I don’t know how I know, but I’m now quite certain that I’ve seen a few of the faces from that night before and since then. These sightings are not just out of the corner of my eye, not glimpses or flashes taking place in the churning sea of bodies of a crowded street. Some I swear I’ve seen in the media, pictures that have come across of the AP Wire from the oddest of places, Milan, Paris, New York; the fashion scene.
And if this isn’t all crazy enough, I saw two people, one from the meeting, the other who could quite easily have been there. I was jogging down one of the paths that line the
I think I’m going to start seeing a shrink about this. I need to get some sleep again.
Old Sammy
Location Undisclosed
The warehouse and the prestigious members within all had their attention focused on one George Pruent. The traditional formalities had all been dispensed with, in fact, the shark grinned golem was already working into his plan. He slowly walked before the Council of Elders, something similar to a lawyer addressing a television courtroom. With those overly long hands clutched behind his back, one set of overlong long fingers in a ball and the other clutching the wrist of his arm he turned his pure white eyes to each of the members in turn.
“The human’s name,” George slipped in a dramatic pause, “is Ken Morrison. And he is the enemy.” Cutting to the point, George was lethal when given the opportunity to spin events in his favor, and this was all in his favor. Nathan Wilde, a brother in the game of deception, eyes, ears, and mouth for the Council, but soft at heart, was no where to be seen, disappear from the sight of the Golem community for nearly a month and a half now. That was plenty of time for George to write away all the weak and desperate acts that Nathan had tried, well, write away what he couldn’t capitalize himself on. “Kenneth M. Morrison, a human by birth; born
“What do we do about this you ask? Well, its very simple, the Writ of the Dead has just been giving their second target. The elimination of this man will show the Sirens that their attempts at controlling the White House will not only not be tolerated by the Golems, but that it will not be allowed to even come about.” George was smiling at this point. He couldn’t help it, these Council members, they were old, there was nearly no way for them to compete with him. He had them right where he wanted them. “The elections are but a few months away and for this to work, to prove to those Siren bastards that we are serious, this needs to happen before then. And lastly, it needs to be public.” His last statement was a risk, but in the pure white eyes of George, it was a crucial aspect. He was playing the Siren’s game. A job in the dark could be overlooked, simply denied by choice. But if the play was done publicly, then there was no denial available. Admittance was the only route and that was precisely what George was looking for.
One of the Council members was opening his mouth, ready to speak out in doubt or defiance, either of which were not suitable. Instead George just cut him off, “I ask for three weeks and I will devise a suitable plan for a date in the future. That plan, I will lay before the Council for approval. It is a plan, that I give my word, will not fail nor expose the Golem people to the human race.” His assurance, with the illusion of Council control, put a seal on the night’s events, at least for George. The official dismissal was being granted when a voice called from the past. Perhaps it wasn’t the voice that was the calling from the past, perhaps it was the name that the voiced called out.
The Crier Guard rang out amongst the formalities of the meeting ending. “Nathan Wilde begs recognition by the Golem Council of Elders.” The sure, loud voice of the blind Golem caused all to turn towards the door and the ever-remarkable feat of the blind recognition. The blind amongst the Golems are blessed in one manner or another, no sight for them confers rewards nearly unimaginable, and with the Crier Guard, the inability to see proved unimportant in the recognition of anyone, friend, foe, or stranger.
“Nathan Wilde, you are recognized by the Council of Elders, step forward.”
“Elders, I stand before you Nathan Wilde, and openly bare the answers that you seek.”
The cruel twist of fate that had just been admitted into the Council meeting became the focus of its every occupant and as the shock waves of his arrival wore off George Pruent began to plot. Nathan’s arrival was a shock, and was no doubt one that would be explained shortly. His absence had been a blessing but a poor or even damaging reception here could prove all the more valuable for the shark grinned Golem.
“It would please the Council for a recollection of your last month and a half’s events.” The white eyes seemed to gleam down with their pure and unblinking judgment. Nathan had visibly steeled himself up for this. He was a hard Golem, but no one was this hard; he had a tidal wave of hellish consequences barrelling down upon him. It was not a situation that George Pruent would like to find himself in, though he wasn’t a traitor to his own race.
“The Writ of the Dead has been enacted, further procession is still in order.” It wasn’t much of a foundation, even Nathan knew that, but it was one that with the right spin he could work on. Behind clamped lips George’s teeth were born together, Nathan did have a way with words, ever the manipulator but ever naive. Inside George wanted to call him out, wanted to challenge him in accord with the old ways, wanted to betray him a liar in front of the highest court, highest council, most sacred bit of Golem society. He couldn’t though; his own fate’s path was comfortably buffered by playing the moral higher. He, of course, wasn’t a traitor to his own race.
