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fiction: serial fiction
faraway: chapter five
Spaulding walked to his office with his coffee mug in his left hand, observing as he went. With the cutbacks now at 40% for guard's quarters, the hallways had acquired a dingy feel that Spaulding didn't like one bit. Still, he thought to himself as he walked along sipping coffee, the prison had been properly rationed down to being able to survive thirteen months total, in its sixth now, and by then perhaps the Union would arrive, willing to temper its racist rhetoric and get back to a more traditional American ideal. And bring some food.
A small child was standing over a small puddle and a cup, chastising his sister just ahead of Spaulding. "You know we gotta be more careful!" he said, wagging a chubby pink finger at the pigtailed litle girl. "Spills are stuff we won't get ta eat 'til the 'mergency is over!"
Spaulding couldn't help but smile -- whatever version of events that parents were putting on this crisis was reaching the kids, who were pitching in. He leaned down behind the boy, watching his sister's wide blue eyes grow larger with shock. "This young man is telling you the truth," Spaulding said paternally, the hard edges removed from his voice. The boy spun and his hands flew to his mouth like pigeons swarming on a loaf of bread.
"You'll make a fine young man," Spaulding said to the boy, "and possibly a fine guard if you want. What's your name, son?"
"Albert Madison, Mister Spaulding, sir!" the boy said, and actually affected a sloppy if quick salute.
Spaulding grinned in spite of himself, an unfamiliar yet somehow satisfying feeling, and replied, "I want to personally tell you that all of us appreciate your help, Mister Madison! And you too, little girl!" He ruffled the boy's hair playfully and continued, "We all make mistakes, but if we learn from them, or help others learn from them, we can all work together to make things better!"
"Even the prisoners?" the little girl asked quietly, then blushed and dropped her gaze, horrified she'd said it aloud. Albert turned on her with a glare that could turn water into lead.
"Maybe even them, sweetheart," Spaulding said, standing slowly. "Albert, you help her but don't be so hard on her, okay? We all are walking a long road."
The boy scrunched up his face in confusion, but a wave of youthful acceptance of the word of an elder swept across his face leaving an expression of pleasure at being noticed. "You can count on me, sir!"
Spaulding smiled again, ruffled the boy's hair again, and walked on towards the Situation Room.
Upon arriving there, he knew there was something going on. Simpson was standing at ease next to the door leading to Spaulding's office, like a loyal beagle awaiting its master. Spaulding patted the younger man on the shoulder as he passed, and Simpson fell faithfully into step.
Nothing was said while Spaulding seated himself and placed his cup in a heavily ringed warmer, switched off now but serving as a permanent squatting ground for the cup's circumference. He leaned back and examined Simpson, still immaculately presented, every angle sharp and nary a loose thread to show wear.
"Go ahead, Simpson," Spaulding said easily, still in something of a good mood.
"I have two pieces of data," Simpson said in a breath, almost a sigh of relief at being able to speak. "At 0813 hours this morning, we received a fax transmission from the Union, addressed to Secretary of Corrections Stuart Grayson, advising of a realtime link request for 1100 hours December 16, 2036, and requesting security passwords at that time."
Spaulding arched an eyebrow and nodded. "Tomorrow. I suppose that means they made it out of Pennsylvania then. That may be good news, Simpson, because they represent what remains of the United States Government, Simpson. I'll get you ready, as you will address them, saying I collapsed of fatigue shortly after Stuart contacted us. You're gonna be a national hero shortly, Simpson."
Simpson began to smile, but it faded quickly. "I'm glad that is good news, sir, as the other report is much more troubling.
Spaulding leaned forward.
"At approximately 2351 hours last evening, inmate XV4012287 got in bed. At approximately 0013 hours, his cellmate Anthony Harata, inmate IR0293461 came in, they chatted for approximately seven minutes saying nothing of consequence, then appeared to go to sleep."
Simpson hesitated here and Spaulding smirked. "I know I told you to increase surveillance on them, Bartholomew," Spaulding laughed, picking up his coffee, "but even for you this is a bit extreme."
A crinkle of a smile crossed Simpson's face, some hidden pondering he didn't choose to share. Instead, he continued unabated. "At 0800 hours this morning the work alarm for their shift went off and neither got out of bed. By 0804, I was alerted of this and ordered guards sent down to rouse them. At 0807 I was informed their beds were empty, filled with sheets. The security camera record shows nothing."
Spaulding almost dropped his cup, and spilled half a mouthful of coffee on the floor. His mind boggled, and he worked his jaw up and down a time or two. "Where ... where are they?"
