The Precipice: The Chronicles of Altor, page 8
People came from all over the western United States to visit Beverly Hills, the beachfront properties at Malibu, and the kitschy but multi-million-dollar homes in Laurel Canyon.
It happened so quickly that everyone was caught off guard—the authorities, private security, the rich themselves.
Police were prepared to handle a normal day’s criminal activity but not an entire segment of the population going rogue at the same time. Even departments that were equipped like small armies were no match for very large armies of angry, armed civilians. They could hold the line for a small period of time, then were eventually overwhelmed.
As the problem spread, another challenge was that some of the police force looked at their bank accounts, their promised pensions that wouldn’t show up for another few decades, and calmly joined the mobs. The thin blue line grew even thinner.
When they were directed to protect the mayor and city council members’ homes first, they began to realize how much regard they were held in by those above them in the food chain. They began to feel like the first wave sent over the top in trench warfare.
Over the top, boys! I’ll be waiting for you here if you come back.
Of course, there was always the National Guard, charged with protecting against domestic emergencies, and what was happening in these early days of the Rage Wars, as the World News Network had coined it, was definitely a domestic emergency.
Everything to do with this uprising came down to money. It followed rule number one: when people say it ain’t about the money, it’s always about the money.
Call out the National Guard is a common phrase when a potential uprising is on the horizon. It was the Ohio National Guard who killed four Kent State students and wounded nine others. It was also the Guard who responded to the hard-hit areas after Hurricane Katrina blew through. Every résumé has high points and low points.
The fact, though, was that the average deployed National Guard soldier earned a little less than enough to pay for a one-bedroom apartment in most major metropolitan areas. Activating them and sending them to stand in front of the homes of the uber-wealthy was a big ask.
The more the fire spread, the bigger that ask became.
There were more than three hundred thousand National Guard members at the time of the uprising.
Governors hesitated to call them into action because that meant the state would be responsible for paying the cost. Instead, they waited for the president to call them out, which would result in the feds having to foot the bill.
The president, meanwhile, stalled and conferred and asked for advice, trying to build a consensus.
The governors waited. The president dithered.
America continued to burn.
It took a surprisingly short time for the very fabric of society to fray at the hem, then begin to unravel altogether.
By the time the state governors’ gamble paid off and the president decided the proper thing to do was to send out the Guard, the question had become: to where?
The fire had spread to every state, every city.
By then, many of the Guard who were called up were mysteriously unavailable. Again, being asked to be the first to go over the top or to put their lives on the line, not against a natural disaster or a foreign enemy, but their own friends and neighbors, was not favorably met.
In the end, less than half of those in the Guard who were called to duty showed up. If society had survived, there would have been severe consequences for that failure to show. As it was, it was just another potential consequence that never arrived.
Another challenge in the Eat the Rich movement, as CNN had dubbed the uprising—each network had to come up with their own identifying tagline to run across the bottom of the screen—was how to define exactly who the rich were.
Initially, it was easy to identify the richest of the rich. Seek out the palaces, the uber-mansions, the yachts, and destroy them.
As those easy targets were overrun, the question became who’s next?
In small towns across America, there were typically no billionaires to go after. But in an area where the wealthiest might be measured in seven-digit net worth, they too became targets.
In a small town in Arkansas, the man who owned the local Ford dealership and the farmer who had the largest farm in the area were both caught up in the action. That made the news, which caused more attacks on similar people across the country. The merely well-off became bigger targets when the über wealthy were quickly becoming a dying breed.
The nation burned and The Fifteen met once again.
Their meetings had gone on for decades, but there had never been one like this. It was in the same room, with the same precautions, but this time there were only eleven members present.
Alastair Struan, the same dignified, silver-haired man who had spoken at the previous meeting did so again. He looked pointedly at the empty seats around the table and said, “We all knew there would be a price to pay for some of us. Now that it has come to pass, we can’t be surprised.”
Around the room, the remaining ten nodded in agreement. It was true, and they were all pleased that it wasn’t them that had paid that heavy freight.
“I believe this will be our last meeting. The fire is burning brightly. Everything that we’ve planned for and set in motion has come to fruition. However, I think there is one last push we need to give.”
No one spoke up to ask what that was, so he continued.
“There are two things left on our agenda. One is the detonation. I believe it’s time.” He opened an old-fashioned file folder. Inside were pictures of a domed city being built in the desert. He passed ten of those to his left and around the table. “One of the billionaires is building this ultimate protection against the fire. If we are in agreement, I will give the order to activate the detonation and have an action carried out against this monstrosity in the desert. I believe if we don’t do it now, it will be too late. Does anyone object?”
Only silence answered him. There was no need for marbles around the table.
Struan took a deep breath and looked at the others with clear eyes and a full heart.
