The Big Blue Sky: Sixty-nine

“What are we doing here?” Molly asked. She held the pistol at her leg. Her heart thundered madly. Every errant sound in the big empty hallways made her jumpy and anxious.

“Looking for someone.”

“Care to share a little?” Molly complained.

Doug stopped before a large directory. White plastic letters were pressed into a black board set into the wall and covered by glass. Doug touched the glass, running his finger down until he came to a name.

“Louis Purvich, Professor.” He said.

“Who?”

“When I called my old editor he said we should talk to his son-in-law.”

“And this is important at this moment?”

“I need some information or I’ll look like a fool at that Press conference. I have one shot. I have to put all the pieces in place.”

Molly nodded. “We better hurry then.”

They ran down the hall and up two flights of stairs, finding a small office at the back of lab. They lab itself was like something from a tinkerers dream. The machines seemed haphazard and strange. Doug was by no means an uneducated man, but he could not make sense of any of them.

“Looks like a hi-tech junk shop,” Molly remarked for the both of them.

There was a small wood-cut sign on the door. It was simple, like a child had created it. A crudely etched tin-can robot frowned while sniffing a daisy. There was a question mark over the robot's square head. The sign read:

DEPARTMENT OF CYBER-ETHICS AND THE PHILOSOPHY OF TECHNOLOGY

Doug didn’t bother knocking. There was no time. He reached for the doorknob. It turned easily. He pushed it open, startling the professor inside. Molly pushed past Doug and went to the phone on the Professor’s desk, lifted the receiver and dialed the emergency operator.

“This is Agent Karaman again. I phoned in the emergency. I am located on the third floor of the Technological Institute, North End in one of the labs. I have a Federal witness with me and will need security immediately to protect him.” She hung up the phone, took the badge from her pocket and hung it around her neck where it would be seen plainly. “No need to get shot by friendlies.”

Doug looked to the astonished young man. He couldn’t have been older that thirty, though a deeply receding hairline made him look a bit older at a glance. It was offset by long straight blond hair. He was skinny and t all, and a awkward, with bright blue eyes and a two day growth of beard. The office was a mess, dominated by a chaotic bookshelf filled with reports, hastily stuffed files and an eclectic mix of philosophy and computer books.

“Professor Purvich?” asked Doug.

“Doug Springer? Arnie said…”

“Is there another way out of here?” asked Molly, returning to the door, now holding the pistol in both hands.

“If you can fly or bounce!” the Professor replied, sarcastically, but quickly thinking better of it when she glared at him. “What’s going on?”

“We don’t have much time,” Doug began. Molly moved across the lab to the door. “I’m trying to put together the pieces of a weird puzzle…”

“Nano-weapons.” Purvich said abruptly, taking Doug a little aback.

Doug looked curiously at the sign on the door. “Cyber-ethics?’

“The digital revolution is overwhelming us,” said Purvich. “It’s evolving faster than humanity’s ability to understand it. Some would call it a new life form, maybe the replacement form for humanity. Twenty years from now machines will be autonomous, self replicating and doing things we cannot even conceive of. Question is, will they perceive us as their Adam and Eve, as nuisances or enemies? Will we perceive them as enemies, God’s or both? The ethics of all this is that we need to find a way to program basic ethics and morality into our machines, or they will fashion their own, and we must come to some understanding and perspective in machines of our creation which, one day, will likely not need us to exist.”

“How does that work for nano-weapons?”

“It doesn’t,” Purvich said simple.

“I don’t get it.”

“You’re not asking the right question,” said Purvich. “What happened in Iran two days ago has all the hallmarks of a Nanobot attack. No ethics, just machines programmed to function on its designer’s shifting sense of ethics. Nanobots are simple, dumb things.”

“Nano-what? You have to forgive my ignorance.”

“Not your fault,” he said. “Nobody knows about this stuff. Nobody in the government and nobody in military, that for sure. Nano-technology is not on anyone’s radar yet, but it is definitely the future. If we’re smart it will change humanity forever. If we ain’t it’ll hit us like a bullet between the eyes.”

“Fallahi said it was like the discovery of fire; a Frankenstein monster.”

“Purvich nodded. “Not far off the mark. What we’re talking here is infinitesimally small, on the scale of millionths of an inch. By contrast, the diameter of a human hair is colossal by comparison. But the applications are infinite; phenomenally better processors, incredibly efficient fuel cells, revolutionary medical applications, like little robots that would hunt down and eradicate tumors before you knew you had them, un-dreamed of textiles and fabrics and warfare.”

“And how would those applications work for weaponry?”

Purvich chuckled. “How good is your imagination? Right now we’re sort of theoretical with carbon silicon Nano-tubes a thousandth the width of a human hair, with a sort of tube and soccer ball configuration, but from that we can build and program and amazing array of nano-machines.”