Simpson bowed his head. "As of now we have not been able to locate them, and three other prisoners have likewise disappeared without a trace. Cell sensors show no signs of tampering, logs are all uninterrupted, and we show them on thermal scans up until the second the guards walked into the room."
Spaulding sat his cup down and stood up slowly, fists clenched and equally spaced on the desktop. "Every square inch of this prison is photographed 24 hours a day. To open an external door requires my written permission, and the place is airtight. How did this happen, Simpson? This is supposed to be impossible ..." Realization pounced on Spaulding like some desperate desert cat. He looked up at Simpson and asked, "That's not all, is it? Who else is missing?"
Simpson carefully placed a datapad before the warden, and stood, arms crossed behind his back. Spaulding tapped the datapad and read its information ...
INMATE XV4012287, ISHMAEL DAMU, born approximately January 1, 2004 to unknown parents in unknown location. Entered public record February 21, 2014, delivering toxic pizzas to Los Angeles Police headquarters Parker Center as a prelude to a missile strike [see VidFile LA-029374.793: LAPD Entryway Camera 01 Time Index 1609, VidFile LA-73648.200: MSNBC Footage, Missile Attack on LAPD 2/21/14]. Beginning August 30, 2018, spent four years studying at University of Arizona under an assumed identity [see TextFile: Alias(es): Jack Colquitt] using a pirate traceiver chip for identification. Received dual bachelor degrees in Communications and Psychology with minor in Administration of Justice. Disappeared May 2022 until hijacking a Federal Prisoner Transport [see TextFile US-07536.990: Unsolved Cases: Escapes: Serkhet Ashe aka Nia Jackson], cross country pursuit and capture June 17, 2024 [see TextFile US-09234.992, "Murder Spree Ends for Black Militant Leader", Seattle Times]. Convicted of several counts of Sedition, Murder 1, Mass Murder, Serial Murder, Eluding Federal Agents, Illegal Use of Federal Materials, Violation of the Registration Act of 2009, and several other lesser charges. Sentenced to Faraway prison June 22, 2024 for life with the possibility of parole after sixty years in case of senility or severe physical disfigurement [see TextFile US-90987.111, "Specific Instructions for Parole Consideration, Ishmael Damu Sentencing, 6/22/24"]. Subject skilled with numerous forms of martial arts and unarmed combat, as well as all NATO and DOC small arms, mechanic [see TextFile: Technology Restrictions, TextFile FW-00042.001: Closed Cases: Failed Federal Escapes: Faraway Helicopter Shot Down - June 24, 2024 Time Index 0317], and possible training in "soft arts" spirituality and psychology. Spent first year in solitary confinement, has injured seventeen guards and killed four, as well as undetermined number of prisoners in planned mass outbreaks of violence during his sentence, last case TextFile FW-34985.763 Daily Report January 20 ,2031. Security code Ultrablack, highest possible security procedures required. Federal Order 16-B [see TextFile US92103.011, "Federal Political Prisoner Agreement"] mandates the inmate only be terminated under situations labeled Defcon 2 or worse.
INMATE IR0293461, ONUMA "ANTHONY" HARATA, born approximately 2009. Suspected of string of assassinations and contract killings from Tokyo to Lisbon. Suspected of association with Asian crime families. Acquitted on twenty seven DOC arraignments. No concrete data of any criminal behavior until the plea bargain testimony of DOC Witness 723627-22 [see TextFile DC-29374.201: "Liu Hsang Affadavit Testimony" January 7, 2025]. Captured without struggle at home May 10, 2025, tried and sentenced to Faraway for seventeen counts of first degree murder May 16, 2025. Convicted in absentia of 58 other previously unsolved cases under the Associative Guilt Act of 2016. Skilled marksman and mechanic. Security code Black, high security procedures required.
INMATE AR0002638, PAUL JONES JR., born November 22, 2008 to Paul and Sidney Jones, both deceased. Entered public record as "Sigma Blue," hacker who terrorized network television and California governments by hijacking public data access for "digital graffiti" [see TextFile SF-65382.203: "Sigma Blue's Reign of Digital Terror," San Francisco Chronicle]. Convicted January 1, 2020 of more than two thousand counts of illegal use of public data lines and other assorted cybercrimes [see TextFile US-00003.029, "Arraignment of Paul Jones Jr. aka Sigma Blue"]. Is under suspicion for "Set It Off" cyber-robbery ring acts [see TextFile US 20364.092: Unsolved Cases: Conspiracy: Set it Off Digital Acquisitions, Unlimited], as well as numerous other unsolved digital crimes. Under Digital Security Act of 2020, is restricted from contact with any terminal accessing a network of more than two workstations directly or indirectly. Security code Ultrablue, digital restrictions listed [see TextFile US-00003.030, "Specifics of Incarceration for Paul Jones Jr."].
