Warlord: Dervish (32 page)

The sand man walked to the next block, no one left to fire at it, the surface of the street behind and all upon it rising into the air. It found Bronson in the house where it had left him, unresponsive. Tearing the plastic from an autoinjector, it hit Bronson with the adrenaline. The soldier sat up at once, his eyes wide open. “Whu-whu-whu-” Shaking his head, slurring his words.

The sand man picked him up, carrying the dying man outside where a pick up truck floated past them three feet off the ground. Whirling dervishes crowded the road, their convolutions ending, blackened forms armed with an array of terrible weapons. It walked with Bronson, the other things hesitant to attack the wounded man so long as he was protected by one of their own. The dervishes followed behind, trailing them to a courtyard ringed by a demolished wall. Amid the palm and date trees within, a Mech stood silently, its cockpit open. As soon as Bronson was placed in the pilot’s chair—
Ni hao
, a soothing voice sounded

—he somehow felt better, as though the chair itself had medicinal qualities that responded to his severely wounded form.

“Jason, I know you in there main…”

The Mech’s computers responded to Bronson’s voice.
Configuring operator specifications
.
One moment please
.

“What am I…” Bronson eyed the dervishes, dozens of them gathering behind his friend. “What am I supposed to do?”

“Go…” the sand man hesitated, as if language were unfamiliar to it. “Go and make a difference…for Chandra.”

Cerebral interface synched
.

“What are you gonna do?”

“I’m going back…stopping all this shit.”

All systems activated
.

“What’s that mean?”

It did not answer. Past it, a veritable wall of sand men, their eyes afire.

“What about them?”

The thing that had been Jason turned, confronting its brethren. “They’re mine.”

The cockpit to Bronson’s Mech lifted into place, sealing the soldier inside, the dervish showing no interest in the man or his machine. They gathered around their lone brother, this thing that was so much like themselves, yet different. Like them, a child of the sand,
yes
; but, unlike them, for its connection was not complete. There was some peculiarity about this one, something contrary to their existence, a quality that set it apart from the whole. Their collective unconscious struggled to reconcile this mismatch, to solve the conundrum and embrace this one into their own. What they failed to recognize were the last remnants of humanity left the one.

The solitary sand man led them, striding from the courtyard and across the street to the gaping entranceway of a house. They followed, what passed for their curiosity piqued. They would solve the riddle of this unique entity and envelop it into their own existence, or they would destroy it for not belonging. They passed through the first room, every piece or furniture and decoration shattered and broken, shards of glass underfoot, wreckage and ruins that threatened no harm to their kind. The walls of the house began to vibrate as the heavens inhaled.

They shadowed the one, trailing it through a passageway. The entrances to other rooms were bricked off, and they could have easily bypassed the barricades if they so desired. Yet their interest lay in the one before them, and as it strode the only unfettered path they followed. It stopped in a small room, pausing at a table atop of which were collected instruments of contention, the appurtenances of war. They observed as it donned a vestment, a habiliment of cyclonite and plasticizer, twisted metal, steel ball and nail. Why it would do so was lost on them, another peculiarity of the one, and as they accompanied it through the next hall they realized this one could never be assimilated. It would forever stand, dissimilar, untethered, its presence a perpetual threat. There was but one course of action. They raised their axes and sickles, their sabers and rapiers.

They cornered the traitor in the final room. The walls shook violently about them. A table was overturned on its side, beneath a torn out stairwell. Their intended prey stood behind the table, facing them, its bearing impudent. A cosmic passage burned at waist level on the other side of the table, near where the defiant one stood its ground. The tangle of wires they had overlooked in their perambulation terminated in this room, in the device the creature grasped.

The sand men bore down on the one, a ghostly wave. Their intended victim simultaneously depressed the trigger on the detonator and plunged through the wormhole. Time meant something different to these creatures than to others inhabiting this plane, and they had time enough to register their deception, to perceive their annihilation. The house about them detonated, erupting in flame and fury, nullifying their existence, rendering them to oblivion.

The Multiverse

Behind soundproofed doors, hundreds of suited men and women clapped as the speaker stepped onto the rostrum. Emblazoned on the front of the ornate podium was a lantern, rays of light radiating outwards. The speaker smiled and nodded, accustomed to the acclamation. Years of addressing audiences like this one, in both his public and corporate capacities, had taught the older man to wait, to let the applause play itself out before he attempted to speak.

When it had died down he leaned into the microphone, speaking clearly and crisply.

“Thank you. Thank you. It’s my honor to be here again, addressing Diogennes’ annual general meeting. Let me tell you, I look forward to this every year. Fortunately they found a way to spare me in Washington—”

Titters from the assembled.

“—and I’d like to extend a very special greeting to our new friends from China.
Huanying
.”

Polite smiles and nods from the Asian delegates.

