Friday, July 6, 2012

Spanner 1.4: Secret Meetings

...from previous

Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 1: Spanner in the Works
Part 4: Secret Meetings (Revision 4)

Quoth Dr. Becket:
The moral purity of the people is the strength of the Nation.
The Law hated them for their love. Fornication, miscegenation, lesbianism, ephebophilia, consensual incest, lack of patriarchal permission and Eugenics Institute license, idolatry of each other instead of the God and Nation they refused to put faith in: thou shalt not. It spoke, and its word drew a web of lines forbidden to cross, a barrier to separate the individual from carnal ecstasy and turn romantic love and sexual desire into terrorist acts. What were a few more lines? They crossed them all.

Four beautiful tall women: Willa Richter-Thomas (47), athlete psychologist Rock ’N’ Roll legend with blond hair, silver eyes, Pattern vision, and a polychrome dragon tattoo spiralling up her body; her longtime lover and illegal wife Hope Reston (50), half-black part-Apache lawyer turned teacher turned activist blacklisted for the crime of conscience; her daughter Jennifer; her niece and Hope’s daughter Shira. They devoted the day before solely to their Law-forbidden love. They made love with supercharged passion fuelled by transgression; they made love as if this were the last moment of their lives; they made love as if God enraged were about to strike them dead.

On the big antique waterbed at Mudlark House: Willa and Hope, lovers since 1988; Jennifer and Shira, lovers at four, engaged at six: side by side, passionately, as long as they could sustain till reason vanished and reality gave way to a new heaven and new earth where the only law was their desire to become one. They switched: each daughter paired with the other’s mother, driven to burn her with the lava-hot passion of her youth, burn away their ego personality soul the entire world to nothingness. They switched: mothers and daughters, bodies entwined united melted together, souls entangled fused destroyed, the extremism of their love a terrorist firebomb exploding burning away body mind soul into one annihilation—

Personality and thought returned; the material world reconstituted; bodies minds and souls regenerated anew. In the big bathtub superfluous with bubbles they bathed together, sensually caressed each other’s soft sensitive skin, focussed their scattered minds on the concrete presence of their companions’ bodies and their own while the bliss persisted at such unusual strength. Jennifer broke the silence. “I wish Kira were here with us.”

“She will be soon,” said Shira. “I know it. I can feel her, so far away.”

Hope held them close. “We’ll bring her back. But first we need to send the Revolution a message, good and hard.”

Night. Four bodies together in fresh sheets, four souls dreaming a single dream, of a deadly web made of commandments spells and laws with Kira on the other side crying to them for help. Tomorrow it would begin.

Hope Maureen Reston
stand and deliver

ghetto, newark. Today is Revolution Day, one of the holiest days on the American calendar of holy days. On this day twelve score years but one ago, the first martyrs watered the tree of liberty with their blood so that the Chosen Nation could be born; two years ago, the Conservative Revolution liberated the Holy Nation and its world-spanning Empire from the democratic dictatorship of the masses. To celebrate this holiest of holy days, the United Corporations are gathering; to prepare for their coming, by the decree of the Federal Emergency Management Administration, the national police corporation COPCO and the giant military corporation Dictel have cleansed the New York area of its faithless city people for—a business meeting?

But this is TrumpCity™, the holy city consecrated to President Goldman Sachs & Company. Under Corporatism, by the Law of Social Darwinism, the great Corporations, gods incarnate, are the true citizens of the sacred Republic; humans are but minuscule monkeys who exist only to serve them in worship and self-abnegation. By the plan of Corbusier and Moses, this New Babylon is to be remade for the glory and pleasure of the new gods. The skyscrapers of the City are their temples. Unto them the great goddess Nike, the Platonic Form of victory made manifest, provideth the use of her temple for the initiation of a new god into the pantheon of the elect.

The people cast by Dictel and COPCO out of this city that was once theirs truly believe this is a disaster on the level of a hurricane or major earthquake, only completely unnatural. Other than the expected die-hards, some of whom were taken by force out of the city, the only ones who refuse to leave are the assassins: criminal gangs, fringe cults, terrorist factions.