“How difficult are these to produce?’ asked Doug. Molly was listening from the door, while keeping a wary eye on the hall. Outside the sirens had risen to a racket. There was gunfire in the distance. Purvich led Doug across the room to an odd looking machine. It was hardly bigger that a small chest of drawers.

“A couple of geeks, a million and a half dollars and an internet account to buy a thimble full nano-tubes and you, my friend, could bring the world to its knees.”

“And where does one logon to but nano-tubes?”

Purvich went to a blackboard and quickly scribbled out a formula:

It’s simple, anyone can create so-called forests on nano-tubes in a substrate growth rate in a really simple formula, H(t)=βTo(1-e-t/To), where β is the initial growth rate and T sub zero is the catalyst’s lifetime.” He could see that he was losing Doug a bit in the techno stuff. “It’s simple. Very simple.”

“Anyway to detect one of these nano-weapons?”

“Honestly? Depends on the technical expertise of the designer. They could disappear, breakdown on command, dissolve, or burn up.”

Molly looked away from the door. “Burn up?”

“Sure,” said Purvich. “You could actually generate a substantial amount of heat.”

“Enough to say, burn through human tissue?” Molly pressed.

“Absolutely,” he replied.

“And how would you deliver these?” asked Doug, with a knowing look to Molly.

“God, the possibilities boggle the mind.”

“In a glass of water?” asked Molly.

“I suppose,” the Professor replied.

There was a sound at the door. Molly wheeled around, bringing the pistol up as Waverly and the other man stormed inside, unleashing a hail of bullets. Molly returned fire, dropping Waverly’s partner. Doug fell on Purvich, shoving him back into the office just as two bullets slammed into Molly. She grunted and tumbled to the floor, her pistol skidding away across the floor.

“Molly!” Doug cried, scrambling over to her. Dark red blood spread beneath her body. Molly’s head was turned to the side, and covered by her long dark hair. Just as he reached for her Doug felt the press of a cold hard gun barrel at the back of his head.

The Living Fiction Project: Sixty-two

Molly and Doug were making good time on the long empty stretch of highway between Sheboygan and Milwaukee. Rolling hills and farms shimmered as the morning frost burned away beneath the endless embrace of blue Wisconsin sky. Deer peeked cautiously from clusters of autumn woods flanking the gray two lane ribbon of highway. Molly was looking out the window, sort of leaning against the door. Her gaze was distant, brow furled as she fought with Moon’s death, and if she might have done something differently to save him. Doug reached over and laid a hand upon hers, in a feeble effort to comfort her somehow. She looked over at him, struggling to smile, rescued by his touch. She held his hand in hers, filling them both with a warm rush of electricity.

“You’re not afraid?” she asked.

“For my girls, for my country…” his words faded away. Doug’s eyes were fixed upon the road ahead, as if it was some sort of metaphor.

Molly squeezed his hand. She could see herself loving him.

“Think we’ll make it?” she asked.

“Hope so.” He drew his hand away. It still felt like a betrayal to Molly that he should have these feelings for another woman, and so soon after Jane’s passing.

“If there’s still enough time.”

“That’s life,” he said, hoping to break the tension of the moment somewhat. “All about the timing, when to stay in and when to pull out.”

“Seven billion people on the planet,” Molly observed, managing a smile.

“So obviously timing is not humanity’s strongpoint.”

“So what’s this company’s connection to Iran?” she asked.

“Still trying to figure all this, but the best I’ve come up with is that somehow First Thrust is, I don’t know, some sort of operations wing for Shosa.”

“And the Nano-weapon angle?”

“Delivery?”

Operations, delivery and security all in one package,” She said.

Doug nodded thoughtfully, straining at the missing parts to the puzzle, parts he either couldn’t figure, or which were so terrible he refuse to accept them. Lost in all this he failed to notice the Wisconsin State patrol car half hidden behind the pylon of an overpass. Doug spotted the cruiser coming up fast in the rear view mirror, and had a sudden sinking feeling at the mars lights came on. He swore under his breath. Molly noticed too, straining her neck at the rear window.

“Best laid plans,” he muttered.

“Pull over and let me handle this,” said Molly.

Doug pulled the Ford off onto the shoulder, but left the motor running. It grumbled and skipped, and fought to keep from dying altogether. Doug doubted, even if the cop let them go, that they could make it to Chicago.

The cop approached cautiously, resting hand on the .45 at his hip. He was middle-aged, and of average height and build, with neatly trimmed blond hair. A pair of mirrored sunglasses beneath a wide-brimmed hat made him look ominous and omnipresent. He paused at the back of the Ford and glanced into the back. The man came up just shy of the cab, leaning warily across Molly’s window until he could see Doug as well.

“Afternoon,” he said dutifully. “Where you folks headed?”

