Chaos Angel Spanner — Chapter 14: Plots and Plans
Part 6: Last Chance for Free Play (Revision 4)
Part 6: Last Chance for Free Play (Revision 4)
4 october 2014.
The people who value their lives, and who can afford to flee, have fled. The poor look for any shelter they can find in the hope, possibly hopeless, that they can survive tomorrow. The Conservative Revolutionary faithful swarm in the other direction, into the now silent heart of the central city, from the suburbs and from the far reaches of the Imperial Homeland; they crowd the hotels and camp in office buildings as they wait for the King of America, the Party Central Committee, and the president of President Goldman Sachs to pour the holy wrath of Jesus America onto the faithless infidels of liberal Cascadia.
But far on the suburban fringes of Metropolitan Seattle, a few stubborn stragglers remain. For these past few days, the Law has been nearly absent. These days have belonged to them. Tomorrow, the Law will come down hard upon the prostrate city. This is their last day of freedom. For tomorrow, they will make plans. Other than that, anything goes.
dreamspace. They watch the giant Jesus dressed Uncle Sam rampage through the empty city looking for souls to eat. He smashes his way through the skyscrapers like King Kong through the jungle on Skull Island. The natives throw their spears at him in vain. Melody sings, “He’s heeeere.”
“He’s everywhere,” says Shira, “and he’s hungry.”
Then Jesus America’s eyes catch sight of the girl with the violet eyes—
shira’s apartment. —and she awakens in a panic—Shira’s gone? Her body returns to full awareness and tells her to stretch, but she becomes conscious of someone’s head between her legs. Then she feels a certain familiar sensation deep in her pelvis. Shira is drinking her menstrual blood. She laughs. “So we’re really gonna do it.”
Shira emerges to kiss her. Her mouth is bloody. “Worried you’ll get hurt?”
The nameless girl smiles. “I don’t care about me. I’m afraid you’ll get caught.”
“Isn’t their Ceremony for you?”
“It’s you they’re scared of.”
“They don’t know I’m even here.”
“Echelon told ’em. It knows everything.”
For a long time Shira says nothing. “What about Ariel?”
“No.”
“How come?”
“We can hide. She can’t.” They share a silence more eloquent than words, then they kiss.
In the living room they find Melody sitting in Shira’s favorite chair, already dressed in one of Debbie’s uniforms. “Hurry up, you two, we don’t have time.”
red house. Young and beautiful, sitting naked round the table: Shira and her nameless girl on one side, Rob and Connor on the other; between them, Jennifer, Brandi, and Irina face Cory, Fiona, and Melody. Daisy, Marina, Arisa, and Akimi are in the living room; Akane’s standing up in the kitchen. The rest of Team Bremelo are already across town at the Penguindrome. Breakfast consists of everything they want that’s available. Plus coffee. Tomorrow they won’t need it; they’ll be operating on pure adrenaline when Jesus America comes. Till then, anything goes.
Shira asks Cory and Akane to teach Melody how to make love. “But I’m too young,” Melody protests.
“You’ve been sexually mature for a year already, Mel. Consider this a class. Let ’em teach you, okay?”
She sighs. “Okay.” The boys sweetly hold her hands and lead her upstairs.
Brandi muscles between Jennifer and Irina. “Don’t tell me you’re dropping me for this.”
Jennifer hugs her. “I totally love you, Brandi, but Irina and I shared hell together. She needs me as much as I need you. Let her join us.”
Irina hugs Brandi from behind. Brandi sighs. “Okay. Just don’t do anything foolish.”
“I won’t,” says Irina, “I promise.”
Arisa and Akimi stare at each other like friendly rivals. “Didn’t figure you were this good-looking,” says Arisa.
“You’re awfully pretty yourself. You’ll need it when you go nudefighting on my license tomorrow.”
The Shelley siblings introduce Daisy, Marina, and Irina to each other and to the Team Bremelo way. Then the call comes. “It’s Alex,” says Connor. “Let’s go.”
penguindrome. Nick Cyphers and Alex de Lacey host Team Bremelo, the Slasher Hunters, and the Wrecking Krewe. At last the last remaining Bremeloes arrive. Jennifer warns, “Daisy, we’ll be facing a much more dangerous enemy than the jihadi hordes we faced in Sicily.”