“And I suppose that you’ve, as well, selected a suitable target for the next enacting?” There was doubt and sarcasm held amongst those words, it would seem that George’s feelings were mutual.
From the vantage point of Nathan Wilde the room had not only already deemed him personally guilty, but that bastard Pruent had decided that the war with the Sirens was to be continued. Control over the situation was rapidly slipping through the horrifically long fingers of Nathan and it was not a confidence-building situation. Digging down, so to find a steady purchase to speak from Nathan again raised his voice, one that contained a clear and calm sound that he didn’t know how he managed but didn’t stop to contemplate.
“I immersed myself in the center of the Siren Empire. I scoured through the city of
A leering and unbelieving pair of eyes from the Council table set another question, “And where does your proposed campaign begin?”
“With the Siren Jules McCleary.” That tone was the closest that Nathan ever found himself to sounding like a cold hearted killer. He named a name, and it was the name with which his own research had indeed churned up, a name with which he’d even taken a leap of faith and attempted to make contact with.
“It seems then that we have a choice to make amongst us. Perhaps first the human, as a message, or even a threat?” George spoke up with a carnivorous grin shifted Nathan’s way, it was a question designed to draw out Nathan’s weak side. It was a question designed to inspire Nathan to provoke his own demise. George honestly didn’t know why Nathan even bothered to show up, his life would have been so much more…secure…had he just remained out of sight. The corners of the hunter’s mouth twisted upwards ever so slightly as the unknown prey nearly chocked.
“I seriously believe that it would not be in the best interest of the Council nor the Golem people to target a human being.” Nathan had locked his jaw a moment before speaking and his words came out as clenched as the pair of fists balled at his sides.
“Oh, but Ken Morrison is no simple human, he possess a genuine threat to the Golem people as a whole. Possible genocide condoned by the government of the
“Its still interference; its still something that we can’t afford to do. The risk is so severe that it might spark the same or greater results…” Nathan Wilde stopped himself and took a good look around. His temper had been sparked and a brief tempest of emotion had ridden any sense of political subterfuge from his tongue, and landed him under the glares of far too many, and far too important, all white eyes.
* * *
‘Keep him alive’ they said. ‘We might want his plan later’ they said. It’d saved his life but not by much, not by the muck that was over knee high and the steady drip, drip, dripping of water. A modern catacomb tunnelled over many years into the marshland that
What that minimal lighting showed was as close to Hell as the Golem had ever seen. The water was only knee high at the moment, but at some point, actually at regular intervals it would flood to above waist high and Nathan could just feel himself floating up with the odd subterranean tide and having his face pressed up to the grating. Eating, oh, now that was another joyous task altogether; Nathan had been on the other side of that grating and knew that when the guards got about to feeding, the food wasn’t even worth being noted as of poor quality. Nathan shivered and turned towards the darkness. Oh, he shouldn’t have come back but Nathan Wilde had a moral compass sparked in him some time ago and the damn thing wouldn’t kick out.
The first few sloshing footsteps led Nathan’s searching hands to the grotesque, slimed surface that served as a wall. He was using the wall as some sort of guide. It was an attempt at terrain association in a tunnel that lost all light after a very short distance. The murky water was steadily rising in depth that lead Nathan to believe that there had to be an exit submerged below. Finding the exit though would prove to be quite difficult, and very easily fatal.
It was going to take some time and some research to determine the exact flooding cycles and from them Nathan could determine where the murky mess was seeping in from, and from there he could figure some way out. That was a great deal of variables for a Golem trapped in a perpetually flooding cell. Time. It would take time, but time was something he had plenty of. He would need help though when time ran out. Damn that moral compass.
Nathan retreated from the waist deep region; back to the dimly lit and merely knee deep spot under the grate. Escape did seem his only option. Jules McCleary, the trail to him would be suspected, but if peace were ever to be had Nathan knew he would have to arrange it on his own. And he would need a connection with Jules McCleary to do so. Yes, escape was a must, a definite, his only option.
Sammy was doing it again, out walking the streets late at night. Tragic thoughts played across his mind as he realized that this would be another sleepless night. It would be another in a long line. Sleep would come to the insightful intern, come in bits and pieces, it would come in the form of a dream in which he would be wishing that he were asleep. To say that not sleeping was affecting his work would be an understatement. The life and long hours of an intern at one of the nation’s largest newspapers, at a morning publication, didn’t allow for much sleep. Come lately though, his superiors had been noting that Sammy’s performance was dropping as fast as the bags under his eyes were building.