INMATE AA0000034, KHARI COLLINS, born April 1, 1986 to Michael and Imani Collins, deceased. Entered public record as artist and community activist in late 20th Century in Atlanta, Georgia. Inflammatory poetry published nationally [see TextFiles AT-00003.918-00004.000], considered a central player in Atlanta Riots of 2007 but not convicted. After publicly opposing Registration Act of 2009, went into hiding that year. Captured July 9, 2012 in raid on New Afrikan Party headquarters [see TextFile AT-00034.716, "Black Militant Headqarters Raided by DOC in strike against terrorism," Atlanta Journal-Constitution]. Convicted of sedition, illegal possession of firearms, Violation of the Registration Act of 2009, and several lesser charges, sentenced to be one of the second set of prisoners of Faraway Prison July 12, 2012 [see TextFile AT-37452.930, "Black Militant among first inmates at super prison," from Atlanta Journal-Constitution]. Security code Black.
IMNATE PR6392012, ALEXANDRO MUNOZ, born sometime in 1999 to unknown Mexican national parents. Entered public record after receiving citizenship and Bachelor's Degree in Sociology from University of California at Irvine in 2021. Outspoken public speaker on immigrant rights, worked with Los Angeles based nonprofit organization Crystal Stairs, Inc. until its firebombing May 23, 2023 [see TextFile LA-79402.253]. Was arrested at Parker Center Sit In protesting lack of police investigation of the crime, [see TextFile LA-79402.409] and while incarcerated, was assaulted by unknown white prisoners for his political views, losing his tongue in the attack [see TextFile LA-79403.203, "Silenced -- Latino Activist Attacked in County Jail," Los Angeles Times]. Upon release, disappeared from public record, having tranceiver chip removed and placed on a shipping boat leaving San Jose December 9, 2023 [see TextFile SJ-02934.982, "Commercial Shipping Frigate Attacked by DOC Fighters," Los Angeles Times and TextFile US-82639.409: COINTELPRO: Interdiction Files: Alexandro Munoz #084]. Reentered public eye as a cat burgler striking the rich and powerful [see TextFile SC-32718.039, "Governor's Mansion Theft Tied to Political Robberies Statewide"], captured August 29, 2029 fleeing crime scene of theft of security documents from then DOC headquarters [see TextFile DC-83620.029, "Pentagon Robbed! Suspect Former California Immigrant Rights Activist," Washington Post]. Convicted September 7, 2029 of multiple theft-related felonies, sentenced to Sing Sing Federal Correctional Facility. Escaped September 20, 2029, eluded DOC authorities on multi-state manhunt until being captured November 9, 2032 in Albequerque, NM [see TextFile AQ-09273.744 "Excitement as National Criminal Captured Here," Albequerque Herald]. Sentenced November 10, 2032 to Faraway Federal Penal Facility. Expert at burglary, evasion, and other stealth and black ops methodology. Security code Ultrablack, containment protocols at full. Federal Order 16-B [see TextFile US92103.011, "Federal Political Prisoner Agreement"] mandates the inmate only be terminated under situations labeled Defcon 2 or worse.
Spaulding sat back in his chair, gaping at the datapad. He looked up at Simpson, still standing calmly at ease, awaiting instruction.
"Ankle bracelets?" Spaulding asked quietly.
"Found this morning shattered, in a rubbish heap near Jones' cell," Simpson responded tersely. "No fingerprints."
"Tranceivers?"
"Disabled somehow, probably through a jamming frequency mixed in with normal internal transmissions, nothing we can find." Simpson spoke with an uncanny and unflappable calm. "Possibly they have some means to remove them, Harata is skilled enough to do so and may have done so in his criminal career."
"Simpson," Spaulding said, rubbing his eyes. "I know this must be perfectly galling for a control freak such as yourself. This, however, is bigger than your own petty and obvious desire for revenge and to tie loose ends. Either Collins or Damu is the ringleader I have sought for so long, and now both are out of my reach."
Spaulding paused and considered his moves carefully. "Have Hathaway cross reference every bit of video surveillance on every one of these parties for the last two weeks," Spauding said, "up to the second they were noted missing, and report to you with his findings. After I have you speak to the Union, we will go to Phase Three. And redouble your efforts to find out how these men have eluded our eyes and where they are, before it happens again. It will be a matter of watching supplies and seeing where they disappear from, as well as watching their confederates, who will no doubt be helping them. That means shaking down the guards and the prisoners. Your main job as of right now is hunting them down and kiling all five of these prisoners in accordance with Federal Penal Code 3.0 paragraph 4. Tomorrow morning we go to Phase Three. Now, leave me."