Daisy looks at her skeptically. “Not possible.”
“Just think. Every Conservative Revolutionary is a crusading horde of one, and the god he wages jihad for is his own Ego.”
“Here’s why,” the nameless girl says. She puts her arm around Daisy’s shoulder. “To have any feeling for others at all, much less conscience, is the ultimate sin, ‘socialism,’ mark of the ‘Yellow Peril.’ ‘Real Americans’ pride themselves on being antisocial to the point of killing for pleasure.”
“The Egoist’s freedom is freedom from conscience. ‘Rugged Individualism,’ they call it. Now do you understand their Revolution?”
Alex tugs on her sister’s arm. “It’s even crazier than Jen says. Leila should know.”
The nameless girl crosses her arms. “No.”
“You don’t know?”
“I don’t have a name anymore.”
“You’re still not anonymous. You can’t be. Even the Witness Protection Program is useless anymore.”
“That’s impossible.”
“You know how stalkers and hitmen find their victims so easily? They follow the number. Echelon generates it automagically, and regenerates it whenever it’s erased. It’s your true name.”
“Why?”
Nick slips in beside Alex. “Total control.”
Henry Becket: Even one independent thought will destroy the unity of Our Nation, and we shall be destroyed! We cannot afford freedom!“The Overclass,” says Paul Wellspring, the ancient bearded hacker, “wants nothing less than total victory in the class war.”
“The Revolution reaches everywhere,” Alex adds, “even the former workers’ unions.”
Shira rolls her eyes. “Tell me about it.”
Jennifer smiles with a gleam in her eye. “Better yet, tell them.”
2013...
manhattan: the psychologists. Willa arrives at the Ritz clad in bright red Chanel-modern short skirtsuit, pillbox hat fieldmarshalled with erect blue peacock feather, and spiked leather high-horse boots baring long strong beautiful legs. How like a Becket to pick the most expensive spot in TrumpCity not branded Trump. But as she strides into the ballroom she finds not the sober psychologist convocation expected, nor even the usual conspiratorial Corporate price fix, but chaos: her ex-husband’s ruling faction in full agitation full of passionate intensity, the older the more passionate, agitating plotting and issuing militant manifestoes like a terrorist party in revolt against the world, reminding her once again why she threw the old lunatic out, and she frowns. The adepts of black psychology dress conservative but act revolutionary; she charismatically styles with Rocker instinct yet remains cool: the instant they spot her, a Trotsky among the Rand cultists, they silently emit a wave of concentrated hate that hits so hard she feels it and winces; had her spectacles not shielded her from the sight, she would have blinked.
Secretary Becket stares at her with pained eyes.
She slips in next to him. “You’re not wanted here,” he growls.
“I thought I’d crash your little gun show.”
She finds to her fury that her ex-husband has used police guns to seize the convention like the terrorists he created. “From now on,” the new guildmaster proclaims, surrounded by the Guild’s torturer aristocracy, “I am in control.”
phoenix: the trackers. Shira still reels from the loss of her twin sister. She asks herself, what could be worse? The hitmen and mercenaries answer her question when they join forces with the police manhunters to seize the Guild convention like terrorists and declare themselves its hereditary masters...
seattle: the teachers. Blinded by greed, the elected Guild leadership accepts the hostile takeover offer of hedge fund manager Peter Ross. Hope protests; Ross purges her personally...
manhattan: the psychologists. Willa arrives at the Ritz clad in bright red Chanel-modern short skirtsuit, pillbox hat fieldmarshalled with erect blue peacock feather, and spiked leather high-horse boots baring long strong beautiful legs. How like a Becket to pick the most expensive spot in TrumpCity not branded Trump. But as she strides into the ballroom she finds not the sober psychologist convocation expected, nor even the usual conspiratorial Corporate price fix, but chaos: her ex-husband’s ruling faction in full agitation full of passionate intensity, the older the more passionate, agitating plotting and issuing militant manifestoes like a terrorist party in revolt against the world, reminding her once again why she threw the old lunatic out, and she frowns. The adepts of black psychology dress conservative but act revolutionary; she charismatically styles with Rocker instinct yet remains cool: the instant they spot her, a Trotsky among the Rand cultists, they silently emit a wave of concentrated hate that hits so hard she feels it and winces; had her spectacles not shielded her from the sight, she would have blinked.
