Rising Son (Legends Live Book 1), page 21
“Oh?” Milk raised a brow and grinned. “Good. I knew you’d be perfect for the team. Now you three get to work. I need a list of possible contacts by oh-nine hundred.” He winked at the youngsters and turned to leave.
Nikki rolled her eyes and tossed up a sloppy salute. “Sir, yes sir.”
“You heard me, young lady. Don’t call me sir; I’ve got a real job. So do you. We’ll be back in a couple of hours. If anything happens—and I do mean anything—you call Rodrigo and get to the Dust Bin. No excuses.”
The youngsters watched as Milk left the room (except for Sean, who stared at Six) and then walked back to the computer.
“Hey,” came Sean’s voice from down on the floor. “Can I play with the Walker?”
“I don’t give a damn,” Sheriff Ford held up a pudgy hand and shot a bulldog glare at the cameras. “The cemetery’s private property and y'all ain’t invited. For God’s sake, have some compassion, even if y'all ain’t got a bit of sense. Let these people grieve.”
The crowd of reporters and photographers groaned and whined, but they didn’t press the lawman any further. They stood at cemetery gate and had a clear view of the burial service anyway, so being stuck outside wasn’t a big deal. They tossed some questions, but Ford ignored them, left four deputies on guard and returned to the service.
He squinted against the biting, icy wind. A low ceiling of gray clouds slid overhead, and mist hung in the air. Ford considered it proper funeral weather, although there wasn’t a thing proper about this funeral. More than half of the mourners were teenagers, kids who’d grown up with Marcus and Tom. They all had the same vacant, stunned expressions. They all stared at the three sealed coffins, trying to make sense of the senseless.
Judge Deborah Brewster had saved a seat for the sheriff and motioned for him to join her in the first row. Lisa and Jack Alexander looked over as Ford sat down, and they shared a meaningful glance.
The Judge leaned close to ask, “Has the hearing been scheduled?”
Sheriff Ford shook his head. The Department of Public Safety had arrested him (and half his men) when they came for the photo album. It was the proudest and most shameful moment of his career—being pulled from his own office, handcuffed, and forced to spend three days in a Richmond jail. All for refusing to hand over a scrapbook. The whole thing was a pissing contest, but public opinion was on Ford’s side, and the odds were pretty good that the DPS would drop the charges. He was just waiting for the hearing—waiting and doing his job.
In the meantime, the citizens of Westburg not only kept Sheriff Ford on the payroll, they treated him like a full-blown hero. It was nice but a little embarrassing. He liked the appreciation, but parades and parties seemed like overkill. He hadn’t done anything except get arrested; he was no hero. Ford didn’t think there were any heroes anymore.
The only good thing about the whole mess was that the Alexanders weren’t facing any charges. The grieving parents had become celebrities overnight and even the DPS wouldn’t risk a public backlash by arresting them.
That hadn’t stopped the black-clad soldiers from pointing rifles at the terrified couple while three of them wrestled the album from quiet little Lisa’s iron grip. And it sure didn’t stop them from giving Sheriff Ford a hard time. But things could have been much worse.
They could be much better, too, Ford thought and watched the pastor, Rupert Daley, step to the front of the crowd.
The Alexanders were not religious, and no one knew Megan Fuson’s beliefs, if she had any, but Daley was also a history teacher at Westburg High and had been on good terms with both Marcus and Tom. He was a studious, balding man with an expanding waistline and a quiet composure, especially when speaking to a crowd. He wasn’t a fire-and-brimstone preacher, which was fine by the sheriff, who didn’t need another headache.
Ford was surprised by Rupert’s talk with the people—for that’s how it came across, not as a sermon or a formal address. The preacher talked about the boys, and he talked about Megan. He talked about the little ways they’d touched everyone’s lives. He didn’t talk about the big story. He didn’t say the name Independence even once. This wasn’t about heroes or politics. It was personal, for everyone in the community, and the preacher’s talk was a personal conversation, an opening of the heart for everyone there. It was a good service. Sheriff Ford wondered if he could get Rupert to speak at his funeral.