“Gentlemen and ladies, what started as an unlikely possibility more than a century ago has now become a reality. Our nation will rise from these ashes and begin anew. I salute you.”
There were no handshakes or further conversation. Everyone filed quietly out of the room. They all had final arrangements to protect themselves.
The fire had become hotter than any of them had ever been able to imagine.
Chapter Twelve
The Recruiter
The recruiter known as Nyx felt a nudge against her right elbow and sudden presence at her side. She smiled, not bothering to look away from the man giving the presentation at the front of the room.
“General,” she said, her voice a faint whisper.
“Nyx,” a man’s voice—deep but also quiet—replied, a hint of amusement in the tone. “How long have you been in Altor?”
“Couple of hours.”
The two stood silently and listened while the speaker concluded his presentation. The man’s eyes swept the audience. “Time is of critical importance in this mission. You will all be given thirty minutes to make your final decisions,” he said. “If you wish to proceed, please enter the gates that are marked clearly. It is through those gates that your onboarding will be completed.” He smiled and spread his hands open as if to include them in his speech. “If you decide not to accept Quinn Starkweather’s very generous offer, then please make your way back to the area that you arrived from so that we can arrange for return to your homes as soon as possible.”
“How many times did you get to hear the presentation?” the general asked.
“Three complete and a fourth partial. Which was enough,” Nyx assured him, eyes scanning the crowd as the presentation ended. “It’s pretty straightforward. Don’t worry, sir. I’ll do it right.”
“I’m sure you will.”
People in the large room began to stand, pushing chairs back and gathering together in groups of two or three. Everyone spoke in muted voices.
Nyx turned to face the man beside her and smiled warmly. She extended one hand and waited.
The man known as General was a fit man in his early sixties, hair cut short and wearing desert military garb. The informal uniform did little to hide his muscular, broad frame. He stared at her hand for a moment, then smiled and extended his own.
“I should be giving you a hug,” he said, gripping her hand solidly before letting go.
“Not while we’re on the job.” Nyx smiled. “I understand.”
The general let out a deep bark of laughter. “On the job. I never thought I’d say that about myself again. Not after how things ended.”
“I’m happy to see you back in military clothes, sir,” Nyx said. “What they did to you was beyond reprehensible.”
“I agree,” the general gave a slight shrug. “But none of that really matters anymore.”
“I suppose not, but some of us won’t forget.”
The general snapped his fingers. Seconds later, a soldier appeared and placed a smartphone in the older man’s hand. He extended the phone toward Nyx. “Your contacts are in here.”
Nyx accepted the phone and slid her thumb across the screen to activate it. She stared at the names and information, swiping slowly to view each dossier in turn. When the final screen was blank, she turned the phone off and handed it back to the general.
“Keep it,” the general said with a small shake of his head.
Nyx frowned.
“I know you have the information all memorized,” the general said with another laugh, “but that device is your only link to us. You’ll need it.”
“But if I get caught—”
“It won’t matter. And I’m confident that won’t happen. There are few who could best you in the field.” One corner of the general’s mouth twitched upward. “And I’ve hired the majority of them to be recruiters like you.”
Nyx acknowledged the comment with a smirk of her own.
“Do you have any questions about your mission?”
“No, sir.”
“Good.” He looked at the watch on his wrist. “This is a timed operation, and your time begins now.”
“Understood.”
“When complete, you will be given evac co-ordinates, along with a time to rendezvous.” His smile faded and he became more serious. “Don’t miss that evac, Nyx.”
“I’ll do my best, sir.”
The general straightened and saluted her. Nyx returned the salute.
The general lowered his hand and smiled.
Nyx did the same, then turned on her heel and made her way toward the exit as hundreds of civilians and a few dozen soldiers milled about the room, each going about their business.
Preparing to face the end of the world.
MARY THOMPSON FINISHED drying the last plate, then draped the tea towel through the handle of the oven and looked around the kitchen.
Satisfied that it was clean, she retrieved her cup of tea—slightly tepid, now—from the counter and made her way to the living room. The television played one of the mindless scripted shows that the networks tried to pass off as a reality love match contest. The volume was too low to make out what the crying woman and embarrassed man sitting beside her were talking about. Mary was thankful for that.
She sat on the recliner, set her tea on the small side table, and pushed the seat back so that the built-in foot stool popped up. She reached for the remote and pointed it toward the television. As her finger pressed the button to turn up the volume, there was a knock at her door.
Mary scowled. “Seriously?” she said out loud to no one in particular. She glanced at the clock on the wall. 9:48 p.m. “You’ve got to be kidding me.” She thought about not answering at all at that hour, which would have changed the rest of her life. Instead, with a soft grunt, she pulled herself up from the chair and walked to the door. Through the peep hole in the door, she spied a woman with black hair pulled into a tight ponytail and wearing a long black trench coat.