“There, did I say that right? Well, I hope so. But, you know, this is America, and do you know how we say hello here?
Buenvenidos
!”

Guffaws and claps.

“We look forward to great things as we venture forward with our Chinese partners. Now, you know, its like I was saying to the President the other day—about China—it’s not that we
don’t
like authoritarian governments—I mean, honestly, I think we can all learn a thing or two from them about labor relations.” He delivered this last part deadpan, with a smirk, and it was greeted with laughs.

“If you would, a quote from history. ‘Freedom is about authority.’” He looked up from the podium, smiling. “Wait for it,” he urged his audience, wiggling his eyebrows. “‘Freedom is about the willingness of every single human being to cede to lawful authority a great deal of discretion about what you do.’”

“Yes!” someone in the audience yelled out approvingly. “Hear! Hear!” The Asians nodded their heads.

“Know who said that? Our very own Supreme Court Chief Justice, the honorable Rudolph W. Giuliani. And there’s truth to those words, a truth that will center our discussion this weekend.”

Discomfort flashed on the speaker’s face, his hand reaching tentatively to his chest.

“Excuse me. This weekend you’ll see how Diogenes is leading the world into the twenty
second
century—”

His words were cut off as he clutched his chest. Audience members straightened in their seats, concerned. “Full spectrum dominance,” he blurted out, gasping a breath, then continuing as if nothing had happened. “We’ve got some new, exciting ventures we’re going to see. Speaking of projects and initiatives, we’re this close to—”

A wormhole materialized on the dais, between the speaker and his audience. There were gasps, fingers pointing at the swirling auroral strands encircling the bright white center. Secret service agents rushed forward, attempting to interpose themselves between the maelstrom and the speaker.

The thing that emerged from the anomaly was unlike any entity anyone in the room had ever seen or would ever conceive of for at least a decade. It stepped from the opening, an ebonized shade. A pair of red, incandescent orbs shone where its eyes had been. Its fantastical presence clashed with the mundane, utilitarian suicide vest it wore.

Shots rang out, the lead secret service agent—sunglasses indoors, ear piece, a horseshoe mustache—speed firing his 9mm pistol from the platform.

The speaker’s mouth hung open in disbelief. His hands pressed to his chest, above his malfunctioning pace maker. The dervish faced him as bullets pierced it, particles of its being trailing to the floor like glitter. The fire in its eyes seethed—the speaker drew in a breath to scream—and all were consumed in a burst of white.

Images flashed, one followed by another, and then the picture was clear.
Is you a gangsta
—Buxom girls in bikinis—
Is you a killah
—Young black and brown men, their Starter caps sideways on their heads—
Is you a trapstar
—J. Todd was bent over in front of the camera, thick platinum chains dangling from his neck, shaking his hand as he rapped—
Is you a killah
.

“Hey buddy, what are you watching?”

“Videos, dad.”

“Videos huh.” He came in from the kitchen and looked at the television screen. “Your mom is going to be home any minute. Turn this off.”

“But dah—”

“Areya. You heard me.”

“Okay, dad.” The boy changed the channel.

Tra-la-la

The Banana Splits were bouncing off one another in bumper cars.

The sound of a key in the door.

“There she is!” his dad said as his mother walked into the house. “Hey hon.”

“Hey dear.” They embraced and kissed, as they did each day she returned home.

“Hi love.”

“Hi mom.”

“How was work?” his father asked.

“Fine. Long day. And it’s snowing outside.” As soon as she’d finished saying it, the boy got up and ran to the window, pulling back the curtain.

“No kidding. Well come on in and warm up. Areya, five minutes ‘til dinner.”

“
Ahh
dah,” the kid stared longingly at the flakes. “Can’t I go and play outside?”

“Later pal. First we eat. So get up and set the table.”

“Oh okay, dad.” They heard him gathering forks and knives in the kitchen.

“You know something?” She was sitting down, taking off her shoes. “You’re a good father. Scratch that. You’re a
great
father, Rudy.”

“Thanks, Dee.” Their son had left the curtain drawn back on a grey winter day. “Love ya.”

“Love you too. So, what is for dinner?”

Past their window, the snow fell, thick flakes blanketing the earth. The first would melt, but those that continued to fall would stick, piling atop one another. In another universe, at another time, in another part of the country, the snow was also falling. A little boy and his friends knelt in it, playing. They were building a snow man.

“The heads gotta be bigger than that,” said Marc.

“Nigga, please.”

Smack
.

“What was that for?” Tucker protested, his tone high and nasally.

Mark looked at him. “How you sound man?”

“What you laughin’ at?” Tucker, greatly piqued, demanded of another child.

“Nuthin’,” replied Espada.

“Nuthin,” Tucker repeated, casting a sidelong glance towards Marc. “Hey Giff, you kiss Mary yet?”