And then something happened. There was a sound, like a sizzle and a cluster of low pops, from behind Ford’s back. Everything grew quiet all of a sudden—and then the paparazzi began to yell. Ford noticed that everyone had turned around, so he leaned back, shifted his gut and looked over his shoulder.
All he could see was Milk, wearing a black suit and tie. He thought the hero looked even bigger in person.
Then Ford noticed the red-haired woman and realized that she was the retired heroine Shockwave. She barely looked any older now than back in the old days. She wore a long coat and a stylish, but conservative, black suit, skirt and low heels. Ford wondered if she could run at super-speed in those things.
Milk walked to the front and whispered something to Rupert. To the preacher’s credit, he kept his cool. He nodded, mouthed the words “of course,” and shook the giant’s hand.
Several of the mourners pulled out their phones and began to record the spectacle. Ford didn’t blame them for it; Milk hadn’t been seen in public in fifteen years, and here he was, getting ready to speak at this funeral. The sheriff leaned forward in his seat and listened intently. So did everyone else.
“Hello, my name is Charles and this is my wife Gloria,” rolled that resonating voice. He spoke softly, with careful enunciation and controlled emotions. “I apologize for intruding, and I hope that you will understand. We’ve come here today to pay respects to two brave people, innocent people, who were taken from us far too early.”
A murmur drifted through the people. Milk had said two people, but this service was for three. Ford hoped that Milk hadn’t forgotten about young Marcus—but how could he? All three coffins were right there.
Milk paused long enough to let that question ferment in the sheriff’s mind. Then the hero said, “I did not know Marcus Alexander, but I am a father. The death of someone so young—the loss of all he could have been—is more tragic than I can say. I can’t imagine your struggle, Mr. and Mrs. Alexander. I hope that we can speak after all of this is done.
“We do not know the exact circumstances of his death, but we do know that Marcus chose to face deadly peril in order to bring the truth to light. He took a stand in honor of his friendship with Tom. He stood—no longer a child, but a man—and he made the hard choice. Your son was a hero, as much as any I’ve ever known. We should all hope to have a splinter of his courage, his integrity and his strength. We are here today to remember Marcus, celebrate his life and consider the example he left for us all.
“And we are here to remember Megan Fuson. Doctor Fuson, when I first met her. She led the research teams under Doctor Angus and worked closely with early Posthumans like me. She was curious, insightful and brave—one of the leading geneticists of her time. But you all didn’t know that Megan Fuson. You knew a dedicated mother and good neighbor.
“She chose this town. She chose Westburg, and she chose you. She wanted you to be the neighbors, friends and mentors of her son. You should know this. You should know how much she loved this community. And you should also know how she died.
“Megan Fuson died trying to protect her son from ABRA. She was accidentally killed by a heavy weapon when the DPS forces attacked. I know. I was there.”
This statement fell like a meteor among the crowd. The official explanation remained that a cell of Posthuman terrorists had murdered the Fusons. After the scrapbook came to light, the story had been modified slightly, and the terrorists were described as being out for revenge against the late Independence. Uncle Sam claimed to have not known about Tom’s parentage until the album’s discovery. The public, of course, did not know whom to believe. The mourners and journalists all held their breath in anticipation of Milk’s version.
“An assault team was sent by the Department of Public Safety to capture or kill Thomas Fuson. Megan died when a missile exploded against my back. We had been talking in her back yard when the attack came with no warning. The agents continued to attack even after her death. Tom was injured as well, but he did not die. Tom Fuson lives!”
Milk leaned forward and looked intently at the crowd. He met Sheriff Ford’s eyes and a silent respect passed between them. The hero gave the lawman a nod, took a breath and then proclaimed—loud enough for the reporters to clearly hear, “The Department of Public Safety lied when they told you that he had been killed. He is in Alaska, at ABRA’s concentration camp. There is no body in that coffin!”
