The Anarchists (30 page)

“Penny for your thoughts?” Madison expected him to ignore her offer.

“The future, the past, the alternate – why us? Why Teanna and Harper. Why Quinne?”

“I don't know.”

 He turned the wheel right and stopped in front of the house's main gate. “Out of ten billion people on earth, Maddie. I just don't get it.”

“Micah will clue us in.”

The two parked in front of the mansion and were welcomed inside by Harper before they had the opportunity to ring the doorbell. She escorted them to a sprawling living room with a taupe leather sectional couch and a hand-knit maroon throw rug on the ebony hardwood floors. Thick golden curtains prevented the mid-afternoon sunlight from entering the soundproofed room. Damario chose to sit next to Quinne, and Madison did so across from him next to Harper. Quinne observed the awkwardness between the two and watched them both for clues as to what it could be.

Wearing specialized gloves, Micah pulled up a three-dimensional holographic screen and accessed a file folder marked
GODSI.
“Last night, I reverse engineered the Geometric Occipital Demonstrative Symbiotic Interface enough to access its residual memory. It stored our realities, including Teanna's, which she did not live to see.”

Curious, Madison waved her hand. “How does it work?”

“It accesses part of your brain, converts the electrical impulses and plays it as a series of quick-moving images. Doctor Chu designed it to go hand-in-hand with a pill you ingest before using the G.O.D.S.I.

“The drug is an analgesic, anesthetic and stimulator. The stimulator allows you to process the information at that rate and the analgesic and anesthetic prevent the pain. Without it, the G.O.D.S.I. renders the user unconscious for an undetermined amount of time.” Micah kept the other potential side effects to himself; without everyone’s participation, the truth would never be known.

“You said you know why we were sent back, and you have a plan?”

“Yes, Officer Coley.” Micah switched displays with a twitch of his hand. “However she did it, Kareza Noor sent us back to different points in time. Officer Coley, you went back 13 years, to 2037. Harper, 15 years, to 2035. Teanna went to 2033, and Quinne, you went back to 2048.

“That's almost 50 years altogether and then some – which may be the age difference between the Kareza Noor of our former reality and the one who just died. I'm guessing she was near death, which explains why she jumped bodies.” 

Quinne shook her head after hearing the explanation another time. “Still don't make no sense.”      

“But why did she do it?” Damario's legs and hands tensed.

“Tomorrow, Nandor Adharma, President Mateo, the acting prime minister of Israel and the president of Palestine will meet to discuss a landmark peace treaty.”

“Yeah,” Madison assented. “We know that. We're on duty for it.”

“Good.” Micah smiled with pleasure. “Then you can help.”

Harper knew what her husband said thus far, but this revelatory announcement caught her off-guard. “Help do what?”

“Kill Nandor Adharma.”

Damario paused, his hand on the butt of his Ordnance. “Stop right there, Micah, before you say something you might regret and we'll have to arrest you.”

“One of us will kill him tomorrow. If you won't, I will.”

Damario pulled his Ordnance and trained it at Micah. “Hands behind your head. You're under arrest.”

“Wait, man!” Quinne yelled. “Let him finish!”

Harper rushed to her husband's side, unaware that the “surprise” he had in store for her was plotting international murder. “Have you lost your mind?”

“In reality one, you are married to Officer Shenk and work for G.R. Cooper,” said Micah in desperation. 

Damario handcuffed him. “. . .for conspiracy to commit murder. . .”

“Your research helps sway enough House votes to block passage of the mark.”

“You have the right to remain silent. . .”

“When you were sent back, you turn down the internship at G.R. Cooper and never attend Stern.”

“. . .anything you say may be used against you in a court of law. . .”

“Here, the mark passes, which is why you were sent back. . .to make sure it did!” 

“D, stop.” Madison unhooked Micah's handcuffs. “Did you hear what he said?”

Damario mentally inventoried the information. In February of 2034, he received recruitment correspondence from G.R. Cooper, offering him a paid internship with the promise of employment consideration at its conclusion. He disregarded it and all follow up electronic mails. If he had attended Stern, he might have met the native New Yorker; Madison still spent major holidays in Flushing.