The late night meanderings had been going on long enough that a pattern was beginning to develop. It was not as much a pattern of occurrences related to time, but rather was came forth was a pattern of destinations. Sammy found himself back along the banks of the
Sammy knew he was working on spent time and every night that he didn’t sleep made the following day a potentially unemployed one. But on the same token, Sammy knew he was onto something, something big. With a sigh Sammy just kept walking. His destination tonight was the photo file buried deep within the Post building. The flash of his intern badge and the usual bull shit research story was given to the night guard. Accompanied by the clicking of his footsteps and the jumble of his own thoughts Sammy twisted his way instinctively to the banks of microfiche. Guided by instinct and a drive that could easily be called compulsive, Sammy situated himself before a screen and started making his way through past stories. Photos were the key, names to go with faces; Sammy wanted identities.
* * *
The rule facilitated by a noble government has not always been for everyone. The cut throat system of noble houses possessing power deemed largely from money and land, of countries divided into fiefdoms has long since been seen as an archaic, old fashioned, nearly barbaric system of governing. But for a race such as the Sirens this type of rule was ideal. For the beautiful people of the world, the ideal city was
In regards to mankind, the Sirens viewed themselves as a noble race. Towards the Golems they swore nobility with twice the fever. But amongst the Sirens themselves there were those who’s position put them that much further along the power curve. Susan white was defiantly one of those.
The
The pair, Susan White and Jason Brily, had arrived in
That was yesterday though; much of today had been spent in the back seat of a provided luxury sedan that wound its way out to a chateau in the French countryside. The expansive villa had been about for long enough that the owner’s identity was merely assumed as being an anonymous aristocrat by the general public or that the home and lands were something of a family heirloom. No one saw it for what it was, a capital building seated a comfortable distance from a secret, private capital. But as the estate owned vehicles drove the check listed guests to the front steps and individuals dressed for power passed through the oversized double doorway and into the entryway without the luxury of a host it became obvious that this was no party; no simple social gathering. This was the second of a twice annual meeting in which the movers and shakers who bore the title “Old Worlders” got together and attempted to collectively guide the destiny of the race as a whole…that and a great deal of personal agendas were drafted, revised and put into action within these very halls. It would be a bold faced lie to say that every Siren in the room didn’t have their eye on the brass ring of becoming the Lord. These people didn’t get here without a great deal of cutthroat ambition and a more than generous helping of common sense.
The elite’s elite drifted towards the large central room. Doubt was rolling about Susan’s mind, doubt about anything-circumstantial coming out of this meeting. She honestly only foresaw more highbrow bickering and clique forming. Yet some sort of responsibility had drawn her here…ah to be young and able to shrug off life’s responsibilities.
October 1, 2000
Golem Prison Catacombs
Nathan Wilde’s Cell
Nathan burst to the surface of the muck that flowed about his prison cell his lungs gasping for breath. He’d been searching for the better part of every day he’d been locked away in his own personal slime filled Hell, searching for the source of the routine flooding. It seemed like it would be easy, he’d long learned that the flooding came to what appeared to be twice a day to the remnants of his biological clock. Of course the water wasn’t salted which meant that it wasn’t part of the Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River didn’t have flood regularly except when a Nor-Easter was hitting the District which gave Nathan a bit of hope. Twice a day, spread out roughly half a day apart was shower time, and Nathan swore that somewhere, somehow the catacombs were connected to the District of Columbia sewer system. That did however give a rather unsatisfactory explanation to the slime and muck that was so prevalent, so overpowering, but that was grossly outshined by thoughts of escape. The tide was at its lowest now and still the mire that filled his cell was deep at the end, and the utterly total darkness didn’t help, nor the slime that was so heavy at the bottom, but as Nathan regained his breath he composed himself for another go around. He was smiling too; he thought he might have found a grating below a finger’s depth of filth. He edged in deeper and then with a gasp for breath he disappeared down below the surface, leaving barely a wave behind in the near sludge.
October 4, 2000
Southern California Coast
Southern California, while it was no longer the center of classy glamour that it once was, it still provided enough of the glitz and the high life to satisfy the Siren who epitomized the “California Girl”. It’s true that there are great many songs which could have been written about Beth Meyers and as she was cruising top down in her convertible it was only fitting that one be playing. The sun setting in the background added the final detail and provided for a picturesque, nearly scripted, end to her day.