Simpson saluted smartly, and left. The beleaguered warden removed his glasses and sat them on the desk, then tapped the comlink to the Medical Center.
"Rayner, here," the youthful voice responded.
"How is Secretary Grayson?" Spaulding asked, rubbing his eyes with both hands.
"Fine, if a bit agitated," Rayner replied, his voice betraying only the slightest concern.
"I'll be down momentarily."
The link went dead and Spaulding stood, looking down over the yard. He put his glasses back on, and tried to examine each moving figure, their black and blue uniforms making so many of them meld together in his mind's eye. Could they have altered their faces? Still be hiding in the populace? Impossible. Spaulding thought back to the construction of Faraway, thought back to the sandy colored stones, lined with titanium steel, being erected and secured into the barren wasteland. He pictured the blueprints in his mind, following their lines to their inevitable conclusions in closets, cells, and offices. He thought about the prison he had been responsible for, wondered where he would hide if he were running, and came up with nothing. The prison was designed to have every centimeter under observation at any time. Even the air vents had cameras, the few big enough for something larger than a tabby to crawl through, even the guards' chambers had cameras Spaulding and now Simpson could view. It didn't make sense.
Spaulding turned away from the window with disgust, and started to make his way down to the medical center. He looked at the faces of guards and support staff -- techs, cleaning personnel, and so on -- with renewed suspicion. Could someone be hiding the renegades? If so, where? He walked past Rayner, a midsized man with an unruly mop of straight black hair he mostly kept under a square-topped regulation gray cap, into the Secretary's room.
Grayson was sitting up, reading a personnel evaluation. Spaulding smiled as he entered, and said, "See, and you were ready for me to pull the plug on you!"
Grayson harrumphed in a fashion only age can teach, and set the report down. "So I didn't have the common decency to die. I always feel like some wise buddha," Grayson grinned, "since my outranking you is moot in my condition and all you come see me for is advice."
"I'd love to have the time to be more social with you, Stuart," Spaulding replied, pulling a comfy chair over and taking a seat. "However, as it is I can't be awake enough to stem the tide of anarchy."
"How's that, Ken?"
Spaulding took off his glasses and began shining the lenses with the tail of his jacket. "Five prisoners, extreme hard cases with a wealth of black ops skills, are loose somewhere with no tranceivers and no ankle bracelets, and nobody seems to know where they are."
Grayson made a show of looking under his sheets, which got nothing more than a tired smirk from Spaulding. "Afraid I'm too fat and slow to go manhunting with you, Ken."
"No, not that. I'm just about to get downright Third Reich here, and it always gives me pause." Spaulding considered his words, and said slowly, "This has to be the trigger, before more people get the same idea, they can just disappear unscathed. I mean, I'm supposed to, as you said, be the last bastion of Americanism, and to protect that I'll break every law, ignore every amendment, and savage every last shred of personal freedom? It just makes me feel ... dirty." Spaulding paused, and continued, "Well, doing it to people who are arguably American, at any rate."
"Does it make you feel as dirty as when you blew up that busload of Israeli children and blamed it on the Palestinians back in ninety-nine?" Grayson wondered.
Spaulding paused. "I haven't thought about that in a long time. I woke up screaming for years after that, seeing their little arms on fire, reaching for help ..."
"Maybe you should think about it, Ken," Grayson said darkly. "You have slain, you have pillaged, you have destroyed in the name of national security and national interests since you got out of college. So have I. We formed the Department of Corrections off the back of the Office of Homeland Security and the feudal law enforcement bureaus of the twentieth century. You and me, Ken. Do you know how many lives we have ruined, how much blood has been spilled, if not by our hands under our signatures? A little late for sentimentality now, old friend."
"And look where it got us ... hiding out in the middle of the desert, the country in ruins." Spaulding paused and then said, "Maybe this is some cosmic retribution. All those years of intentional and unintentional oppression at home and abroad ... what did that Black leader say about 'chickens coming home to roost ...'"
Grayson made a sound of disgust and turned his head away. "The pressure must be getting to you," Grayson grunted. "Is this the same guy that, at 23, practically pushed me out of a C-130 over Iraq with enough hard currency to keep Hussein running for a year, screaming, 'What do we care, it's all in the national interest?' I refuse to believe that this crisis, as dire as it is, has changed you that much."
"Maybe I'm just reflecting on things in my old age," Spaulding said quietly. "Not worrying about getting in to heaven, I'm atheist enough to know there can be no hell worse than things I've created. Just ... you said 'we never saw it coming,' in your message. Maybe we did. Maybe we helped it to happen. The plutonium that took DC off the map seven years ago came from somewhere we had to control. The guns that sacked NORAD and Kansas City were almost certainly built by our vendors."