Secretary Becket stares at her with pained eyes.
She slips in next to him. “You’re not wanted here,” he growls.
“I thought I’d crash your little gun show.”
She finds to her fury that her ex-husband has used police guns to seize the convention like the terrorists he created. “From now on,” the new guildmaster proclaims, surrounded by the Guild’s torturer aristocracy, “I am in control.”
phoenix: the trackers. Shira still reels from the loss of her twin sister. She asks herself, what could be worse? The hitmen and mercenaries answer her question when they join forces with the police manhunters to seize the Guild convention like terrorists and declare themselves its hereditary masters...
seattle: the teachers. Blinded by greed, the elected Guild leadership accepts the hostile takeover offer of hedge fund manager Peter Ross. Hope protests; Ross purges her personally...
“Will the Caliphate be there?”
“Of course they will,” says Jennifer.
Lansky asks, “What about the left-wing terrorists?”
“They’re no different from the terrorists in power,” Wellspring replies. ”Consider them splinter factions. Their methods are the same as the Party’s, only the excuses are different.”
“When the so-called ‘makers’ become obsessed with ‘taking back,’” Wellspring explains, “a nation has decayed the point of collapse.”left... Bram Rodchenko in the burning corporate headquarters: “We’re taking over in the name of the People!”right... Henry Becket in the burning Capitol: “We’re taking over in the name of the Makers!”
“What’s the Revolution’s purpose, anyway?” explains Alex. “Turning America into another China with its Eight Immortal and forty-four Exalted Houses, as if that’s the only society possible.”
“Corporatism is merely Communism for the rich. Like Communism, it will fall.”
Shira says, “It ain’t dead yet.”
Henry Becket: My math is infallible. I already have all their possible plans anticipated.“So what is our plan then, Shira?” asks Kio in frustration.
Shira gives him a mischievous cockeyed smile. “Plan Z.” She winks.
the eighties... When teenage glampunk Willa Richter-Thomas got to New York, she fell under the spell of wild strange Krautrock diva Frederica von Plötz. “Fritzi” initiated her into the New Wave scene, infected her with her Stylism, introduced her to Teutonic singers like Nina Hagen and Lene Lovich and especially the unworldly Klaus Nomi. Together they worshipped him, together they mourned him, together they made love to his music; they wandered the streets of New York, San Francisco, Berlin, and Amsterdam in flamboyant male dress as Fritz and Billy, pretty boys in love; if Ted Nugent got Willa pregnant, Frederica impregnated her with the ideas and styles that would become Rebel Mudlark.
Press Willa and she’ll admit to two people she can call the love of her life: her brother Ric since they were barely out of childhood; Frederica who set fire to her youth...
Press Willa and she’ll admit to two people she can call the love of her life: her brother Ric since they were barely out of childhood; Frederica who set fire to her youth...
ariel’s shop. The girl with the violet eyes collapses into her aunt’s arms and sighs in despair. “Don’t give up, nameless one,” says Ariel, “you can do it.”
Shira holds her from behind. “We’ll get it right, love. Just one more time.”
The nameless girl sighs again. “Okay...”
Back on the cushion, sitting in double-lotus position, the girls prepare to make love. “Keep your focus entirely on each other,” Ariel coaches. “Lose yourselves in each other.” They take a deep breath. Shira inserts her fingers. They begin.