Militants of one faction, the Patriot terror army called Minuteman, rampage through the shantytowns built on the ruins of Newark’s slums, hoping to find poor people to kill, especially “fags” and “mudbloods.” Fired by holy hatred and absolute faith in the Conservative Revolution, they smash and burn everything they can get find. They are the dregs of the white underclass, some of them convicted war criminals, pale skin haunted by the ghosts of gang tattoos and devil-cross brands, fired by blind faith that they can rise above the Corporates by killing all the people the Law of Social Darwinism decrees must die.

Suddenly, they find themselves under fire. Militants get shredded by machine-gun rapid fire and blown up by grenades. The survivors scatter and try to run away, only to discover that they’re completely surrounded by assassins of another faction.

A shadow forms in the smoke. The shape consolidates into that of a man with military bearing. At last, the intimidating figure of Adam Gabriel emerges. In his Colombian accent, he demands: “Surrender now, if you want to live.”

One Minuteman assassin, his manhood insulted, raises his AK at Gabriel and screams, “Fuck you, fa—” Gabriel quick-draws his Glock 9mm and shoots him dead.

“Next victim?”

The surviving Minutemen drop their guns and hold their hands up. Gabriel’s men take them away. His wife and assistant, Talia Espinoza, comes up beside him. “How come we’re mopping up lowlifes?”

“Patriot terrorists are the criminals the PMSCs recruit from. We take down Minuteman, and COPCO and Dictel will eventually fall. Without COPCO and Dictel, the Corpos are fish in a barrel.”

“But do we have to look like we’re assisting Delta Force while we’re at it?”

“We are the Socialist Revolutionary Organization. We hunt the Blond Beast. Our never-ending crusade for justice cannot end until we slay him and restore the democratic dictatorship of the people.”
The ideological purity of the people is the power of the Nation.
They stopped at the boathouse of Willa’s sister Reva Richter-Thomas (50: painter, gallery owner) and her husband Edward Kubota (49: Microsoft millionaire, native Bainbridge Islander), whose sweet auburn-haired daughter Karen Kubota (17: Buddhist, activist, champion cheerleader) waited to put her hoverboard on Shira’s in the trunk of Willa’s car. Three adoring cousins collided into an embrace, jumped around together, squealed in delight, kissed deliriously. Steve Ragoczy (24: hoverboard racer, hacker) met them wearing his trademark Dead Hello Kitty windbreaker. Shira and Steve high-fived left-handed and shouted “Eeyow!”; she pulled Karen tight, kissed her hard, and announced, “The ‘Left-Handed League’ is now three-fifths complete.”

Stopped on the street. The COPCO cop demanded: “State your intention.”

“Sim party,” Willa replied. “Vidgame thing. It’s great fun. You’d be surprised.”

“Do not lie! You are planning sedition!”

“Officer, you don’t need us to ruin your Nation. All you people need to do is stay in denial of the implacable Laws of Hierarchy, and your Nation will fall into ruin of its own accord. Entropy itself is the subversive force. Good day.” She rolled up her window and drove off.

Passing by a scrum of cops pulling a full beatdown on homeless people and anybody defying the Law to help them. Distressed at the sight, Steve asked, “What are they doing to those people?”

“Punishing altruism,” Karen replied. “Compassion is officially more evil than even terrorism.”

Steve said, “I can’t see what’s so evil about helping people.”

“It offends their religion,” Willa explained. “If Altruism in its strict sense means sacrifice of the self to others, Egoism is the sacrifice of others to oneself. Compassion puts others before the Ego. But egos built to such massive size are so brittle that even the slightest social feeling can shatter them. American Egoism is really an idolatrous cult. Our masters call themselves Titans for a reason.”

“They think we’re putting a moratorium on their brains?” added Shira. “They put a moratorium on conscience.”

“Jeez Louise,” said Steve, “that’s evil.”

“The Remnant don’t see the world with human eyes,” Willa reminded, “but like the Æsir facing the advancing frost giants at Ragnarok.”