Grayson cocked his head to one side and examined Spaulding for a minute. "What?" the grey suited warden asked.
"I know why you've gone philosopher on me," Grayson smiled, chuckling some. "You came out here and shut your brain off and haven't thought since you got here, since reports and inventories could be done in your sleep. You blocked out all the wetwork we did back in the glory days. Now, you've got all this ... thinking going on, and you can't talk to anybody but the potentially dying superior who won't impose his will." Grayson laughed out loud. "You need a shrink, not me, Ken."
Spaulding smirked and nodded grudgingly. "You may be right. Pretty accurate psychoanalysis for a deskbound ex-pistolier."
Grayson shrugged, turning both palms up. "Now I know that I can be your friend and debate honestly, not your superior keeping you in line."
"Oh, I'll do my job, Stuart," Spaulding said grimly. "I've never shirked my duties, from slitting the throats of children in Michoacan to passing out plague-ridden blankets in Rwanda, no matter how haunted I may have become down the line. You're right, I just need to get these thoughts out of my head, say them aloud, and if I let that cretin Simpson see a sign of reluctance he might slit my throat."
"Stuart Grayson, spiritual advisor and shoulder to cry on," Grayson chuckled.
Spaulding grinned, "And political figurehead. Your 'Union' has also contacted us, requesting your presence on a live feed at 1100 tomorrow. I'm going to have Simpson do it with you, so expect us tomorrow morning to run through and set up. After that, we go 1614-7."
Grayson nodded. "Sounds like we have the right man running the show, whether anyone will ever know it or not. Now go relax and don't think, get laid or something."
Standing up, Spaulding laughed out loud, saluted, and left the small room. Before leaving the medical center, he stopped to regard Rayner, carefully depicting a pastoral scene with an old fashioned lead pencil on a sheet of fine art paper.
"You must have been saving that," Spaulding said quietly, seeing Rayner hadn't noticed him walk up.
Surprised, Rayner jumped and rushed to put away the art. "I'm sorry, sir, I was just ..."
Spaulding waved a dismissing hand. "You are not so taxed that you can't be creative, Rayner. I was just unaware that someone else in this facility used lead pencils."
Rayner blushed a bit and brought the paper and pencil from behind his back. "Actually, I forgot to get enough before I came. I brought reams of paper, but only two packs of pencils, and this is my last one."
Spaulding watched the guard for a moment, and then said, "I have ... well, I have a lot of pencils. Not art pencils, but regular number 2 pencils. I'll have Hathaway bring a gross of them to your quarters this evening, if you'd like."
Rayner looked up, mouth hanging agape. "S-sir! Thank you, I don't know how to ..."
Again Spaulding waved his words away like an errant gnat. "I was just telling a little boy this morning how hard we all have to work, together, to get through this. No reason we can't help each other along the way."
Spaulding patted the young guard on the shoulder and walked firmly out into the corridor.
• • •
The announcement came just as first shift was beginning its long day. All throughout the prison, every wall and every bar resonated with the voice of Keniston Spaulding, as he spoke to his flock.
"Inmates and staff of Faraway Federal Penal Facility," that mellifluous voice said, with a hint of a smile. "It is my sad duty to inform you that I am hereby instituting Federal Penal Code 1614-7. This law gives me, in times of emergency as determined by me, the power to declare martial law, and the power of life and death within the boundaries of this prison. The staff have all been briefed on this already, so for the benefit of the prisoners, I will say the following. The rumors of the prison being cut off from the outside world are illusory. Faraway is involved with a federal test and in constant contact with the DOC in Omaha, as proven by a surprise inspection we had some months ago by Secretary of Corrections Stuart Grayson, who will be arriving in a few weeks for another inspection. The reason for this test will not be explained to the prisoners, as under this law you have no rights I am bound to honor. No questions nor queries will be tolerated, and you will continue on as you always have unless specifically told otherwise by the staff here. As a result of this, five prisoners have already died, and more will follow lest the status quo is rigidly maintained. You have been warned. That is all."
The "click" of the public address system switching off echoed everywhere, as several prisoners were instantly tranquilized for voicing their opinions about the announcement. Within ten minutes, the quiet hum of Faraway assumed its regular pitch and frequency.
• • •
The screen was slow to crackle and fizzle into focus, but when it came up, the sight was something of a surprise. Dressed in a literal horned viking helmet, and covered in a kevlar vest and a rough flak jacket, the man on screen looked more like a bad actor in an adventure movie than a representative of the "government."