“Chicago. I’m a Federal officer,” said Molly, out of deference to the officer pointed to her jacket. “I’m going to reach for my ID.”

The cop nodded. “Please, ma’am.”

“I’m working an investigation,” she reached for her badge. “I could use some courtesy here.”

“Are you armed, ma’am?”

“I am,” she said. “My service weapon.”

“I appreciate you honesty,” said the cop. May I have both your IDs? I’ll need to verify…”

“Can’t do that,” Molly cut him off.

“Sorry?”

She motioned to Doug. “This man is a murder suspect, but at the moment he is critical to my case.”

She slipped her Bureau ID card from her pocket and handed it over to the officer. He studied it a moment, never once taking his hand off his weapon, his eyes moving continuously between Molly and Doug. When a second cruiser pulled up the officer relaxed a bit.

“Why don’t we step back at my vehicle, Agent Karaman, and continue the conversation where it’s safer?”

Doug watched as Molly conferred with the two officers. He could tell nothing from their faces, and by rights expected to be arrested. And that would be the end of it. The war would begin, like a monumental tidal wave obliterating all reason and perspective, for there was only one thing to do in an inundation: swim desperately for life.

EMMETSBURG: Twelve

“Wish they’d take that mess down the road a piece,” Bert grumbled before his eyes met John’s. He paused like he’d been caught at something, and half smiled a bit sheepishly for it. “Put up a sign that says social center and new village hall!”

Burt was a shade taller than his boy and a good deal huskier now that the years were creeping up on him steadily. He had icy white hair that had receded a tad. The sweaty ends were matted to his forehead and temples. Smelled of cigars, sweat and engine grease. His powerful arms were stained with grease and oil clear to the elbows, where it stained the rolled up sleeves of a blue denim shirt. Bert scooted around the counter and stood next to Myron. Was like a looking glass that showed the future. Burt was fighting to catch his breath. He was leaning on the counter, his chest heaving a little too hard. His chubby dirt-streaked face was red as a beet. Bert smiled weakly and grabbed his boy’s arm. The gesture had the quality of a plea.

“Fetch me a cup of water,” he said. Myron was away in an instant. He looked to John, who trying his best not to appear overly concerned at Bert's rough condition. “Hell getting old.”

“Do my best to avoid it.”

“Wasn’t but about a block I run. Damned if I can’t catch my breath.” He chuckled, and coughed. “Was a time I could outrun any lug in the county.”

Myron returned with a tin cup of water from the pump out back. John had taken a drink from that well many a hot day. he could smell the soft mineral scent of the water and could almost feel its coldness as Bert Himmel chugged it down. Ample amounts dripped onto the fat man's blue shirt. Bert let the cup bang against the counter. He finally seemed to catch his breath.

“Where are my manners,” he said. “What can I do for you, John?”

“Mister Perkins was inquiring about another roll of tar paper, Pop,” said Myron.

“Run on it this morning, with the storm and all. Heard it might have been a twister.”

“That right?” said John

“How much do you need?”

“Seven Dollars worth?’

“Cover the whole neighborhood?” Bert coughed mid laugh.

“Hoping to pick up a job or two.”

“Real blessing, strong back and shoulders.”

“Bout all I got these days,” John nodded. “That and my wits, for whatever they’re worth.”

“How soon do you need it?”

“Figure two days up on the roof. Before it rains again, I suppose.”

“See what I can do,” Bert came around and laid a hand heavily on John's shoulder, as much for support as neighborliness.

John started for the door. He turned back to Bert and Myron. Bert was already behind the counter, collapsed in a chair and fanning himself.

“Could use a hand, if you can spare your boy a day or two,” said John. Myron looked eagerly to his father.

Bert sort of leaned back over the chair, looking a bit like a rag doll someone had tossed there. Both men could see the excitement in the boy's face.“Interested?”

“Gee, could I, Pop?”

“Couldn't pay but about two bits,” said John. “Promise a couple good home-cooked meals.”

“I'd do it just for Mrs. Perkin's cooking!”

“You'll take the two bits as well,” said John.

THE LAST MAN: Epilogue

The sea is a mirror of the burnt orange sky, hardly disturbed by the wake of our little boat. It lops lazy and hollow against the old wooden hull. Behind us the sounds and images of war are distant and low. I stopped rowing sometime ago, content to drift for a while and not cause any more noise in the world than absolutely necessary. The scent fills me, and will forever remain wedded to these first hours of freedom.

The wind has stopped, the crisp cool air salty and sweet. It is as still as that painted sea. Desiree is asleep and curled in the bow beneath a crudely sewn blanket. I wish that I could say it is a peaceful sleep. More accurately it is an exhausted sleep haunted by all she has been through. None of this was hers by choice. She is so perfect there, and for the first time I am truly happy. I am sunbeams through the clouds. I am hope and I am nearly saved.