Karen looked him in the eyes. “Humans are social animals, Steve. We need each other. Only if we all come together can we beat their System.”

Steve laughed bitterly. “We’re messing with their Revolution. They’ll kill us.”

Their revolution? The revolution is us.”

Karen Kubota
burning flower of compassion

tenement. The place stinks. It smells of poor people. Inside, the Cracker hears all that goes on outside. She suppresses an annoyed sigh. To her, the SRO is little different from the MDA, just another faction of angry soldiers crusading against the people. She has concluded that the SRO exists just to fight the CRP and vice versa. She decides they need to be hacked.

The terrorists outside do not notice the Cracker as she slinks away from her tenement’s window to the tablet computer that provides her room with its only light. A hoverboard leans against the desk. She sits sideways on the chair so Harumi can lean against her and hold her tight from behind. She slips on her homebrew datagloves and flicks one finger at the screen to call up her analytical, AEGIS:
The interface tiles scatter from the screen, and the steampunkish image of a brass mechanical owl with Harry Potter eyeglasses zooms to take over the screen. “How may I help you, Miss Fantoma?” he asks squeakily.

“Somebody needs to spray some WD-40 on your mandible joints,” Shira says. “Turns out the SRO’s in town to crash the Cartel’s big shindig.”

“Currently they are clearing out the criminal element from the periphery.”

“That’s just a distraction, of course. Their real plan couldn’t be more obvious if they tweeted their plans to every screeching chickenhawk on the lamestream news.”

“So what is your plan?”

She rolls her eyes. “I thought you were the expert system here. Anyway, we use our terrorist so-called friends as cover. Once they suffer their latest Götterdämmerung on national TV, we slip Echelon a mickey. Then Spanner strikes.”

Someone knocks on the door. “That must be your belovèd cousin,” says AEGIS disdainfully.
The racial purity of the people is the supremacy of the Nation.
Steve’s jaw dropped in shock. “You two are married?

Willa held Jennifer tight from behind. “As soon as the coup happened, just about every Corporate oligarch in the Empire started demanding I sell them my daughter. They offered six, seven figures. When I turned them all down, they threatened to steal her from me, and the Law would let ’em get away with it. The only way to protect her was to bribe their Eugenics Institute into marrying her to me instead.”

Jennifer smiled. “We convinced ’em Willa could make my offspring more eugenically correct with artificial insemination by marrying me herself rather than let me suffer the tender mercies of some monomaniac moneygrubber or degenerate trust-fund twit.”

“That bribe was the first Exception. They’ve made a pretty penny off increasingly expensive Exceptions ever since, and they won’t let the moral police touch ’em.”

“Hope’s lawyer cousin Angie—she’s awesome, you’ll love her—she even convinced ’em to give us Hope and Shira as a bonus! So the four of us can make love all we want, and the Law can’t do a damn thing about it.” Jennifer winked.

Steve picked his jaw off the floor. “Does Connor ever watch?”

“Sometimes,” replied Willa. “He says he’ll never get used to seeing his mother and baby sister going at it, though he does occasionally join us.”

“Whoa baby, I bet they’re gonna have a great big cow if they ever find out.”

“They’ve already had entire herds.”

Early omelettes and drip coffee at the newest Park Avenue Diner. While the others happily bolted their breakfast, Shira asked, “Steve, you wanna know the bizarre truth about American moral socialism?”

“Shoot, babe.”

“You get too rich, you start thinking your genetic material’s in your money. You confuse money with blood and get paranoid about the purity of your precious bodily fluids. Ergo, patriarchal marriage and radical sex prohibition, swiped straight from the Caliphate. Crazy, huh?”

Willa Richter-Thomas
see for miles

Two nude young beauties on the dirty old bed furiously kiss with the heedless abandon of the condemned. Shira offers her breast, Jennifer firmly grips it, kisses the hard nipple then bites, takes it full into her mouth and sucks hard, Shira cries moans screams for more—on their backs, intertwined bodies writhing, wet cunts locked together, rubbing hard sensitive clits, hot sweet torture, no time to lose, battle to unbearable ecstasy, fuse souls, annihilate, scream their love—

Naked, wet, and tousled, arms around each other’s shoulders, they stumble together into the kitchen. The Tachibana sisters gasp, squeak, groan, avert their eyes. Sparks laughs. He looks at Alex and Connor. “You two used to this?”