"I am Miles Cavanaugh, director of information for the Union of America," the man said from under a Yosemite Sam red mustache. "Please identify yourself."
Staring evenly and calmly, Simpson stated, "ID# 653-41-2839, Simpson, Bartholemew, rank, Commander. Acting warden and interim chief executive officer for Faraway Federal Penal Facility."
"Mister Simpson," the man Cavanaugh nodded, "Good to see you're all right out there. We were contacting you as stated in our fax, to speak with Secretary of Corrections Stuart Grayson."
Simpson continued on smoothly. "Secretary Grayson's plane crash landed approximately two hundred seventy yards from our innermost security perimiter. We barely had time to deactivate the mines there before the wreckage came to ground. He is still in our intensive care unit, and will be able to speak with you shortly. My own superior succumbed to a heart condition and is likewise recuperating in our med center. I have assumed their responsibilities until such a time as they are ready to return to duty."
Cavanaugh leaned off screen and whispered something, getting a terse response before he regarded the screen again. "If you are indeed in charge, Secretary Grayson would have given you security codes he discussed with us prior to his egress from Omaha."
Just as practiced, Simpson did not look over the screen to the secondary station where Spaulding was, observing the entire exchange on a split screen display of his own and cradling his microphone and headset in one hand. Instead, the guard lifted a piece of paper provided for the occasion and read aloud: "The first phrase is as follows: 'The white man marches on.' The second is 'We will meet in a place where there is no darkness.'"
Cavanaugh was looking over a sheet of paper in his hand, and nodded slowly. "That information is correct. You say we will be able to speak to Secretary Grayson?" Cavanaugh asked.
"In a matter of moments," Simpson said, his clipped tone careful and filled with gravitas. "However, he and I both want you to know we are all of one accord intellectually, but as of yet wish to continue operating under the rules of the United States Federal Government as of July 1, 2036."
Cavanaugh balked. "One second, you'll need to speak to ..." he began, before being yanked from the chair and replaced by a younger man, closer to Simpson's age, with rippling muscles, a shaved head, and a tank top. A freshly done swastika tattoo adorned his right shoulder."
"Commander, I am President Simon Thornton," he said in a voice as stern as a father's reproach. "I would speak with Grayson now."
"You are no president we are authorized to acknowledge," Simpson said, his eyes narrowing to slits. "We applaud your success and your efforts at restoring the country to some semblance of sanity, but we are not your subordinates. Your file here lists you as a Major, a year away from promotion to Lieutenant Colonel. Legally, we are all military officers under command of the ranking governmental, civilian official, Secretary of Corrections Stuart Grayson, and he has given me operational command until he is ready to resume his duties. If you wish to contest such my de facto and de jure command with force, our armaments here make us easily your equals, and we play on a level playing field or not at all.
"I believe you're probably concerned, thinking of your brother James, who leads a prison gang called the White Knights here. Rest assured the Knights stand with us and he is well. But know that I am in charge here, at Grayson's request, and I will not be disrespected by the likes of anyone."
The new Thornton glared at the screen for a moment as Spaulding whispered something else into Simpson's earpiece. As Thornton prepared to speak, Simpson hollered, "Do I make myself clear, Major?!??"
Thornton visibly jumped, then adopted a scowl. "Yes, Commander Simpson," he said slowly, "I believe we understand each other ..."
Simpson leaned back some and relaxed visibly. "Good. Please appraise us of your current status and then we will do the same for you."
Thornton smiled at that -- smarter than his brother, Spaulding thought to himself, but ultimately as pliable. "We have, as Secretary Grayson knows, secured the state of Pennsylvania for native forces," Thornton continued, an eager child showing off his accomplishments. "We have as well recaptured New Jersey, excepting the parts too saturated with residual radiation from DC, and secured much of the waterways nearby. Our military excursions have led to great success as far west as Illinois, and we have established interim fortresses along what we are calling the Aryan Highway, a safe path between our bases in Pennsylvania and our outermost facility at Joliet. I'm sorry to report the DOC facility there was destroyed prior to our arrival."
Simpson nodded appreciatively. "Sounds like good work, Major Thornton. As for us, we have established quarantine and lockdown procedures according to the mandates of Federal Penal Code 3, Subsection 22. Two attacks upon our outer perimeter, both at more than fifty miles from the prison proper, were repelled by our automatic defenses, leaving no survivors. We suspect that it was probably some of the same Beaners who took down NORAD, from the remains we recovered. Other than that, it's been smooth sailing, nice and quiet here, just like we like it."