Milk turned slightly and motioned with his huge, snow-white hand. Gloria stood beside the casket. She’d broken the lock and raised the lid faster than anyone could react. Her husband reached over and raised the coffin so that everyone could see within. There was nothing inside but a rucksack filled with sand.
The small crowd rose to their feet with gasps, exclamations and questions. People began to shout in the distant crowd of reporters. Every phone and camera focused on the empty coffin. Milk placed it on the ground, on its side, open so everyone could see the truth.
Sheriff Ford didn’t recall standing up or walking, but suddenly he was so close that all he could see was the giant hero’s suit. Ford reached out and grabbed Milk’s forearm and looked the hero in the eye, “Why? Why would they do that?”
Milk somberly replied, “I don’t know, but I know what they plan on doing. I know that they’re going to try and clone him. I know that they plan to kill him. I think they’re afraid of him, afraid that they can’t control him, so they’re planning on replacing him. They’re going to murder a sixteen-year-old boy and use his cells to grow a perfect, obedient soldier. I do not know who made this plan or why. I urge you to call and ask. I urge you to try and help the boy.
“All of you please,” he raised his voice again. “Call your elected officials. Ask them to free Tom Fuson. Ask them to free him today. He has done nothing wrong. He’s just a kid. He doesn’t deserve to die.
“And I will not let him die,” Milk bellowed, and the almost physical force of his voice drove home the promise—and threat—in his words. “If they do not free Thomas Fuson, then I will go to ABRA City, and I will bring it down. I will free the son of my friends.
“This is a promise. This is a promise to President Calhoun, Director Givich, Doctor Angus, Secretary Mayes, Congress and the American people. I promise that if you do not free Tom, I will.
“You don’t know when I’ll come—maybe today; maybe next week. I’ll give no deadline, but I’ll give you time to release him. I’ll give you time to do the right thing. It’s up to you.
“I don’t want to do this. I do not want to raise my hands against the land I love. I stood by when you called me a criminal. I ran away and hid while you locked up hundreds of people for no good reason but fear.
“My wife and I would not turn ourselves in because we have a family. We didn’t want to raise our children in prison. Would you? So we hid. I stood by and allowed this nation to go mad with fear. The DPS has killed many of my friends, people I love—up to and including Megan Fuson—but not once have I thought about revenge. I’ve never seriously considered attacking the prison or freeing the prisoners. I hoped that this nation would come to its senses and end the madness. I had faith that the American people would come around. I still do. I understand the fear that drove you. I’m not angry with you, and I don’t want to be called an enemy. I am not your enemy. I don’t want to attack a government facility. I’m not a criminal, not a terrorist. Not for anybody or any reason.
“But I can’t let the son of my friends be murdered for no good reason but fear. I won’t.”
He looked down at the crowd and frowned. “I hope that you will be able to forgive me. All my life—since I was a scared kid in Vietnam—I wanted to help people. I wanted to protect people. I never really thought I was a hero, but I’ll admit that I liked it when other people called me one. The way I see it, ‘hero’ is a pretty good thing to be called. I liked that people looked at me, and instead of seeing a nine-foot freak with horns, they saw a friend who would help them out. That’s who I want to be—a guy who helps out. I never wanted to be the guy who attacked the American government.
“So please let Tom go. I’m giving you a chance, because I don’t want to take action against the country I served for decades. If I go to Alaska, I won’t be able to take it back. You’ll probably declare war on me, and things might get bad. I don’t want that to happen … but I won’t let you kill Tom. I will not let an innocent boy die because of some people’s fear.
“Please,” he said, as Gloria took his arm and they began to walk through the small crowd. “Please do the right thing.”
Every news channel—and many of the regular networks—canceled their scheduled programming to cover Milk’s revelation. The Internet went wild and YouTube reached new heights of traffic as hundreds of millions of viewers watched and re-watched recordings of the speech. The government denied everything, but even the most loyal of the talking heads disbelieved them. The world had been told that Tom Fuson was dead; now everyone saw the empty coffin.