The house that she pulled into possessed a face of large windows that allowed the orange and pink skyline to spill an almost heavenly glow into its interior. It had been another one of those days; with a large part of this one spent taping the latest episode of her trendy, weekly night opera. Beth gave her head a shake as she dropped her bag off, if the viewing public only knew what kind of hours a hard working actress was forced to slave simply in order to produce forty five minutes of actual episode…
A trail of lights being flipped on marked her progress through the rapidly darkening house. The trail ended in her rather spacious, albeit under used, kitchen where a glass of Chardonnay worked its way nicely into her hand and her arms crossed over her chest; that glass dancing delicately at lips still painted from the day’s work. Her eyes, an awesome hue of blue, had drifted to the glass doorway to the patio when she noticed the shadow in the reflection. Her stone facial expression slipped on and trapped inside the shock that threatened to escape. Instead a composed and clouded blue-eyed beauty turned to face the lurking shadows.
Whoever the intruder was, he, for it was obviously a male, had taken to leaning against one of the rounded, door less archways that could be found throughout the house. Watching her turn, the unannounced guest leaned away from the wall, shifting his weight to both feet and with both hands in his pockets the squared shoulders and jaw line of Brian Corbin came into view.
“You’ve got a hell of a knock.” There was more than a hint of ice in the blonde’s tone as a toss of her drink chased the words away.
“You’re Joanna aren’t you?” There were no chess games tonight. This Siren instead, chose to be brash.
“I’m who?” One of Beth’s brows arced up adding accompaniment to her question.
“Joanna. The informant. You found out about the plans and you gave them to the Golems didn’t you?” Despite the three or four steps between the two the stench of liquored breath was no surprise to Beth. It was totally unlike Brian to betray himself like this.
“Plan? Brian you’re drunk and not making any sense.” Beth didn’t back down, instead to give credit to her acting skills a look of compassion leaked across her face.
“Oh my…you really don’t know do you?” Fear crossed the normally healthy face as he discovered his normally cleaver shroud had been lost to scotch. “I gotta go…” That fear seemed to slip into a state of near panic as the Adonis turned and started for the door. Despite her glass being held to her lips, Beth Meyers was smiling. Maybe Brian hadn’t been so drunk, but whatever he was, he’d given her a great deal of digging to do.
October 10, 2000
Location Undisclosed
There couldn’t be a Golem anywhere who was more pleased with themselves than George Pruent was at the moment. He found himself sitting before the glowing screen of a computer pouring over mountains of information and waiting for the tone of contact, waiting for his second in command, and only half of his mind on the task. No more Nathan Wilde, he’d done himself in and given George Pruent not only a higher standing in the eyes of the Council of Elders, but a name, and nearly an unhindered working environment. George Pruent was on top and he knew he was here to stay. Amidst the windows open on the screen there was a vast array of information, the schedule for the next few weeks of the Republican candidate himself, the NRA homepage, tourist information for a dozen or so different cities, and a box with a steadily blinking cursor.
George had been a busy bastard over the past month and change. Every resource available to him he’d been working through, arranging meetings, setting up orders, ensuring his web of contacts was surefire, and travel, travel, travel. George had canvassed the United States personally inspecting more than a dozen cities where he carefully weighted their advantages and disadvantages for a killing zone. Assassination, he smiled at the term, that’s what this was, he was assassinating someone that the Siren’s held dear. George Pruent was securing the future for the Golem people, even if he had to pull the trigger himself one shot at a time and leave a river of blood and bodies…
His train of though snapped out as the cursor snapped into glowing text. Gabriel logged on.
A few keystrokes and George was smiling himself as the words themselves scrolled on.
Gabriel: …
Tempest: Their security will wane just after the election, and the touring will slow, I’m scheduling our contact as close to the Three Hour Tour as possible.
Gabriel: The Proefessor will be there?
Tempest: Most defiantly, a victory for the Millionaire means that the crew of SS Minnow will all be present.
Gabriel: Excellent. The storm is brewing and soon the tiny ship shall be tossed.
Despite the obvious lunacy of the coded conversation George smiled. Gabriel was an asset that he was glad to have forged. If the NRA knew how beneficial their membership lists were perhaps they’d make access to them a bit harder. Bless the Freedom of Information Act. Of course he could do without the Gilligan’s Isle references but Gabriel was good, very good.
October 12, 2000
New York, New York
10:37 pm EST
Jason hadn’t been catching on to just what had Susan White so antsy, but then it was probably better that he hadn’t. Susan knew it wasn’t good, she knew the entire situation was going to get out of hand and very fast. It had nearly been a month since she’d left
The woman, who could have been a poster child for the elegance of a woman’s forties, looked over the room and its halogen lit interior. The new designs were plastered about, stacks and stacks of designs that she would have to sort through for fashion shows, mass production, and personal design. Pacing about the room and randomly considering a design it was rather evident that she wasn’t even there. No her mind was elsewhere.