“What Shira wants, Shira gets,” says Connor.

“Terrorism to them, basic need for us,” says Alex.

Sparks grins. “Rockers. Gotta love ’em.”

Akimi covers her eyes and waves her left hand fanlike at the cousins. “Ew! You two take a shower! You’re sticky!” Harumi, idolater of their love, watches them from a distance and resists the temptation to faint with an ecstatic squee.

Arriving at the crosstown squat called Penguindrome they found Willa’s eldest daughter Alex de Lacey (31, net.personality), her partner Nick Cyphers (27, Darknet admin), and their gray-bearded mentor Paul Wellspring (71, master hacker) waiting for the hackers to arrive. While offloading the hoverboards Steve asked the cousins, “Yo, any of you gorgeous babes up for a race through dead New York?”

Shira raised her hands, bounced, and girlishly squeaked, “Mee, me me me me me meeeee!”

“C’mon, guys,” Karen said, “there’s millions of people we gotta save and no time left for games.”

“bzzzt—Wrong!” countered Shira. “We’re talking ’bout scary old Chucky Becket here. Everything’s a big game to him, and he takes it all dead serious.”

Steve grinned. “Like those reality shows with the hitmen who actually kill people?”

“More like chess played with real people who kill and die,” said Willa. “The one thing he fears most is the pawn that becomes a queen. I was that.” She flashed a wicked grin and purred, “Henry Becket, avatar of Rationalism, goes hysterical at the sound of my name.”

Shira put her arm around Karen and rested her head on her shoulder. “Sweet, sweet cousin, I love you to pieces, but we can’t afford to be serious if we wanna play these people. We got pawns to queen. You wanna own Chucky? You need a master of misdirection.”

“While he thinks he’s playing one game, play another,” Jennifer explained. “He wants to play Risk on us? How about we play Magic War on him.”

“Scenario: occult ritual, Empire-wide TV. Countermove: 52-pickup conjure. Our card: the joker.”

“You mean,” said Wellspring, “that tagbomber.” Shira confirmed with a wink.

Steve took her What Would Scooby Do? neckstrap by the card to study it closely. “Scooby Dooby Doo, we don’t need you. I mean, what would Spanner do?”

With a mischievous grin she answered, “Only sneak in and bomb every subway car in New York.”

Shira and Jennifer in the shower, scrubbing each other furiously. Natsumi says impatiently right outside the stall, “Hey, lovebirds! Will you hurry up? We don’t have time.”

Jennifer says, “Don’t hurry us. Just be patient.”

Natsumi sighs and huffs off. Harumi giggles. Natsumi flashes her a deadly look; she falls silent and slinks away blushing.

Now present: Angela Coyne (43), Hope’s pale redheaded half-Irish cousin, lawyer to the Richter-Thomases, and bane of the Revolution. When Jennifer’s brother Connor (18) arrived, the meeting was now complete.

“You’re sending children to do a superhero’s job?” Angela protested. “Are you insane?

“This is a job for hackers and pranksters,” replied Willa. “You can’t put out fires with napalm. Puny humans can’t play superhero against real superheroes. I should know.”

Shira rolled her eyes. “Talia don’t. Not. one. bit.”

“A terrorist,” Nick explained, “is really a superhero who tries to be the protagonist when the genre rules reserve the role for the villain. A superhero exists only as the antagonist who defeats the villain. If he usurps the villain’s role and plays the protagonist, he ceases to be a superhero and becomes a terrorist. Super Patriot, Neron, Captain Eco, Clocker, Civet, Faithlord...”

“And above all,” Willa continued, “the fourth American Crusader, a thoroughly deluded old man who believes that the Cold War never ended and he’s the only one who can prevent the inevitable triumph of Communism. Now tell me, Angie, who’s the child.”