All around the country they called their senators and representatives; they called their governors, mayors and even the White House. All around the country people left their homes and gathered in the streets chanting, “Tom Fuson lives!”
The previous week’s protests had been dwindling. The news cycle had moved on, and the upcoming election had displaced Tom Fuson and the Posties as the number one story. Only the most dedicated opponents of the Public Safety Act remained. But those activists formed the core of a movement that rapidly spread from coast to coast.
There were less than two thousand protesters in Central Park when the news of Milk’s reappearance began to spread. They were joined by another thirty thousand in the next fifteen minutes. By the time the crowd spilled onto 5th Avenue and Central Park West, it was least one hundred thousand strong. It kept growing from there.
NYPD patrolled the angry mass but only interfered to prevent injuries or property damage. There were surprisingly little of both. The people of Manhattan united that day, and the only buildings to suffer the mob’s rage were those owned by ABRA and the Department of Public Safety. Nobody really cared too much about those incidents of vandalism. New Yorkers went to bed that night with satisfaction at their good behavior and love for their city.
Other cities weren’t so lucky.
Los Angeles erupted in volcanic fury, as every group with an agenda stirred up trouble, and opportunists used the madness as cover for looting and the settling of personal scores. Doctor Delight used the riot as cover to assassinate his chief rivals, the Posthuman Colombian gang lord Estefan Morella and the Triad boss known only as Chu.
Washington D.C. experienced full-on battle as residents clashed with heavily-armed law enforcement, the Secret Service and the DPS. Three people died in Columbia Heights when an Emergency Response Team’s armored personnel carrier turned a corner and plowed into a crowd. Those were the first protest-related deaths, and while the tragedy was nothing more than accident, it certainly fanned the flame. By the end of the night over twenty people had been killed in the nation’s capitol, including six police officers and two Federal Agents.
An entire city block burned to the ground in Knoxville after students from the University of Tennessee were chased away from the City-County Building by a line of armored cops—and ran into an even larger force of police on Cumberland Avenue.
In Cincinnati, more than three hundred people were seriously injured when a teargas-fleeing crowd became a stampede.
The nation convulsed; every city of even moderate size faced hordes of angry citizens. Curfews were put in place to little effect. The governors of one-third of the states called for martial law, though most of the protests remained nonviolent. Looting, assault and countless other crimes occurred in the midst of the demonstrations, but not enough to tarnish the cause. More often than not, neighbors came together and the population united to peacefully demand answers and show support for Milk and the imprisoned Tom Fuson.
In Florida, more than ten thousand people lined the entire oceanfront arc of the Daytona Crater, holding hands in an unbroken chain of compassion, over two-and-a-half miles long.
Photojournalist Raul Banda of the St. Augustine Record earned a Pulitzer Prize for Public Service when he captured that moment. Later on, he said that the prize was “not half as beautiful as the people, there of all places, when one era ended and another began.”
But not everyone had such a poetic opinion about the day’s events.
Not by a long shot.
“The answer is simple. We kill him.” Director Givich didn’t even look up. He flipped through the stack of paperwork and drummed his pen against the conference table. The rest of the Cabinet stared, wordlessly, but Givich didn’t seem to notice.
“We do what?” gasped the Secretary of State. She was a tough, seasoned politician and notoriously pragmatic. “That’s insane.”
“Is it?” Givich shrugged and appeared to stifle a yawn. “Do you seriously think there’s another option? If so, enlighten me.”
“I want to let him go,” said the President. She pinched the bridge of her nose. “He’s just a boy, and Milk is right; Independence was a miracle. He saved the world from the Carnivores. He saved this city from the Children of Man.”
Director Givich huffed. “This has nothing to do with Independence. This is about Thomas Fuson. The boy is dangerous. Do you think he’s going to forgive us for the death of his mother? Please. He’s already our enemy. Don’t let sentiment get in the way of our duty.”
