before!"

JiangWei nods. Boulder being the high-end status-symbol city that it is, it's extremely likely that the upper-crusts who had made Boulder their domain would be coming back to stake their claim. But then again, with what happened and the reputation it's gained as a toxic disaster zone filled with nightmarish creatures, she wouldn't be surprised if they completely abandoned the city and went somewhere else. As much as it would destroy the local economy, JiangWei has to admit that it would please her if that would happen, since it would leave Magistrate Gao with a useless city and state, instead of the cash-cow she thought she had bought into.

Pointing to a collection of houses up along the mountain range about two kilometers from the main city, XiaoJun says, "That's where the last of the mop-up operations are going on. We're pretty sure that's where the last of those fucking pink toads have gone to."

"Pretty sure?" JiangWei asks. As she looks out, she sees sporadic flares of incendiaries detonating and consuming opulent mountain-mansions.

"As much as we can be with the restrictions, they've put on us," XiaoJun shrugs. "If it were up to me, we'd carpet bomb this whole area and burn every building down. But since things have toned down, the owners have been able to put in a word and they've gotten us to limit our operations only to the buildings. So we don't decrease the value of their real-estate. Lunatics. As if those things will just politely go to where we can find them. My best guess is that pockets of those things will keep popping up for months to come."

"I guess that's what some people call job security," JiangWei mutters. "I'll bet they're hoping it will pass... as if thousands of dead soldiers and civilians could be something everyone can ignore. Do we even have an official death toll? Have any of your contacts managed to get the real number?"

XiaoJun grimaces. "Nothing yet. All we have to go on now are the bullshit numbers Internal Security has given the media. No one's going to believe that only a hundred people died with just a tidy fifty or so injured. Ma pi dan!"

XiaoJun pounds her fist on the leg of her hardframe. "I know for a fact that the explosions back on the Colorado Springs base killed three hundred people. Then there's the Denver riots that started shortly after the Boulder bullshit. Did you know they used anti-personnel munitions to suppress them? That's some illegal shit right there. I've seen the bootleg vids from the slums. Even I was shocked. That mother fucker Colonel Fung must have had it planned. It was all too convenient. First Boulder, then the mess in Denver. He knew we couldn't deal with both without resorting to heavy munitions. Fucking bloodbath. I'm going to kill that fucker when we find him."

JiangWei grunts in agreement, though she's not so sure they'll manage to track down the traitorous Colonel Fung any time soon. Wherever he's disappeared to, she's certain it will be difficult to unearth him from under the conspiracies he's dug himself into. Like XiaoJun, she's sworn many times to make the bastard pay for the apocalyptic disaster he caused. Officially, Colonel Fung is listed as being killed in action - though, judging from the intense interrogation the Internal Security agents submitted her to regarding the colonel's actions, it's unlikely they believe he's really dead. His being dead makes a good, clean fiction that fits with the disaster that struck the Western Region base in Colorado Springs.

At almost precisely the same time that the Elder Gods started to engulf Nederland and Boulder, the facility that JiangWei and her squad had been headquartered in had blown up in a massive explosion that tore a chunk out of the base and killed and injured scores of soldiers. Following that, a secondary bomb was detonated that targeted the first responders who went to investigate; but this bomb wasn't meant to kill them. Instead, it splattered them with the now familiar greenish ooze that turned them into insane beserkers killing everyone around them. Uncertain what was going on, and fearful of some kind of mutiny, the entire base was put on lockdown, as they tried to contain the incoherent fighting. With the Western Region base on lockdown, the only troops available to fight the monstrosities were those stationed in Denver.

But as soon as they withdrew to address the situation in Colorado Springs, all the Denver slums convulsed in riots, overrunning the checkpoints and destroying everything they could. The scale of the uprising and the organization of it left no doubt that it had been prepared well in advance. Emergency troops were called in from the Wisconsin and New Mexico Territories, but by the time they arrived the riots had gotten out of control, causing the commanders to enact emergency protocols that demanded they destroy entire city blocks as punishment, and kill thousands of American citizens to show them the correct order of things. This too was recorded, uploaded onto the network and widely disseminated - especially to American populations. With so many atrocities committed so blatantly for everyone to see, it's unlikely that SAFCOA would ever convince the American people of their "good intentions." The only things that would follow would be even more animosity and despair - both of which JiangWei guesses was what the colonel and the Libertarians of the Void had intended to foster.

"Are you... uh... sensing anything out there?" XiaoJun asks, as she watches JiangWei looking out intently into Boulder.

JiangWei reflexively reaches to where her right arm and eye used to be, but encounters nothing but distant shadows of ghostly sensations.

"I'm sensing nothing here in Boulder. Let's go to Nederland," JiangWei says, shaking her head and resisting an angry reply. She'd asked to have a new prosthetic put in, but the medics had said that she still needed to heal before they could do anything. She suspects they're delaying as long as possible to make sure she won't go insane - a concern that XiaoJun probably shares.

She knows their caution is wise, but hates that they're continually doubting her - but not as much as she hates doubting herself.

Even after the pieces of the Elder Gods had been removed from her, she found that she could still faintly see where the monsters were coming from. Not as strongly as before, but their continued presence was impossible to ignore. Whether it's only because she'd become sensitized to them - or if it's because they'd permanently wormed their way into her - she couldn't tell for sure. On the plus side, after she'd been freed from them, her dreams had finally returned to being soothingly empty. For the first time since she'd been implanted with them, she didn't have to drug herself to fall asleep.