Is this some sort of victory? Have I won anything? If freedom is the only measure then I have won everything. However, if escape remains the measure then a man must know what he is escaping to as intimately of what he is escaping to, with full understanding that he may never escape himself. I am settled and at peace for the moment, but with the understanding that the world is moving to something. The world is always moving to something, some final accounting, a cataclysm, and a sum total of all that has come before. What form it will take is impossible to say. Nor can I say whether it will come with a whisper or a like a storm.
The boat drifts invariably towards the ruins, floating among massive pylons supporting iron and concrete platforms high above the sea. They are terrific and large, like great rusting sea monsters frozen in a time long passed. Among them the air is funneled to create its own wind, which tugs as great cables. The wind whispers and whistles through the ancient structures. Desiree wakes with a start as I steer the boat close to one of the structures. Her eyes go wide as we pass beneath the first platform, neck straining at its towering superstructure. I stretch a hand and let it brush along the massive concrete support. A rush of excitement sets me to light and sends a shiver through me.

It is clear they are long deserted, perhaps for centuries. The flames I spied from my flat, the fires I dreamed and fantasized over for so long was merely the sun reflecting off broken window. The movements I believed were people like me, upon whom I weighted all my hopes were birds or tattered fabric pushed and pulled by the wind.

There is a small dock below the structure. It is rusted and bent by centuries of storms. One end is underwater, the rich brown rust, like the overlapping blossoms of some ravenous ivy patiently dissolving and devouring the platforms covers the platform. A metal sign hangs at an odd angle by a second chain above the platform. Like the dock it too is steadily being devoured by rust and salty sea water until almost nothing of it can be read. I can make out only a hand full of words, but they mean nothing to me. I mouth their sound. Desiree says them aloud.

SHELL OIL
All Visitors Must…

I use the oar to push away from the platform and guide the boat into the open sea. What lies beyond the far horizon is impossible to say. I remain hope, and I remain hope for Desiree. In those dark hours when I am without I will stand if only to be that hope for her. What else is there? As for freedom, I know now it is not some distant land or some castle to conquer. It is not me and it is not mine. It is not fleeting as a storm, nor it is anything a man can ever retreat from once it has been tasted. It is a bittersweet fruit whose taste is unknown yet familiar to the man who has never known it, and the harvest plundered and wasted by the man who has never been deprived. It is a breath of life; fully mine one moment and gone the next…


THE END

THE LAST MAN: Part Forty-three

A burst of fire from the armored transport takes the corner off the building beside me. The chest thudding concussion of those heavy rounds knock me to the ground. Chunks and pieces of building rain down around me. I roll to one side as another volley chews the pavement where I was laying to pieces.

Cut in a dozen places and disoriented from fright and fire, it is all I can do to scramble and tumble from the street into the relative cover of the alley. Desiree is running towards me. Out in the street resistance by loyal Corporation troops has completely collapsed. Their ranks are either scattered or killed. Virtually all of the shooting comes now from troops loyal to the Ministers. I still cannot find my feet when Desiree falls to her knees and into in my arms.

“You’re hurt,” she says, wiping a trickle of blood from a cut to my cheek.

“I’m fine,” I say. She settles me, brings a focus and a purpose I almost lost in fear. Behind us, at the top of the alley a soldier draws a bead on us. We are already up and running for the sewers. A burst from the Corporation side cuts the man in half. Bullets sail wildly around us in the man’s final dying spasm.

The entrance to the sewer is raised perhaps eighteen inches above the alley. Just inside there is a small concrete lip. There is a Sentinel, whose blue shell offers something of a hand hold. A waning afternoon light falls dimly to swirling brown water below. It is far too much of a drop for Desiree alone, but leaving her exposed in the alley. The armored transport draws to a stop. Its heavy turret turns slowly in our direction.

“I don’t think they’ve seen us yet,” I say. Fear thunders in my chest and in my ears. Soldiers appear from behind the transport, edging cautiously into the alley.

“It’s too far, I can’t make it!” she exclaims.

The soldiers spot us. The first shots slap impotently off the lip of the sewer entrance. The transport opens up a moment later, smashing fist size holes in the seawall above our heads.

“We’ll go over together,” I tell her, shouting above the gunfire. “Hold tight to me!”

Desiree and I slip over the edge as another volley from the transport blasts the wall to pieces. For a moment we swing in space. I have an arm around the broken Sentinel, the other holding precariously to Desiree. Hers are wrapped around my waist, but her grasp is already failing.

“Climb down my body and drop down!” I shout, but it is already too late. Her hold fails and with a scream she drops into the churning water. An instant later the Sentinel breaks loose and I am falling.

The water is deeper than I expected, cushioning our falls. It is muddy and filled with debris obviously loosed by the destruction of the Reclamation Center. Coming to my feet I find it almost chest deep and powerfully swift. Desiree is nowhere to be seen. It takes my eyes a moment to adjust to the darkness, and I spot her hand flailing wildly just at the surface. I pull her up and she gasps for air.