Instead of hard breaths and moaning, they stare deep into each other’s eyes and repeatedly intone “om” in long unison voices. They rub their clits together; Shira presses their G-spots hard. Their sexual ecstasy builds, their meditation deepens; at last the nameless girl stops trying and loses herself completely—they become a single consciousness without ego—they lose their individual existence in the universal energy—
shira’s apartment. All clothes are off by the time Shira locks the door. “This is our last chance for free play before the shit comes down. Let’s make the most of it.”
In the second bedroom, Cory continues to instruct Melody. He shows her how to kiss slowly but with passion, kiss with violent passion, kiss open-mouthed and trading tongues. In the main bedroom, the nameless girl arrives with a tray carrying a pitcher of water and six cups for herself, Shira, Rob, Irina, and the Blairs. “Drink deep ’cos we haven’t even begun to sweat.”
“As if we haven’t got too extreme already,” says Rob.
She winks. “We haven’t got extreme enough. Let’s treat it like a terrorist act.”
“I don’t see how you can compare it to terrorism,” says Connor. “It’s not like it kills innocent bystanders.”
“It gives prudes and eugenicists heart attacks,” says Jennifer. “To them, love is terrorism.”
“Exactly!” The nameless girl lies Shira on the bed; Rob lies on his stomach. “Irina, get down between ’em. Lubed up, Connor?” He nods. “Now everybody stick your hand inside all the way, gently...” The ones standing do so; the others whimper and squeak. “ball it into a fist... now begin!” Shira, Irina, and Rob scream from the extremity of the sensation.
Melody on top, bouncing up and down on Cory’s sheathed penis the way he coaches her; she’s starting to really enjoy it. In the next room, four girls and two boys sit together at the edge of the bed drinking another glass of water in one gulp. Connor asks the violet-eyed girl, “Are you really okay with not having a name?”
She smiles. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”
“So, no-name girl, are you scared?”
“Of dying? Of course not. When I’m dead, it won’t matter.”
Jennifer says, “I’m afraid of hurting someone who doesn’t deserve it.”
“I’m afraid of not hurting the ones who do.”
“We’re freaks, you know,” says Rob.
Jennifer grins. “Well, we’re a proudly weird family.” She lies back with the violet-eyed girl, Connor gets on his stomach next to his sister; Shira, Irina, and Rob slowly put their hands into their lovers, and it begins again.
Almost midnight. All eight sit together on the couch. The nameless girl holds her wrist to Shira’s mouth so Shira can drink her blood; Shira is surprised at how intensely erotic it feels for them both. At last Sparks calls on the videophone. “You kids have had your R&R. Now it’s time to get serious.”
westin hotel... Chief Shepherd Drusilla AMERICA!, sumptuously robed, assures the President of the President and the assembled Party Central Committee, “The Ceremony is prepared. Our eternal victory is at hand. The chosen sacrifice is among us. By this time tomorrow, she will be dead.”
dictel tower... The fattened clone of Leila Shelley lies nude, dead, and bloodless on the bed; Richard Becket, United Corporations chairman and Illuminati grandmaster, hovers over her and wipes her blood off his mouth. His son Martin asks, “Father, will this be enough to destroy them?”
“Only for now. But I must have the original, or my power will fade in time, and our Cause will be lost.”
black tower... Homeland Security Secretary Henry Becket addresses the Fearsome Foursome, “Rat Bastard” Litton, and Mrs. Fleer. “Be vigilant at all times. Do not make one mistake. The Ceremony must succeed at all costs.”
“Father,” says Chief Jack Becket, “Spanner will be here.”
The Secretary’s thick glasses flash ominously. “He has already fallen into our trap.”
boston... The portraits of Roger Becket, Delphine Drake Abernethy, and both together dominate the living room with their overwhelming presence. But now they preside over an empty house...
For they have sown the wind,
and they shall reap the whirlwind...
Hosea 8:7
and they shall reap the whirlwind...
Hosea 8:7
on to the next... →
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[Revision 4 Final, 1/7/13: Condensed from the Revision 2 original and heavily edited to fit Fourth Revision continuity. Whereas the original was a “breather episode,” this is now the setup for the events of Chapter 15 and everything that follows. The flashbacks, the scene at Ariel’s shop, and the final part are new to the Fourth Revision.]
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