The Saturnine Solution

Chief Propaganda Officer Daina repositioned the two cameramen. They were her only film crew on this expedition – besides herself. She checked their angles through the zoom of her own camera, though to her annoyance her hair once again obstructed her eyes. Somehow her tresses had extricated themselves from their bonds. She removed her helmet and tied her hair back. She was inclined to cut it short but her flaming red locks were instantly recognizable in a politically useful way. As soon as the Revolution had succeeded, however, she would put a pair of scissors to work. She doubted Morik would object. He never objected to her appearance, or praised it for that matter, which under the circumstances was peculiar. But then he was an unusual man.

First Folksman Morik had invented the Movement by the force of his own personality, and now he held total victory in his grasp. Nonetheless, he readily took direction from her, trusting her instinct for dramatic camera shots. He appreciated Daina’s propaganda skills. She, in turn, basked in his appreciation. Daina directed one camera to pan up to Saturn directly overhead and then back down to the plain below where the red sun touched the horizon and lit the landscape in dramatic shades of red. The frame steadied on the silhouette of Morik looking out over the final objective from the mountain slopes. Below, the Citadel looked for all the world like the toy miniature with which Daina had played as a child. One of the spires on the toy had pricked her finger. What awaited in the real spires would do more than prick. Morik anticipated 30% casualties and his general staff thought he was optimistic.

Morik’s risky plan to flank the Loyalists through the mountains had been opposed by his Folk Troop commanders, all of them former officers in the regular army. Morik dismissed their objections, saying that the time had come for a bold stroke. In the end, they obeyed him, however reluctantly. Daina quietly berated herself for having shared the commanders’ doubts. But then, she knew Morik in a way they did not – a great man, to be sure, but a man and far from infallible. Daina’s relationship with Morik was an open secret in the Inner Circle, and a matter of rumor with the public, but nearly everyone pretended ignorance to his face and to hers, and wisely so. She knew from her private conversations with Morik that his decision had had not been made solely with regard to the military situation. He was concerned that the disparate elements of the Movement were fraying and that the political risk of inaction was higher than the tactical risk of action. As usual, his gamble paid off. The passes, as he had predicted, had been completely undefended. The Citadel lay ripe for the plucking. At the very least it had been isolated.

The Citadel’s location had been chosen millennia ago by the very first Luminary Crealla, though there was much debate among skeptics over whether Crealla was a real person or a later legendary construct. The spires of the Citadel on tidally locked Titan perpetually pointed at the gas giant. According to tradition it was the spot where the human race was created by the gods and where Crealla was tasked as intermediary between gods and men. It was here that the Luminary could hear the gods speak most clearly. Daina didn’t believe in such things, at least intellectually. Yet, whatever reason told her, she could not entirely shake a superstitious fear that the current Luminary at any moment might unleash the powers of Saturn on the rebels. Was a trap waiting below for the Folk Troopers? If Morik had any such concern, he didn’t voice it, even in private.

Tactical Commander Etson approached Morik. “I don’t like it,” said Etson. “It is too easy.”

“First you tell me it is too dangerous and now you complain it is too easy.”

“It makes no sense for them to have left the passes undefended. They must be preparing something desperate,” said Etson.

“All the more reason to strike before they are fully aware of our presence and strength. Ready the assault.”

“Yes, Folksman. I need half an hour to assemble.”

“You have 15 minutes.”

As Etson set about organizing the troops, Daina marveled at the storybook appearance of the plain. It was not just the Citadel that looked unreal. A charming Village beyond it fronted the shore of a broad lake that reflected sun and Saturn. The Village existed solely for the purpose of supplying the Luminary and her staff with basic needs. Few roads led in or out of the plain. Most supplies were brought in by air or were produced locally. Only the airport with its workaday industrial hangers, aircraft, warehouse structures, and oddly oversized radar dish contrasted with the quaintness. She wondered how much damage the scenery would sustain by the end of the day.

Through the zoom of Daina’s camera more divergences from the picturesque became visible. Flak guns surrounded the Citadel. At the airfield a dozen fighter aircraft were lined up outside their hangers. She wondered why they weren’t they in the air. Surely by now Loyalist forces were aware of their presence. The Movement’s fighters were hanging back, ready to intervene when Loyalist aircraft took to the skies. She could discern no personnel at the airfield. Not even the usual maintenance crews were milling about. Paralleling the runway was the strange delta-winged craft mounted on a rail that baffled the Movement’s intelligence officers. The craft was assumed to be a weapon but they had no explanation for the shape. She turned her attention to the Village. She could see no activity there either, civilian or otherwise, but she was too far away to be sure.