“You’re alright?” My voice echoes thunderously.

She nods, spitting water. “I couldn’t, the current…”

“Hurry, we haven’t time” I turn her away from the sewer entrance. Fighting the current I keep a wary eye on the hole for fear the soldiers will follow. All the while I hold Desiree up as the current threatens to drag her under.

The current slows, the water levels settling to our waist before too long. Near the beach it runs hardly deeper than our knees. For the first time it feels safe enough to pause for a rest. I settle against the wall. Desiree puts her face in my neck. Too numbed and too exhausted to cry she gives a long low moan.

Dogs have begun to pick at the dead on the beach. Their grisly task becomes all more chilling in the lessening amber light. They pay us little mind. Even still we keep well clear. From the bundles and scattered belongings we change from our wet clothes. Dressed in the things of the Low City people, there is a moment in which we realize our break with the Corporation. There is the odd realization of freedom, while not knowing precisely what that means. It is an entirely new land and a fundamentally knew sky that we come to now. It is an unfamiliar land so far away from the words I read in all those books. For freedom is not a battle to be won, but an eternal compromise between the desires of selfish heart against the tyranny of the world. And so I am free. The far horizon remains to challenge and define that idea. It is, at the end of this story, for me to weather that journey and, in the end, still remain true to my good heart.

THE LAST MAN: Part Forty-two

I climb slowly to my feet. As I draw Desiree up, still shielding her with my body, it seems impossible we are still alive. Desiree is already pulling me towards the sewer, knowing full well this could be our last chance for escape. At the entrance to the alley I spot movement among the dead. I pull away from Desiree. Her fingers linger at the end of our touch. Her face fully reflects the urgency of this moment, but I have to go.

“Please, I beg you,” she pleads.

“One moment is all I ask.”

I take her in my arms and look purposefully into her tortured eyes. We both look to gunfire out in the street. The sound comes nearer with each passing heartbeat. Her fingers grip the sleeves of my tunic tightly, as if she might drag me away if all else fails.

“If something happens,” I tell her, “follow the sewer to the coast. You will find…”

“I won’t, not without you!”

“You must,” I say, pulling away. It takes every ounce of strength and courage I can muster her. We may only have this one chance, but I have to go.

I follow the wall to the top of the alley. In the street, a few yards away the Man from the Corporation lies bleeding. Bullets have pierced his body crossways from hip to shoulder. I am amazed he is still alive. Seeing me he musters the strength for an ironic smile. At the end of the street, in the direction of the Reclamation Center, Section Twenty-one troops loyal to him are fighting a losing battle against the Minister’s forces. Bullets rip at the air overhead and skip at the street close by.

Ignoring the fighting I kneel beside him. Gently I lay my hand upon his shoulder. It is cold to the touch. Already I can feel the life fleeing from his body.

“Seems as though I am the one eager to say goodbye now,” he says weakly.

A cross the street a man stumbles from the fight and collapses against the wall. The street battle reaches its climax. The man from the Corporation looks past me to the ultramarine sky, and the torn layers of smoke and dust.

“Does it hurt terribly?”

His eyes find mine. “I did not believe I would see you again. Don’t ascribe any purposefulness in saving you, if that is in fact what I’ve done.”

“Still, I owe you a debt, my friend.”

The word seems to catch him a moment. It seems to rescue him from the finality of the moment, more than he rescued Desiree and me from the Minister’s bullet.

“It is I who owe you a debt.” I said. “In the atrium you said something I did not understand. You said that a man alone is always defeated, but that a man alone has nothing to lose but his dignity, and that he will defend to the last.”

“I did.”

“But not all men. It takes an uncommon character.”

“Or a common man in an uncommon situation.”

“Perhaps if that were truer we would live in a very different world. I believe you are the last man…my friend”

Only a hand full of his loyal men remain now. They have retreated to doorways around us. At the top of the street, seeming to rise from the lingering smoke and haze from the Reclamation Center, an armored troop carrier creeps forward spitting fire around the street.

“Anything I can do for you?” I ask.

He looks to Desiree. There is a lonesome look to his eyes, as though he realizes something he has always missed but only now discovered. With his final breaths he reaches up and touches my face.

“She is waiting for you,” he says, breathing heavier and more erratic now. “See how she looks at you? That better world awaits if the two of you can find it.”

With that he is gone. As I close his eyes I know he meant less of the physical world than of something more. I am coming to a definition of love in Desiree. Implied in that word is the hope of a different world, if we can find it.

THE LAST MAN: part Forty-one

Desiree and I are led from the building. My steps are weighted with stone, each one more humiliating than the next. I am impotent, struggling for a rationalization as to why I do not fight back. There is a part of me that believes an honorable death resisting would be better than a fool’s pointless and passive death. That part of me is a hostage to moments that wash one to the next, fluid like waves. I am suspended in them, unable to do anything but be carried forward towards death.