“Did I kiss her?” Gifford and the last boy were working together, packing snow on to what would be the bottom section of their snow man. “What you think?”

“He didn’t kiss her,” Marc offered like he knew.

“How you know I didn’t kiss her yet?”

“Cause if you did you’d of told us already.”

The kid working with Gifford smiled because he knew Marc was right. Gifford was always the first one to tell you that Gifford had a way with the girls.

“Let me tell ya somethin’, Jay…” Uncle Ritchie had come outside and was standing near the boys, rubbing his bare arms, which stuck out of his white t-shirt, talking to the kid helping Gifford. “This winter is colder than…”

He looked at the boys and changed what he was going to say. “This winter is friggin’ cold. I don’t know how much more of this I can take.”

Jason smiled. He was warm in his jacket, his hat and gloves. His mother was in the house. She’d have hot chocolate for him when he went inside. He was here with his friends, no school, a snow day. What could be better?

“One day I’m going to sell this house.” Uncle Ritchie’s breath plumed in the air. “Sell this house and move.”

Jason didn’t need to ask where Uncle Ritchie would move to.

“Move to Arizona.”

It was always Arizona. Jason had never been to Arizona, not yet. At this age he hadn’t even been outside New York State and rarely beyond the borders of Rochester. There would be plenty of time for that.

“Thing about Arizona, Jay…”

He hadn’t been there, but Jason knew Arizona was hot.

“…it’s hot in Arizona.”

A dry heat.

“But it’s a dry heat.”

An arid heat. His head throbbed, the worst headache of his life. His sinuses were dried out, full of bloody mucous. A roar sounded, as if he were in the middle of an ocean. The man opened his eyes and couldn’t believe what he saw or where he was. He lay in the middle of an elliptical amphitheatre, a succession of arches and half columns, tiered seating on which thousands roared as he rose, unsteadily, to his feet.

The floor beneath him was wood and covered by sand. He spied the large, hinged platforms, hegmata built into the floor. He knew the ground underneath was hollow, the hypogeum, a series of tunnels and cages where the animals were held, where the gladiators waited—

A rumble of anticipation and excitement welled from the crowd and he looked up at the gladiator that stepped into the arena. Tall and scarred, the bald headed man stood in his loin cloth, basking in the cheers of the crowd. His torso was bare except for metal shoulder pieces, his forearms covered to the elbow in metal vambrace, blades attached to the forearm protectors.

The gladiator tramped across the arena, his gaze fixated on Kaku. The doctor held his hands up in front of his body and began to speak and beg, to enjoin and cajole. A swipe from the vambrace and Kaku’s hand plopped to the sand. An enthusiastic din sounded from the crowd.

Kaku stared wide-eyed upon the stump at the end of his arm. This could not be happening. Not to him. The gladiator had turned, looking to its Emperor, the robed man seated in his box. A hush stole over the crowd. The Emperor’s arm straightened, his thumb extended sideways. The Emperor turned his thumb towards the earth and the crowd went ballistic, electrified. The gladiator faced his opponent.

“No!” Kaku cried. “No!” He backed up, the gladiator striding towards him, and then he ran, screaming, beseeching the gladiator, the emperor, the crowd, his cries drowned out by the audience. Spying a tunnel entrance, Kaku plunged headlong into the dark, wailing, the gladiator following him, the dark all around, the tunnel walls cold and damp, with no chance for exit, no hope of escape…

The turbaned man ran screaming through the earthen tunnel, his AK-47 emptied. He burst into a room where a group of bearded men sat cross legged on the cave floor, kurta pajamas and vests, heads covered by kufi and sindhi caps. The cavern bright from halogen lights on yellow tripod stands and jury rigged bulbs. A white board paper holder in the center of the gathered, with aerial photographs and blue prints and airline timetables and aircraft specifications taped to it. Eight-by-tens: the Twin Towers, the Pentagon, the White House.

Those seated looked up at the frantic arrival, the man terrified, tripping over his words. Vertical geysers of stone rocketed up around him and he vanished in the fusillade, the roar of an autocannon deafening in these underground confines.

The Mech stepped from the tunnel, bent over to accommodate its size. The height of the cavern allowed it to stand and the bearded men looked upon it with dubiety. The man in the cockpit looked around the cave, at the pictures on the white board, at the faces of the conspirators, at the tall, thin, haggard one in their center.

“We got the lotto.” His voice was clear over the P.A. Though few in the cave understood his words, their import was clear. Behind him, from the tunnel, the sounds of men storming towards them.

“Chandra, this one for you baby girl.”

An electronic whine as it raised one massive arm towards the cave roof—

“I’m about to get strong wit’ you niggas.”

—and its pulse cannon boomed, particle beams impacting the walls and ceiling of the cave, loosing rock and stone, bringing thousands of tons of mountain collapsing down on itself and those gathered, pulverizing all, grinding them into the earth, into sand and dust.