The Folk Troopers were ready in 15 minutes. At Morik’s order they would swarm into the air, each trooper flying under his own power with bat wings. Morik and his commanders had agreed on this tactic. At such a close range transport planes for paratroopers were worse than unnecessary. They would provide the enemy with easy targets packed with soldiers. Instead, troopers using their individual wings would descend on the airfield and Citadel in a two-pronged attack, overwhelming Loyalist flak guns with too many targets. Morik would join the assault despite the risk. Sharing the dangers would reinforce his legitimacy with the people and, more importantly, maintain it with the troops. His charisma was all that held the Movement together. Despite the blood red sky, there was plenty of daylight left. The Titan day was 16 standard days, so sunsets lasted a long time. The movie cameramen would stay behind and film the attack long-range from the mountains, but Daina would fly alongside Morik with her still camera. Daina unfolded her wings and inserted her arms into the appropriate straps.

When Etson indicated the troops were ready, Morik waved the final signal, and the first wave of bat-winged troopers took off from the mountain passes. They rose over the plain, flying easily in the thick atmosphere and the .14g. Daina tested her wings and fluttered above the ground. Morik and his personal guard rose into the air amid the second wave of attackers. He wore a standard Folk Trooper uniform except for insignia too small to see at a distance; there was no sense asking to be a special target. Daina flew into position on his left. The flak guns remained mysteriously silent as they approached and then flew over them. Daina could see the first wave converge on the airfield. As far as she could tell, shots had yet to be fired. At the Citadel the second wave cleared the wall. No defenders were in evidence. Morik altered his initial plan to land at the Plaza amid the bulk of the forces. Instead he proceeded to the Central Spire itself, alighting with his guard outside the grand portico. He contacted Etson on his personal radio to make him aware of the change. Daina smiled. Whatever his faults, Morik was not without courage. The portico to the Spire was empty of Loyalists. Two of his guards, in response to Morik’s hand signal, ran up to the massive doors to place explosive charges.

A small door within one of the two large doors opened. A servant in a frilled shirt and purple jacket peered out.

“Oh please don’t do that,” he said to the men with the explosives. “Who is in command here?”

Morik rose to the moment. Morik waved aside his guards and strode forward without regard to the danger. Daina clicked away with her camera as her pride in him swelled.

“Oh, it’s you,” said the servant. “The Luminary said you would be here, but I doubted it. My apologies.”

“Don’t doubt it! Open the gates!”

“As you wish.”

The servant closed the small door. A moment later the huge ones swung open. The servant stepped out again. “Follow me,” he said. “The Luminary wishes to see you.”

“So she shall!” responded Morik. “On my terms. We will take the Citadel in its entirety!”

“Oh, it is yours. There is no need to smash anything. The Citadel Guards were sent to the Village so no one would get hurt. They are unarmed and under instructions not to resist, so please don’t smash the Village either.”

A company of regular Folk Troopers who had been detached by Etson began to fill the courtyard.

“‘First Folksman’ is your preferred honorific, is it not?” asked the servant. “Will you please follow me?” he repeated.

“Subcommander,” Morik said to the highest ranking officer present, “take control of the building and the grounds. Inform Etson to move on the Village when the Citadel is secure. Suppress any hint of resistance with any force necessary.”

“No one will offer resistance,” said the servant.

“You’ll forgive me if we don’t take your word for it,” Morik answered. “Daina, you come with me. You two also,” he said to two of his personal guards. “Let’s go take the Luminary’s surrender.”

“But sir, why trust this fop?” asked the subcommander, taking a risk by questioning Morik’s judgment.

On this occasion, Morik responded mildly. “If it is a trap and I am killed, you and your fellow officers can vie for my job.”

Though said in good humor, Daina knew this was the truth. Morik never had arranged a plan for succession, deeming it useful to seem irreplaceable. She also knew he enjoyed displays of bravado in front of the troops. Besides, he always had a good sense of who was a threat and who was not. When he did make mistakes, they were on the side of seeing threats where there were none. If he saw no threat from the servant, she would trust his instinct. “Call me on my radio in 15 minutes,” he ordered.

Morik, Daina and the two guards followed the servant into the building. They strode through the grand halls that had featured in so many newscasts and photos. The Gothic arches overhead were of breathtaking height. The five passed beyond the grand stairway and through a series of doorways into a very different section. The scale of the architecture compressed to more human size with each passageway and turn. At the end of a corridor they entered a cage elevator in the center of a circular stairway. Daina guessed this was the center of the tower. The elevator rose. Daina wondered offhand if the electric power for it was generated on site. The elevator stopped at a floor that was remarkable for being bland and unimpressive. Daina could hear faint echoes of Folk Troopers stomping somewhere on the floors below.

“Is this the Luminary’s private quarters?” asked Daina.