As we are leaving I spy two other ministers jut arriving. I could perhaps find something sinister in their presence. By their appearance I could believe they are too well prepared for all this. The Woman from Security and Resource does not notice me. The man from Efficiency and Entertainment seems surprised to find me here. His eyes follow me before they disappear inside.

Around the corner is a small alley. It is bounded by tall buildings on two sides, and at the back by the sea wall. There is a sewer near the sea wall. I have a mind to through myself over the edge, with full realization I could be seriously hurt. Still, despite that, it might prove my last chance for escape. I fear that I may never see the ruins, but I cannot and will not abandon Desiree, not so long as I can still draw breath.

“Stop there,” says the Minister. We turn, pausing to meet one another’s eyes, as though saying goodbye. I take her hand in mine. She squeezes it tightly and takes a deep stuttering breath. I cannot breathe, my throat growing dry. The minister comes forward and raises his pistol at Desiree. I pull her my chest, bringing her head to my chest, my gaze filled with contempt for the commander.

“If you shoot we die together,” I say bitterly. My intention is rob him fully of even the slightest satisfaction. With that I close my eyes, fully expecting the burning hot stab of the bullet. Desiree and I pull her tightly to me, and breathe in the dusty scent of her hair, savoring that smell in the face of eternity.

“Makes no difference to me,” he says.

There is a sudden volley of shots from beyond the alley. The shot from the Minster’s bullet explodes, but I am already pushing Desiree to the ground. The round goes wide, slapping against the seawall. I cover her with my body. More shots thunder in the alley, the air momentarily alive with bullets.

Then, just as suddenly as it began, the shooting stops. I look up cautiously, still shielding Desiree. The air in the alley swims and is bitter with spent gunpowder. The bodies of Section Twenty-one men litter the ground. There is more fighting in the distance near the command center. Beside me the Minister is all but dead yet. He lies on his stomach, a bullet through his neck. He gurgles and chokes out his final breaths. Life runs away from him like the river of blood to the sewer.

THE LAST MAN: Part Forty

“Is there any hope for us?” Desiree asks. How do I answer that question? Her eyes tear me to pieces. I would do anything to save her from all of this, but I am at the end of hope as well. Do I tell her what I honestly believe, that we will meet our end with a bullet? Do I implore her to go bravely with me to that end? Perhaps the illusion of hope is the best answer. In any case silence is the wrong answer, but the only one I can muster.

“During the attack I saw one of them,” she begins. “It was a young woman. She tackled a man almost twice her size and killed him with her bare hands not three feet away from me. When she had finished she sat astride his body and our eyes met…the, the…her eyes, they were so filled with life and power. I am sad I will not live a life like that.”

There is a sound at the door. It opens to the Minister from Police. Desiree stands as several of his men enter the room. The Minister enters, pacing back and forth a moment. He glances up at us from time to time. His expression is snug and self-satisfied. I hold Desiree’s arms. I fear it is more for my own faltering confidence than for her.

“You are a cleaver one,” says the Minister, still pacing. His hands are clasped behind his back. “I have seen many Associates resist Reclamation, but none so manipulative as you.”

“You can let us go,” I assert, feebly. “What are we to you?”

“What was it you said at your trial? Oh, yes, that no man can adequately proclaim his right to exist to another. You said it was a matter of perspective, and that perspectives are, by their nature, limited and biased. Isn’t that what you said?”

I do not answer. He continues.

“If that is truly how you believe, then you must concede that the argument falls both ways. Indeed, then you must accept that the perspective with the greatest power will carry the most weight. My perspective is to carry out the Reclamation Mandate for both of you without delay.”

“To what purpose?” asks Desiree. I can feel her trembling. There is a different quality to her voice, a stronger quality that sets my blood on fire. I cannot help but smile.

The Minister chafes at her perceived insolence. He is quiet a moment, as if the thought had not occurred to him before, at least not beyond the egotistical wish for revenge. His eyes rise accusingly to mine.

“Your presence is an infection that must be cut out of the body. Look at the effect you have had upon her.”

“We will leave the city, as I said, and never return,” I say.

He moves around behind me. I turn, straining to see him without letting go of Desiree. “Reclamation is the backbone of the Corporation. There is no better time to reassert that Mandate, and I can think of no one better to begin that process than you and your cohort.” He motions to the troopers. “Take them outside into the street.”

THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty-eight

"Spared the furnaces,” sneers the Man from Police, one of the judges of my so-called trial. Gone are the robes he wore for the trial. He is dressed in the dark Section Twenty-one uniform, with helmet and goggles around his neck. He is weighted heavily by body armor, to the extent that his smaller frame (much smaller and weaker then the troops bred for his command) frame. A pistol sits in the holster across his body.