As they fly over Nederland, it's clear that the devastation in the sleepy mountain town is only different than that of Boulder's in that it is absolutely complete. Every single building in the valley has been burnt down, while most of the surrounding hills have been charred. When the Qilins finally arrived, they found the area swarming with the pink toads, and took the only reasonable action: they dropped incendiaries the length of the valley, hoping it would be purified by the fire that consumed it. Remarkably, despite the inferno that blazed through, the soldiers who later came through found a few dozen survivors. They were a combination of Chinese tourists and American workers who had managed to flee into the safety of the mountain tops. It's these survivors that JiangWei has come to see.

As they walk through the makeshift refugee camp, JiangWei sees that most of the survivors are shell-shocked or downright insane. Many of them are jibbering senselessly to themselves as they rock back and forth, while others sit motionless, looking into the distance their bodies frozen in terror. It's unlikely she'll get any useful information from them. Probably more of the same paranoid ramblings they've heard numerous times. However, XiaoJun insisted there's someone here JiangWei needs to talk to.

"It's that tent over there," XiaoJun points to a series of ramshackle, low-quality tents obviously meant for American citizens. "You've got to hear what this one person has to say. The guy claims to know how it started."

JiangWei is lead to a Hispanic man, who, if not for the burns and the bandages covering his back, might have been good-looking at one point. He's seated next to two women cradling each other, as they nurse similar burn wounds and bandages on their back. She's skeptical that he would have anything useful to say, but her interest is immediately piqued when XiaoJun prods him to repeat his story.

"...it's the Elder Gods. They've taken Pat. My dear Pat, oh my poor dear Pat. Ze summoned them. They've taken over zir mind..." the man says, shaking his head. "I knew we should have left earlier... I just knew it!"

"You saw this Pat release the Elder Gods?" JiangWei asks.

Based on the ID flashing over her linkernode, his name is Sam Martinez. His record indicates that he'd been tagged as part of a non-conforming gender population and prefers to use the pronouns ze/zir - apparently like this Pat ze is rambling about. This Pat is without a doubt the very Pat Dunes, JiangWei had been looking for. She remembers Colonel Fung had told her he had arrested zir and used zir to get closer to the Libertarians of the Void. But this Pat Dunes apparently no longer exists. Try as she might to get more information, she's discovered that zir record has mysteriously been erased from the network, along with any leads that she might have been able to follow to track the colonel.

"You saw... er... zir summon them with a ritual?"

"Yes! I mean, no I didn't see Pat do it exactly..." Sam says, reaching out to JiangWei out fear she may dismiss ze as insane. "You have to believe me! It's true! When I regained consciousness, I saw zir surrounded by those... those things, but they weren't hurting zir. I was going to grab zir, but I couldn't approach them and I had to run away... A few of us managed to get free and we ran as fast as we could. I'm so sorry Pat! I should have stayed..."

"I see... How do you know he wasn't killed?"

XiaoJun intervenes with, "Tell her what you said about the airport."

Sam shakes zir head, "Pat did that. That's what ze told me. Ze told me ze had called up the Elder Gods at the airport... But ze wanted to get away from them! That's what ze told me! Oh, my poor Pat. They must have taken zir..."

"Who took zir?"

"The Libertarians of the Void! It's them! It has to be!" Sam says desperately. "But Pat doesn't want to be part of them! He can't want it! He must know that there's still hope. We have to save zir! We have to get zir away from them! You have to stop them!"

JiangWei leaves as Sam begins repeating zirself. She nods to XiaoJun to isolate zir so they can speak to zir in more detail later. It's unclear she'll get any better information later on, but this is the best lead they've gotten so far. There are a few more people XiaoJun takes her to speak to, all confirming they'd seen this Pat had been immune to the monsters. Most intriguingly though, some reported seeing a small group of people coming in to pick zir up and take zir away. JiangWei suspects that if she finds their trail and follows them, they'll lead her to the Libertarians of the Void and Colonel Fung.

JiangWei only hopes she'll get to them soon enough so she'll be able to stop them and whatever plans they have brewing. But, part of her suspects that they've only just begun to unleash their nightmares onto the world.

--------

END

|  |

---|---|---

# Acknowledgements

I wrote and completed this in the summer of 2016 - much before the madness that befell November. When I was writing, I kept reading about Trump's antics on the campaign trail, and I thought, "Hahahaha... what a ridiculous dude. Wouldn't it be funny if the whole country ended up with him as President. But that can't happen right?"

Sigh...

This makes for a very bad segue, but a few days after the elections, I received notes from my sensitivity reader, the person whose help I'd most like to acknowledge. They put in an enormous effort in commenting on this work and helping me accurately portray Pat and QUILTBAG issues. I'm happy to have learned a great deal in the process. If you're uncertain about anyone that you're writing about in your own fiction, I'd definitely highly advise everyone to take the time to invest in a sensitivity reader!

That said, it's possible I may have still made some mistakes in representation (and they are all my responsibility), so please feel free to let me know. I'm always willing to learn!

And of course, I'd like to acknowledge the constant support of my partner, who for some inexplicable reason, always supports my plans, endeavours, and ideas, no matter how wacky they are.