Micah rolled his wrists and exhaled. “Teanna's son, Teiji, starts a grassroots petition in support of alternative fuel sources. It gets a groundswell of support and the president puts a 15-year ban on all drilling. When Teanna goes back, she aborts Teiji.”

The word sucked the air out of Harper. She dropped into her seat and stared into open space. Her children might as well have been aborted; her choice to return exposed her to experimental environments that made her barren. She had to help fix this.

“Quinne saved the life of her boyfriend. In her original reality, she cleans up, becomes a marine, and shoots Kareza Noor dead. None of this ever happens.”

The weight of her mistake hit Quinne like a giant weight.
Me?

“Harper dropped her Applied Physics course in college and finished her degree in psychiatry. In two years, she would have counseled the scientist responsible for the arable land cure Adharma will give to Israel and Palestine. Without her, he decides to do it despite its damaging long-term effects.” He swallowed hard. “I'm alive and I shouldn't be. I died in an explosion there.”

“That's hardly a doomsday scenario.”

“We live in a delicate balance, Officer Shenk. Six realities were altered with a specific end game in mind, and we're living in it. Noor did not do that for sport. I'm willing to bet my life that the end game is destructive.”
 

Damario stared at him. “If Kareza Noor killed a man and assumed his identity by absorbing into him, who's to say he can even be killed?”

Micah grew reflective. “The proof that we can make a difference doesn’t exist, Detective. You have to believe, anyway.”

The answer did little to assuage their fears, but inspired hope. Damario knew he should arrest this lunatic, but Madison appeared less disturbed than intrigued. Quinne pretended that the fate of the earth had not been in her hands and she dropped it. Harper cursed, and wondered out loud what her husband thought.
Assassination? Treason? Murder?
 

“We had to be of one mind to get here. We'll have to be of similar mind going forward. Either you arrest me, or you stay.”

The detectives exchanged looks. Madison played the heavy in instances where they deadlocked, and she said nothing.

“Harper, Quinne, same goes for you. Leave or stay – right here and now.”

Though his viewpoint made less logical sense to her, Harper did not consider bailing out on him. She believed his story, or enough of it not to throw it all to the wolves. If this being – Kareza Noor, incarnate – was supernatural, shucking it from its human shell was not murder per se, but exposing its true nature.
They had to fix this.
“I'm in.”

“Me, too,” Quinne responded. The entire thing was wild; killing a prime minister to save the world based on events occurring in an alternate reality. If only she fired the kill shot in this reality, too! It would be too poetic for words; a badge of honor in the theater of war. She would not receive a medal, and may not survive, but she'd do it for the good of mankind. 

“Arrest him, Shenk.”

Madison stared at him. “I can't do that. Not until I hear the whole story.”

“Can't or won't?”

“Neither.”

Damario asserted himself. “Fine. I will. Hands behind your head, Micah. To your knees.”

Harper moved to her husband's side. “If you arrest him, you'll have to arrest me, too.”

Quinne joined in and flanked Micah's other side. “Yeah, me, too.”

Madison banded together with the trio and gave her partner a look of expectation.
Join us or not.

Ignoring the pull inside of his gut, Damario docked the handcuffs on his armament belt. Whatever convinced Madison, it strengthened his resolve. He did not want to see her die, nor did he desire to turn her in for going rogue. He showed his palms to the group in surrender, and walked out an unwilling accomplice, but not an active participant. Outside this situation, he considered silence different than acquiescence. Within his decision, he thought of it as a kind of self-preservation.

After entering Madison's Caper, he noticed a blinking message indicator from the precinct. He entered the security code and played the message. The man in question, Nandor Adharma, appeared on the holographic screen. Finely-dressed, Adharma smirked and trained his eyes ahead, as if somehow watching Damario. 

“Officer Damario Coley,” he said in the message. “At your convenience, please join me at the Royal Gentry hotel in the presidential suite. I have an urgent need to see you.”      