“You will not escape a bullet,” he says.

“What have I done?” I say, drawing Desiree behind me. “Nothing!”

“Call it maintaining the public order,” he replies. The Man from Police unsnaps the pistol and draws it from the holster. He holds it against his thigh.

“On whose authority?”

“I am the Minister of Police. I don’t need anyone’s authority.” He motions to the Reclamation Center, or what remains. “Especially after what your friends in the Low City have perpetrated.”

“I have not taken any sides in this conflict.”

He scoffs. “No one holds that luxury any longer, even if I could believe you weren’t somehow complicit.”

His finger slips over the trigger guard. There is nowhere for Desiree and I to go. We stand at the edge of the crater. Death is certain, no matter how good the Minister’s aim is. He raises the gun, aiming it at us from the hip. Slowly he pulls the slide back to chamber a round.

“But you have not heard?” I say. He pauses, lowering the weapon a little.

“Heard what?”

“The exile order.”

“Exile order?”

“From the Corporation. They have ordered that I be exiled from the city.”

“You must think me a fool,” he says. “I have never heard of such a thing.”

“Fair enough,” I reply, “but what sort of example will the Corporation make of a Minister who takes it upon himself to countermand a decree?”

He thinks for a moment. I know he believes it is a ruse, but it creates enough doubt that he relents.

“I will make the call. For now you enjoy a temporary stay of execution, but when I confirm what I already know I will shoot her first so that you may see her die.”

THE LAST MAN: Part Thirty-five

We round a corner at a run, at least as much as we can muster. I want to put the greatest distance between us and the Reclamation Center, but every step and every heart beat seems an eternity. If it is to be destroyed, and the fighting a diversion to draw in the greatest number of Section Twenty-one troops for slaughter, then I can only conclude that as the battle wanes that the end is near. The gunfire comes in wild spasms, with pauses coming longer and longer.

Desiree holds weakly to my side. If not for me her legs would not be enough to hold her. Her bare feet slip and trip as she fights ground over glass and the refuse of war. The narcotic is wearing off slowly, awakening pain from her battered and burned body. She shouts and slips from my arms, tumbling heavily to the street.

“We have to keep moving,” I draw her into my arms. Desiree presses her face into my chest.

“I can’t go any farther.”

“You must.”

“To where?”

I help her to stand again then lift her partially into my arms. There are troops around the next corner. Down another street there are still more. Section Twenty-one has sealed off the area around the Reclamation Center. Desiree and I take refuge in a deep doorway as I try to figure an escape.

“The sewers!” I exclaim, keeping my voice low to avoid attracting the troops. “We have to find a way to the sewers.”

“I can’t go any father,” Desiree gasps, slumping to the door.

I look up and down the street. We have barely gone more than a few blocks from the Reclamation Center. It rises monstrous and large at the end of the street. The entrance is crowded with Corporation troops. There is no particular urgency to their movements. In the doorway Desiree is huddled beneath the trooper’s jacket, shivering terribly.

“There has to be an entrance nearby,” I return to Desiree, rubbing her arms to warm her.

“I’m freezing,” she moans.

“We have to keep moving,” I urge, wiping dust and sweat from her face.

“Please,” she begs.

I take the trousers and boots from a dead soldier. Desiree dresses quickly, cinching the waist with a simple knot. She falls into my arms, her eyes alive with uncertainty. I know at that moment we have run out of time. Some reflective echo of the unfolding universe betrays the upheaval a moment before it happens. My gut tightens and the air freezes in my throat. Not that knowing offers any greater advantage. No king or general or messiah could confront this moment any better or any worse…

THE LAST MAN: Part Twenty-four

It is a frigid evening, requiring a jacket and gloves. My warm breaths rise ghostly-white before the wind along the narrow boulevard tears them to pieces. I pause on the street and linger at the glow of the atrium atop the building high above the street. The street is dark and deserted, but for the dull bluish glow of a Sentinel on the corner. The Reclamation Center churns onward, spewing hideous clouds of black smoke. A brisk southern wind whips the smoke earthward in dark tendrils, like death’s insatiable fingers ravenous for more souls.

There is a vehicle at the corner. It is dark, but I can make out 2 figures inside. It is an unnatural thing, and I am certain they have come for me. Whether they will arrest me, or simply observe to be sure I reach court in the morning is impossible to say. What is certain is that they are there to ensure the court’s sentence is carried out.

My thoughts threaten to run away on their own, as the fever of encroaching and unstoppable fate takes hold. I look again to the Sentinel on the corner. Fearing my own thoughts will betray me I remove my gloves and stuff them in a pocket. The icy cold wind biting at my fingers succeeds in diverting my thoughts.