She had been right, as she found she usually was, and that no good had come from that meeting. In fact, in her situation ignorance would perhaps have been bliss. It wasn’t outright apparent, but the theme had been there and Susan had long ago developed her ability to read between the lines. The word was whispered amongst the cliques that formed rather quickly and it reminded her of a term she had picked up during her history class in college, war hawks. Those people were all so full of themselves, so self-assured of their ability to manipulate the world as if it were a pie simply waiting to be sliced and handed out. But what scared Susan, the notion that had her up and pacing 22 nights later was that these people probably could do just what they were promising.
On the surface no leader had been chosen yet. The bickering was often as childish as ever, hidden behind smiles some of the time, blatantly thrust about like a cat in heat others. Every time she attended a meeting like that Susan felt as if she was trapped between two worlds. Here amongst the new generation she was a big fish, almost too big. There she was a babe thrown into a pack of wolves. And what’s worse was she knew she could take both of them, that given the opportunity to work her spider ways she could take the Lordship, become the Duchess White and when not watching for the all too frequent assassination she could impose her will on the New Worlders. She associated with enough of them on a regular basis. But first she’d have to stop a civil war from brewing, and she didn’t think that she could get much help there, not even from Jules McCleary. From here on everything that Susan White did would have to be thoroughly contemplated, the simplest of mistake could betray her position, betray her chances of leadership and an aspiring and motivated rival could capitalized upon her death.
But she had a tremendous first hurtle; did she want the world? The New Worlders did have some valid points, mankind would probably discover them soon enough, and their image, their rule had to be intact, concrete before then or the results could be grave. It’s all the media’s fault… And then there was the problem of the Golems. Before they had been a nuisance but now they were a rabid dog trapped in a corner and trying to bite its way out. This whole Writ of the Dead thing might have been still for a while but history dictates that there was more to come, much more, and how the hell was Susan supposed to counter that? How the hell was she going to control it or even know where the next strike would be? For all she knew they could burn a city, like
But all that was what? Proof, that the situation was perhaps beyond her control. Alone in her office Susan White shook her head and headed out onto the balcony. The cool night air and her rather scenic view of the city of New York would perhaps sooth better than pacing.
October 18, 2000
Los Angeles, California
They never actually met but Brian Corbin had a pretty good idea of whom he was working with, and for. It was something of their own secret order, they made the rules and they enforced them, moving the world, their world at least, in whatever direction they desired. And their sphere of influence was rising like a comet! Brian Corbin was on his way to greatness past anything he’d ever dreamed of, and this November, this election, would prove that he had a hand in changing the world. Damn he felt good.
The good feeling wasn’t going away for Brian Corbin anytime soon, he’d been paying attention all along and now it was paying off. He was performing a one-man celebration, him and a bottle of Makers Mark Bourbon, as the election news was rolling along. It was still a few weeks away, but Brian felt good about all of this, Bush had been edging out Gore in all the polls and that was good, good, and good.
Brian was alone on the couch when the phone rang. While one large hand remained around the neck of the bottle the other turned down the news volume via remote and snagged the portable phone.
“Corbin,” It was his typical larger than life greeting.
“We might have a problem…”
* * *
“I don’t believe what I’m hearing. How could I be Joanna? That’s a woman’s name. I’ve never told a soul about Morrison. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Ordinarily I would, but a witness has come forward with some rather incriminating evidence to the contrary.”
“What?!” the question was soaked in shock. “That’s impossible, no one could claim it was me. There’s no way. If they say so their lying. I’m clean.”
“You think you’re clean.”
“God damn it, I know I’m clean.”
Click.
“What the hell was that?” There was no answer to his question though, only dial tone. “Shit.” Up tipped the bottle.
October 21, 2000
Location Undisclosed
Outside of the Council’s meeting room George Pruent was mentally rehearsing his speech. He knew all of what he had to go over; it was his plan, his baby. He’d spent too much of the past two months going over what he had to, he’d perfected the art of the perfect assassination with this plan. With this plan he would secure his spot in history and from this plan things could only look better. He smiled to himself, Nathan Wilde would soil himself if he had this lain before him.
It was one hell of plan set to spark a wildfire in Austin Texas on November 8th. George W. Bush, as the official President Elect would address the nation that day and his entire crew would be there. From a distance away, as Bush spoke on the steps of the
In the room behind the Crier Guard called out, “George Pruent begs recognition by the Council of Elders.” George stepped boldly into the Council Hall.
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