Thornton made some notes and nodded, seeming to appreciate the use of the slur in this official conversation. "We are initiating a westward push of loyalist territory, supported by conscripted local militia and a large number of volunteers, through your position and hopefully to end up somewhere relatively safe in California. We have plans to attempt to retake Hawaii, which is the greatest danger of invasion short of the Carribean, and far easier to placate. You should expect us at your door within 5 months. As well, we have treatied with the Canadians, who are helping us repel Asian and European nationalist forces in Alaska, Maine, Washington and Massachusets in return for giving them portions of Michigan and Minnesota they have some sentimental interest in. Things are looking like we could have a highly re-established United States within eighteen months."
Simpson raised his eyebrows and nodded. "What can we do to assist your efforts on this end?"
"Well," Thornton said, much more congenial now, "our intelligence reports that most of the local municipalities in your area have either been slaughtered or abandoned, attacked by 'parties unknown.'"
"I think we both know what kind of people held those 'parties,' Major," Simpson said with a chuckle, as directed by Spaulding, "but yes. Our intel data corresponds that, and states that we're the only stable position within two or three hundred miles."
"What kind of air power do you have?" Thornton asked, jotting down notes.
"Most of our armaments, something along the line of six battalions worth, are ground power," Simpson said, referring to a datapad he held, looking supremely prepared. "Small arms and missiles. In the air, we have only two transport choppers, late 1980s Bells, and a single Apache I personally requisitioned and retrofitted with more suitable armaments. The Bells have limited capacity to be upgraded for combat situations."
"That should be fine," Thornton said thoughtfully, "we have plenty of transport, but air power is in short supply all around. The armed forces has never had a chopper as good as that Apache, apologies to the Pawnee that came after, and I'm just glad to have it in service at all. Especially, flown by a man like yourself."
Simpson laughed pleasantly, and replied, "I'm a gunner -- my father always said pilots were sissies."
Thornton laughed out loud at that. "Explaining why so few survived! Good man, Simpson!"
Spaulding triggered a light, visible to Simpson and this faraway Thornton. "Ah, Secretary Grayson is ready to have you patched through, Major."
"Thank you, Commander. I'll look forward to speaking with you soon." Thornton saluted proudly and was switched over.
Simpson stood quickly, pulling the earpiece from under his cap and free of his head, and walked over to Spaulding's station. "Excellent work there, Simpson," Spaulding nodded, examining the Secretary's discourse with Thornton. "Just as we practiced, now, hush while we see what else this young man has planned."
"... realize that it must have been a surprise to you," Grayson was saying, somehow elegant as he sat in his hospital bed. "The position of Simpson, but he and his staff are all ardent patriots, so adding a honorific like President could set him off."
"As long as we all have an understanding for who's hosting the post-game show," Thornton grumbled, his eagerness shed for naked ambition. "Has he slain all the outlander prisoners?"
"There is a 22% outlander population to the guard's own staff," Grayson responded. "Some of which are needed in technical positions. To do so would send far too obvious a message. Besides, as patriotic as they all are, most are not as ... extreme in their views as you and I."
Thornton shook his head in a tired manner. "The supplies there could last three times as long ..."
"... and dilute the quality of what we have here by two thirds," Grayson finished for him. "I'm much happier living like a man than one of them, thank you. Our food and areas are far better than theirs."
Thornton shrugged. "Well, as I told Simpson, we'll be there in five months."
Grayson chuckled. "God willing and the creeks don't rise. We'll be fine for six."
Thornton smiled, "Still hedging your bets, Commandant?"
"Ever since I let a snotty little f**k recruit named Simon Thornton off Paris Island," Grayson chortled.
Thornton laughed a bit in response, and Spaulding nodded in his dark recess nearby, quietly saying, "Good, Stuart, make him trust you."
"I'll make contact within a month, sir," Thornton said. "The radiation interference is so great it takes too much power to do more often."
"Speak to Simpson, Simon," Grayson said gravely. "He's a good soldier, and in some ways, as dedicated as you."
"Yes sir," Thornton nodded dutifully. "He seems to be very strac. I'm certain there will be no problem working with him."
"He thinks you're stupid, Simpson," Spaulding whispered as Grayson said some overly formal farewell to the man on the screen. "Luckily you have me to insure you're going to be President, not this jarhead buffoon. For now, postpone the order to have his brother killed, but have the knifer ready to go on command. About ... three or four days after we combine forces, I'll make sure both Thorntons 'serve their country' as best they can."
Thornton saluted, said, "Semper Fi!" and signed off, leaving transmission coordinates in case of emergency, a digital address through static and storm.