“Yes. I see you are disappointed,” said the servant. “The Luminary has no need of ostentation in her own life. The grand ball rooms down below are to impress the gullible. I’m sure the First Folksman will find them equally effective.”

“Do you speak to your mistress this way?” asked Daina with an overtone of threat in her voice.

“No, but I do speak to the Luminary this way. Or was that whom you meant?”

He led them down the hall and slid open pocket doors to reveal a comfortably accoutered sitting room. At small table at one end sat the familiar figure Daina had seen so many times in photos and broadcasts, but never in such a mundane setting or in such casual attire. She was thin and white haired but appeared spry.

The radio strapped to Morik’s shoulder crackled, “Is everything all right sir?”

“Just fine. I have the Luminary in custody.”

Daina remembered to start taking snapshots.

Morik turned to the guards. “Search the other rooms on the floor. Then take a post outside the door.”

“No one is the other rooms, but send your guards out anyway. I would like to talk to you alone if I may,” said the Luminary. “Would you look like me to look crestfallen?” she asked Daina with a smile.

“Yes, ma’am, if you would,” said Daina in all seriousness.

“Is this better?”

“Excellent. Sir, please stand by the table.” Daina snapped rapidly while Morik posed.

“Is it better with or without the handgun?” he asked.

“Leave it holstered,” said Daina. “It looks more confident.”

“Are you audio recording?” he asked Daina.

“I’ll start now.” She clicked on a small tape recorder.

“You can go, too, Ferdly,” said the Luminary to the servant. He bowed and withdrew.

“Luminary, I hereby depose you in the name of the People,” announced Morik.

“Any people in particular? Never mind. Have a seat and some tea, Morik. May I call you Morik?”

“You are ordered to surrender.”

“Yes, yes. I surrender. I thought we had covered that. Sit down and have some tea.” She poured two cups. “And you might as well call me Reena, unless you want to redefine my office as a purely ceremonial one and keep me in place as Luminary. That might help you appease the Loyalists, who still outnumber your followers even though they lack your zeal and combativeness.”

Morik had made just this very demand of the Luminary at the beginning of his political career when his success seemed improbable, but after his success in the Southern Putsch he had dismissed the idea. The Luminary had proven determined to fight his further aggression after the putsch, which made today’s sudden surrender to him all the more puzzling. Daina could see him calculating the pros and cons of the offer. He looked the cups on the table.

“Oh really, choose either cup,” she said.

He sat down and sipped the one in front of him.

“How brave. Your social revolution is impossible, you know. It has too many conflicting components. All that has held it together so far is your silly rhetoric and the excitement of the war against me.”

“The territories under my authority are thriving.”

“Superficially. They are on a war footing so people there are employed. They are producing war materiel, but people can’t eat bullets or wear armored cars. When peace comes, your followers will want you to deliver on your promises to make their lives better. You can’t, of course, so you will have to rely on brute force to hold the state together.”

“As you have done.”

“Hardly. The people of Titan don’t know what brute force is, not having experienced the real thing in generations, but I fear they will learn about it from you.”

Daina knew that the Luminary, despite her disrespectful phrasing, was right about the disparate elements of the Movement. The party was a hodgepodge of religious conservatives, radical secularists, workers, social levelers and business people. They were united only by their opposition to the Luminary, who, in the midst of an economic depression maintained an austere budget, kept taxes high, and eschewed democratic reforms, thereby giving the Movement a boost in popularity. Even so, Morik’s first successes were achieved by guns, not ballots. Daina assumed he would sort things out after victory.

“Well, no matter,” sighed the Luminary. “You, too, are transitory.”

“We shall see,” said Morik. “You brought this end on yourself. You failed to meet the demands of the people for change.”

“Oh my goodness is that really what you believe? I gave you credit not to believe your own propaganda. Change is what made your Revolution possible. If I had been as reactionary as my predecessors everyone would have remained contentedly obedient peons, tilling fields with mules and burning candles for light. If I had established an elected legislature without restricting its powers, they would have voted to restore the old order. Turmoil happened not because I progressed too slowly, but because I allowed progress at all. I promoted technology and let common people grow rich through industry.”

“And thereby created inequality and class struggle…”

“Oh come, Morik, the classes were much more rigid before. But now we have an industrial economy where we did not before. That is the real revolution, not your power grab.”

Daina allowed that there was some truth to the Luminary’s remarks. Assisted by the release of remarkable series of scientific textbooks by the Citadel’s scholars, a wholesale deregulation of social life had fueled a technical and economic explosion around the world during the four Long Years (64 standard) of her reign. People had grown so accustomed to ever expanding wealth that a financial panic which threatened their new lifestyles had radicalized much of the population. Morik had capitalized on the discontent, by promising everything to everyone in terms obscure enough to be read in opposite ways. Much of the public, unaccustomed to demagogues, had risen to him.