Mary turned the three locks and opened the door as far as the chain would allow. “Can I help you?” Her tone and expression perfectly conveyed the fact that she was not happy about being disturbed.
“Mary Thompson?”
“That’s right.”
“Can I come in?”
“No.” Mary answered and began to shut the door.
Before the door was shut, the woman said, “It’s about your children, Mary.”
Mary paused, her scowl deepening. “Listen, I don’t know what you’re playing at, lady, but I’m not in the mood for it. The world is going to hell out there and you expect me to open the door for a stranger in the middle of the night? Just because you mention my children?” She gave a small shake of her head.
“I figured you’d be the easiest to talk to,” the woman said.
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” The woman stepped forward and shoved her foot into the space between the open door and the jamb.
Mary tried to push the door closed, but the stranger’s foot made it impossible.
“Give me fifteen minutes, Mary.” The woman smiled as she delivered the request. “If you want nothing to do with me after that, I promise I’ll leave.”
“Fine. But you can talk to me from the hall.” When the woman nodded, Mary opened the door and stood with arms crossed and a fixed expression on her face.
“My name is Nyx, and I’ve been sent to offer you and your children a chance that very few are being given, though many will soon wish for.”
“What kind of a name is Nyx?” The apartment door across the hall opened and Mary saw the neighbor listening in. “And what sort of chance?”
“In less than five days,” Nyx said, “this city and everyone still in it will be dead or dying. I’m here to offer you a way to avoid that fate.”
“Who’s gonna die?” the neighbor asked, her door opening wider. “What are you talking about?”
“Nothing, Mrs. Simpson,” Mary called over. “Nothing to worry about.” Brow furrowed, she opened the door wider and moved to one side. “I suppose you’d better come in and talk.”
With a nod of thanks, Nyx stepped into the apartment.
Chapter Thirteen
Alastair Struan
Alastair Struan did not look up from his cell phone as the elevator doors opened to his penthouse apartment. He stepped out and had taken half a dozen steps before he halted and looked up.
The lights in his penthouse should have come on automatically, but hadn’t.
Alastair turned back toward the elevator just as the doors closed and the light they provided disappeared. His brows furrowed as he stared down at his smartphone. The light from the screen flickered and then went dark. After tapping it half a dozen times and pressing the power button, instinct kicked in and he lowered himself to a squatting position, ears listening intently.
Enveloped in complete darkness, Alastair knew this was no accident.
Someone had infiltrated his home. As good as his security systems were—both mechanical and human—that shouldn’t have been possible. Struan didn’t waste any time thinking about impossibilities, though. Instead, he shifted automatically into survival mode.
Laughter sounded from down the hallway and a woman’s voice spoke. “I’m here in the study, Mr. Struan. Don’t worry, it’s safe to stand and walk normally.”
Alastair slowly stood, then walked toward the direction of the voice. He moved to one side and let his hand touch the wall, using it to guide himself down the hallway and through the study entrance. The faint light from a lamp sitting on a side table illuminated a high-backed, rich brown leather reading chair. Even though the light source was weak, it should have lit more area than it did. His guess was that the bulb had been supplied by his invader, and it was most likely one of the new nanotech lights that allowed for finer control of its light output.
“The lit seat is for you,” the woman’s voice said from a few feet to his right. “Sit down so we can begin.”
“I don’t keep money here,” Struan said. “And all of my valuables are in safes. If you’re looking for a payday, this won’t work out for you.”
“Sit.” The woman’s voice remained calm. Pleasant, even, as though they might have been old friends.
Alastair moved to the chair and lowered himself into it. He knew there was another chair and couch six or seven feet directly across from him and guessed the woman would sit in one of those spots. His fingers flexed and he silently wished for a weapon, but he no longer carried one. A man of his standing and stature paid others to be his guardians. He was never alone.
Which reminded him. “Did you kill my guards?”
“No,” the woman spoke from behind him again. This surprised Alastair. He hadn’t heard her move. She was good. “Your guards are unconscious and tied up where they stood.” There was the hint of a smile in her next sentence. “Your cook surprised me, though. She was agile for a gal her age.”
The older man chuckled as he ran fingers through his silver-gray hair. “Mrs. Pepper is a valuable asset. Not many realize the danger she presents until it’s too late.”
“I bet. Thankfully, I had good intel.” Again the woman’s voice came from a different part of the room. “I should have put her out quick, but I had to see if she really was as good as they warned. I can tell you, Mrs. Pepper didn’t disappoint.” A small laugh. “Great name for a cook too, by the way.”
“If you don’t want money or my artwork,” Alastair said, “then what is it you want from me?” He had never liked small talk, and in life-or-death situations, he liked it even less.
“I want a discussion.”
“Make an appointment.”