I turn away from the dark vehicle and start up the empty street. The doors to the vehicle open and close quickly. There are footsteps behind me, not close, but near enough. At the corner I pause, my heart seized with fear, the blood in my veins colder than that howling wind. A Sentinal is above me. Raising my hands I let the cold stab deep into the flesh. Half a block away another car pulls to a stop. Four Section Twenty-one troopers step into the street. One of them is the commander who oversaw my beating days before. His words return to me, and I am sure he relishes this opportunity to indulge his sadism. The moment is decided for me. I have only too choices. One is submission. I choose the other.

Without thought I am running across the street, chased by the commander and his men. They are trained and bred for this, and I am nothing against anyone of them, let alone half a dozen. There is but one chance, and that is to reach the archive building. I can hear them close behind, but to look back now would prove fatal. A slip, a misstep or a stumble and I am lost. Rounding a corner the archive building is just ahead. I can see the inky blackness of the entrance. A downhill slope gives me a moment’s advantage with my longer stride.

They know. They know by now I have no intention of surrendering. I have no intention of going quietly to Reclamation. They know that by now and will kill me here on the street. That much I know.

They are slower through the narrow passages beneath the archive building. They are unsure in the darkness, and nearly trip and fall over one another, but they are closer now than before. Rounding a corner one of them grabs my collar, but trips and falls, taking down several around him.

Throwing myself hard against the door, I spill forward into the rancid water and muck, barely managing to keep my feet. The humidity and rot of the archives hits me like a wall. I am still fighting to get my footing when the troopers burst through the door behind me. They have me, I feel sure, my mind and body swimming in amber, but the racket sets the archives alive. Clouds and swarms of flying, slithering and creeping things slow my pursuers, long enough for me to reach the top of the first pile.

The storm swirls around me as well, blinding me, causing me to stumble and fall just as a hail of bullets cuts the air overhead. A ricochet cuts my neck, and warm blood spills down my body. It knocks me sideways where I flail and tumble into the hole at the back of the archive. For a moment I feel suspended in air before landing with a bone-jarring thud.

It the darkness I have only a vague impression what direction I am going. That darkness is all but absolute, and made all the more disorienting as my arms and legs grudgingly accept my shouts to reach the dull pale light ahead, which I pray is the beach and the rescuing numbers of the Low City. Troopers are dropping through the hole behind me one at a time. I crawl and reach feebly for the light ahead, unable to find my feet.

In an instant the first trooper is upon me and I am thrown hard against the wall. Undeterred, for the moment, I lunge for the light before the sharp end of a heavy boot finds my chest, ripping the air from my lungs and folding me in a heap against the wall. Before I can even moan gloved hands grab my throat. Their murderous pressure is calculated by my unseen assassin. When at last he hisses through gritted teeth the voice of the Commander is unmistakable.

“Think we wouldn’t meet again?” he spits. “You’ve become the purpose of my existence. Now I’ll correct a genetic mistake and rub you out of the Universe.” He shouted up the others. “Quick, a light down here so I can enjoy the fear in his eyes as I squeeze the life from him!”

Several lanterns come on, but the vision is hardly what any of us expected. There, at both ends of the passage is a wall of faces, like beautiful demons lusting for some long deserved justice. The Commander’s hold on my neck softens, but did not release me, as if he holds me hostage, or might chose out of spite that I precede him into death. Still, I might have rejoiced at being rescued, but the faces of the troopers, their expressions at the end of all hope, is sobering. They are the faces of men who understand that death is at hand, and that resistance only succeeds in prolonging the pain and humiliation of that lamentable end.

The Commander, for all his hate and hubris, is not so quick to concede, even as I can see the rising desperation in his eyes. The fear he relished to find in my eyes now filled his own as his men are consumed and dispatched by those dark demons with little more than pathetic gasps or muffled cries.

With that he releases me and stands straight. Climbing to my feet I find his eyes. What I find there sweeps me into the abject lonesomeness of his position. Yet, his eyes remain burgeoning with defiance and pride. His body is resigned perhaps to fate, though it is plain to see that his spirit will not so easily concede.

“Think that I would beg or be driven mad by this feeble assertion against the Corporation?” he laughs darkly. “I am a soldier, and for my enemy I have nothing but contempt. So I am killed. That’s a soldier’s lot.”

“To what end?” It seems unsympathetic arguing this with a doomed man.

“I fight for an ideal.”

“And what of the Low City?”

“The Corporation represents modernity; a progression. As for your chosen friends, the New Man has always eradicated the regressives.” His eyes search mine. I long to find an inkling, the slightest desire for mercy. “So I am dead, but one day these terrorists will go too far. And you, you have chosen your side as well. That will be your fate.”

I turn away, pressing through the demon faces in the passage. Pausing I look back at the Commander. He stands alone, his head bowed. I turn away as the crowd moves in upon him. I have no interest in seeing the man die.