• • •
Damu was reassembling the 10mm handgun he kept with him at all times, screwing it back together with long fingernails after unscrewing it the same way and cleaning every individual part. He relished in the calming sounds of machinery around him, secreted away from watching eyes, as much as he enjoyed simple manual tasks like this, reminding him of days sorting coins with his mother. It had been three months since he and his small band had exfiltrated the prison's general populace, and while he adored the company of his friends, they could be irritating -- Jonesy's incessant search for a way to reach the women prisoners, Harata's continuing bad mood, and worries about Collins' health. Even as a child, the intricacies of a family dedicated to overthrowing the government had kept him from simple pleasures like watching clouds and discovering pollywogs before they turn into frogs. The idea of privacy had become a kind of indulgent heaven for him, and he did his work with a smile on his face.
He heard the clumping of Harata's boots as the crouched over man wedged himself through the passageways. "You know," the Asian said quietly, "back before I came to prison, I could have slid through these things like a snake. Now with all this extra ... muscle and stuff, I feel like a side of kobe beef in there."
Damu examined the pistol, last screw in place now, and said, "What's kobe beef?"
Harata opened his mouth and then closed it again. "Never mind," he began again. "You've never eaten beef, so the distinction is lost on you."
Damu shrugged and said, "Okay," sticking the pistol back into his waistband.
"How's Khari?" Harata asked, hunkering down with a slice of soy-chicken.
"He's okay," Damu said with a sigh. "Getting his medicine was cool, but he really isn't manueverable enough to get through the tunnels like us. Luckily, that makes him the perfect babysitter for Jonesy."
Harata snorted a laugh and replied, "Still using every free moment to figure out how to get to the women?"
"Worse now," Damu smiled. "Their security, it seems, is more lax than ours and some of them are allowed to work as typists on stone age computers. Well, one of 'em in on a political felony rap happens to be a hacker too."
"Political felony?" Harata asked, eyebrow raised. "Assassination?"
"Nah. She robbed the wrong bank at the wrong time, is all," Damu said dismissively. "Didn't even have a weapon on her, which is why she's a code red, and only got Faraway because some pompous rich guy was offended at her sneaking bags of credit chips outta his bank, and lobbied to send her here."
"Bogus," Harata nodded.
"Anyway, so she stumbles on Jonesy in the system and after a brief cyber battle trying to get each other caught, they start talking," Damu continued with a smile, sliding the last piece of the gun into place. "Our disappearance is big news on the computer system, and she knows he has to be one of us, so they start talking and she starts flirting, asking to be saved."
"Ma phong," Harata cursed, more amused than disgusted. "Jonesy's 'digital pimpin' again."
"Your boy Jonesy gets her file," Damu continued, "and starts watching her on the security cameras. She's actually pretty cute."
Harata groaned. "So now he wants us to save her."
"I talked him out of that," Damu smiled, loading the weapon. "However, when we take over the prison, I gave him permission to go get her."
Harata raised a suspicious eyebrow. "We're gonna take over the prison? When was this plan made?"
"That was the original idea, fluffhead!" Damu took a fake swing at Harata, who didn't even fake a block. "Tony, be real with me. Something's been up with you since we exfiltrated, what's going on."
"I don't want to talk about it." Harata said, looking away.
"Harata, if you endanger the work I have dedicated my life to, I'm gonna personally chew out your intestines!" Damu said with a dark tone. "And your spleen!"
Harata paused, staring at his hands. "I was trapped in a cave when I was little. My parents took us on vacation climbing in the Himalayas. There was an avalanche. Got my mom instantly, my dad shoved me in this little cave, really a big crater in the mountain, and he was gone."
Harata's shoulders slumped as he continued. "Of course the Yakuza looks after their own, and this happened on what was supposed to be our last day. We go missing, they send an army looking for us. It took them three days to find me. They dug their way to me, I was all screaming and hysterical, goin' flippin' nuts. I was taken into an uncle's household and have avoided tight spaces ever since."
Damu nodded solemnly. "I wish you'd have told me. Maybe we ..."
Harata shrugged and said, "I had to come. Spaulding would have killed me if you disappeared and I didn't. I'm just ... I'm dealing with it, man."
Damu put a hand on Harata's shoulder, and said, "Munoz found a big empty space, bigger than our room but with fewer amenities. How 'bout you get some supplies and I'll have him take you there tomorrow?"
"I have to help explore and ..." Harata protested.
Damu waved his hand absently. "We know what we need to know. Go. Get yourself ready for war."
Harata nodded, and Damu started out, towards the common area and Jonesy. "Ishmael!" Harata grunted.
Damu looked back expectantly.
"You still haven't told me about this plan."
Damu looked at him for a moment and grinned. "You know, you're right. I haven't." Then he was gone, behind a turn in the loose piping.
Harata laughed and followed after him.
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