Shira sidled up to Angela. “Consider this: what’s the bigger risk, taking the fight to him, or doing nothing and letting his jackboots stomp on our faces forever? I say it’s a no-brainer, cuz.”

“Angie,” said Hope, “we need you on our team ’cuz the kind of game we’re playing is yours.”

“And ours.” Shira winked.

Angela sighed and bit her lip.

According to Style Underground legend, the black lesbian bodypainter called Lefty Lucy once said of Shira, “When Loca Fantoma gets that look on her face, somebody’s in deep shit.” When Shira and Jennifer return from the shower in sleek black bodysuits matching Sparks’ COPCO-detective getup, the mischievous cockeyed smirk gives everybody the uneasy feeling Shira’s once again thinking of Plan Z.

Nine chopstick-wielding people eating Chinese take-out sit on five chairs and one stool and hold a meeting in the kitchen, lit only by a small battery-powered lamp, while terrorists and gangsters battle royal outside. All four Tachibana sisters are here: smart girl Natsumi, tough girl Akimi, girly girl Fuyumi, weird girl Harumi; respectively, a political science student, a licensed mechanic, and two high school exchange students. Their family were chased out of Japan by Prime Minister Ishihara for being half-Korean and belonging to the Buddhist group Soka Gakkai banned for pro-democracy agitation. Connor and Sparks sit among the three older sisters. Akimi sits on Alex’ lap in a catsuit like the cousins’, facing her so she can give her a sloppy kiss, right hand stroking her spiked blond hair, chopsticks in her left. Harumi sits giddily pinioned within the object of her cult, Jennifer and Shira’s arms around her small shoulders. She looks around the derelict house, and asks in still unsteady English, “Why we have to have meeting here?”

Alex winks at her. “This dump? My dear Haru-chan, this is the best place for a secret meeting.”

Sparks says, “You mean, we can keep it a secret, even with all those terrorists going at each other outside.”

“All the terrorists are here,” Shira answers. “They think if they combine forces they can hurt the Man. The gangbangers? They just wanna score money, bling, and Tournament points. If anybody from COPCO asks what we’re doing here, we can flash ’em our licenses and tell ’em we’re here to bag some terrorists. We’ve got it all covered.”

Alex says, “We’re assuming the terrorists have been planning their preemptive counterstrikes since the big party was first quietly announced and the foreign moles told ’em.”

“Knowing how their factions work and how predictable they are,” Jennifer adds, “I’ve got a very good idea of what their plans are.”

“Let me guess,” says Natsumi, “the SRO will take the subways, the neo-Nazis will take the freeways, the ERF will take the sewers, Al-Qaeda in America will disguise themselves as private security guards, and the anarcho-terrorist groups will just barge in throwing bombs.”

“In other words, the usual. The hard part is who we’re up against.”

Akimi asks, “And who would that be?”

“Secretary Becket.”

The Tachibana sisters gasp in fear. Sparks clicks the chopsticks in his left hand. “Sounds like our chances just dropped considerably.”

“No, all that means is that we need to up our game to his level.”

“And how the hell do we do that?”

“Outthink him, of course. First of all, I need to see his pattern.” Jennifer takes off her glasses—look into her eyes, see what she sees—lines and patterns quiver like strings:
bands of warriors linked by chains of command
bandit packs defeated by terrorist posses
terrorists captured by armoured police
police overthrown by marching armies
men with golden blood pull marionette strings made of money
lightning bolt—money catches fire, the world order burns
an ocean of people bound and networked by lines of positive emotional force
and blind to them, the hard cold eyes of Henry Becket—

on to the next...

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Copyright © 2010, 2012 Dennis Jernberg.
Some rights reserved.
Creative Commons License

[Revision 4.0, 7/6/12: Expanded and revised to fit Fourth Revision continuity. Flashbacks have been massively rewritten.]
[Revision 4.1 Final, 4/7/13: Two plot elements from later chapters have been retconned in as foreshadowing.]

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