Damario started the engine and turned on his emergency lights. He would be there by 3:30 – about ten minutes.
What does he want with me?
Fear entered his heart, as he did not know the extent to which this being wielded supernatural powers. For a man who faced death in one form or another every day, this particular challenge terrified him. Beneath his shirt, he wore a cross. He wished it meant more to him than a piece of jewelry he rarely removed. Church was an afterthought for him and Robinne did not pressure the family to adhere to one particular faith. She believed in God, but thought Allah could be his name, too. The Koran, the New King James Bible, and several texts on Zen Buddhist philosophies and Confucianism lined her digital shelves. She read her daily horoscopes and preferred natural herbs to medicinal practices. 

To Damario, God existed, and he did not debate another name for Him. But it was not Allah. He invoked Hebrew names for God;
El Elyon, El Shaddai, Jehovah-Raah
– in times of trouble. He did not “live for Jesus,” but he believed in Him. He grew up in church, got baptized at 13, and regularly attended services until college work and a part-time job got in the way. Then, he met Robinne, who convinced him that Sunday mornings in bed with her could be a religious experience, too.

“Father,” he said, exasperated. “This is a nightmare I can't wake up from. Why am I living this life? What am I supposed to do?”  

At exactly 3:30, Damario pulled in front of the hotel and greeted the valet, who could not park the official vehicle. En route from the parking lot to the hotel entrance, he continued his prayer. “Protect me, please. I don't know what I'm walking into and I'm afraid.”

As he entered, a thought popped into his head.
Do not lie.

With all four heads-of-state staying in the luxury hotel, all personnel, official or not, had to surrender weapons, armament belts, shoes and holographic phones. Damario did so and passed the scanning without incident. The security detail afforded him comfortable sandals and escorted him to the elevator tubes. Damario braced himself for the propulsion to the presidential suite.

On the top floor, he was scanned once more and led to the penthouse by a droid. When the door opened, Adharma rose from a throne-like chair to greet him.

“Greetings!” He offered his hands and firmly clenched Damario’s. “Come in, won’t you?”

“Prime Minister Adharma. . .”

“Please,” he implored. “Call me, Nandor. I hate lofty formal titles. Though others find them necessary, I find them pretentious.”

Damario's armpits were moist with sweat. “Why did you ask to see me?”

“I greatly respect the office of a policeman, Detective. I need a favor from you.”

“W-what could you possibly want from me?”

Adharma poured himself a tumbler of scotch. “Do you drink Irish scotch, Detective?” He drank a healthy amount before refilling the tumbler to a higher level. “This is 120-year-old Macallan. This little bit costs three months of your salary. Personally, I believe you're underpaid. You face all sorts of dangers every day. Have a dram with me. It'll be our little secret.”

Reluctantly, Damario reached out his hand and accepted some. He relished the taste. It was much better than the bottle of Oban Madison bought for him. When he finished, Adharma offered him more, but he declined, still holding the glass.

“No, Detective, this is not a social call. You must know this insistence on tight security is Ramsey Mateo's doing and not my own. I see no need for it.”

No need for security?
“You're a world-renown politician. People want you dead.”

“Death is not something I concern myself with, Detective.”
Not anymore.
“I would like you to drive me to Camp Bradley tomorrow. Alone.”

“Why me?”

“I suspect there's an American sleeper cell plotting to sabotage the talks. Are you aware of such a machination?”

Compelled to tell the truth, Damario nodded. “Yes.”

Adharma guzzled his third tumbler of scotch. By now, he should be a bumbling drunk, but his alcohol tolerance proved to be astronomical. “You will be my shield. She will not shoot if she believes you to be in mortal danger. And you will be.”

Damario's lip trembled.
How did he know?
“I won't do it.”

On cue, Robinne entered into their view, bound at the hands and feet and gagged. Adharma flashed an ominous smile and physically restrained Damario from going to her with one hand. He raised an Ordnance with the other and shot Robinne dead without hesitation. Paralyzed with shock, Damario dropped the glass. His vision blurred and his shallow breathing bottomed out into hyperventilation.

Adharma placed his arm around Damario and whispered into his ear. “Tomorrow, at 6:15 in the morning, you and I will arrive at Camp Bradley. If I fail to get there, your in-laws and children will also die. This is a small taste of what I can do.”     

Through his haze, Damario did not doubt the sincerity of the killer’s words. His thoughts translated into incoherent mumbling.