“Why did you permit the depression?” Morik asked, genuinely curious.

“You sound as though it was intentional. My economists tell me that complex economic systems will have occasional crises, though I understand this explanation may be merely an excuse for their failure to predict this one. They say it will correct itself in time. If so, you were right to use the crisis while you had one.”

“But why did you upset the social system in the first place? You must have known it could threaten your power base.”

“Finally an intelligent question,” she said.

“I’ll edit this recording,” reassured Daina.

“Because there are more important things than political power, First Folksman. I’m hoping you’ll see that. Tell me, do you believe that I’m the interpreter of the voices from above?”

“That’s what Luminaries have claimed since the beginning of time,” he answered.

“Not since the beginning of time, but since the beginning of civilization on Titan. Do you believe our origin story? Do you believe that our souls go to Saturn when we die?”

“Stop recording, Daina. The faithful are part of our coalition. They oppose you because they think you are a false Luminary, not because they have abandoned their basic beliefs.”

“In other words it would be politically unwise for you to comment. Do you mind if I address your photographer instead?”

“Be my guest.”

“May she speak freely without fear of punishment?”

“Of course.”

“Daina… Are clan Levieh, by the way?”

“Yes.”

“Some of your family works for me.”

“I know. They are misguided.”

“Are they? As that may be, what do you believe about the origin of life?” she asked.

“I believe in science.”

“And what does science tell you?”

She glanced to Morik. He nodded. “There are no remains of people or other creatures in the geological record more than several thousand standard years old,” she said.

“And what is your conclusion?”

“We and all life on Titan were indeed planted here by somebody. Gods like the stories say? Travelers from one of the moons of Jupiter? Maybe from the stars? Who knows?”

“I do, despite the best efforts of the Chronoclasts, the string of several Luminaries a millennium ago who decreed our library of ancient records to be heretical. They ordered the works destroyed lest they corrupt future generations.”

“They suppressed inconvenient history in order to consolidate their power,” said Morik.

“See, the First Folksman understands perfectly. I’m sure he’ll do something similar. In any case, most of the earliest data was lost. Fortunately, some defiant scholar hid some texts for the benefit of the future. Workmen uncovered them while installing a new heating system in the cellars while I was still a student here. They had no idea what they were, but mentioned them to me. I removed and re-hid them. The records were technical manuals. They were the basis of the science and engineering texts released at the beginning of my term. We’ve uncovered no early texts besides these manuals, but within them are clues about our real pre-history. The book on astronomy, for instance, is written from the perspective of humanity’s planet of origin – one with rotational and orbital characteristics that make sense of our standard time units and standard gravities. They are not just ceremonial and mystical, as most people assume.”

“What planet?” Daina asked.

“Earth.”

“But that’s a burnt rock scraping the sun.”

“Now, yes. Once the sun was smaller and cooler.”

“That must have been millions of years ago,” said Daina.

“You are underestimating by an order of magnitude.”

“But that makes no sense. We’ve been here no more than 10,000 standard years. Tops.”

“Which raises questions to which I have no answers. Why are we here? How is it possible we are here eons after earth burned to a crisp? Also, I have reason to believe the founders, whoever they were, were capable of genetic manipulation. So why did they make us fragile and mortal if they could have made us otherwise? What was their point? What is ours?”

“What does it matter?” asked Morik. “We are here. We make the best of it.”

“It matters, Folksman, because toys and games aren’t enough. They weren’t enough for you. You came up with your ridiculous Revolution in order to give your life meaning. Your photographer seeks it in her devotion to you, though I suspect she questions her own wisdom sometimes. Now that you have power you may soon realize power is not enough either. Besides a ‘how’ it is human nature to want a ‘why.’ We invent answers for ourselves, but our answers are follies – and some among us allow ourselves to recognize this. If there is a cosmic answer to ‘why,’ don’t you want to know it?”

Morik did not appear convinced.

“So, just ask the gods,” said Daina, annoyed by the Luminary’s dismissal of her admiration for Morik. “Your kind always told us you communicated with them.”

“Strangely enough, I am in contact with something, as were all my predecessors. But I can make no sense of it. As far as I can tell it is nothing supernatural. It is just a locator beacon. Perhaps it is a pointer rather than a beacon. Perhaps it is saying ‘This way to lunch’ to galactic predators who will show up someday. Maybe that’s our ultimate destiny: to be snacks for creatures higher on the food chain.”

“I’ll take that as a joke,” said Daina. “What frequency is this beacon? Where is it? Why hasn’t anyone else heard it?”

“The beacon is a highly directional beam of coherent microwaves sent to this precise location and nowhere else. The emitter appears to be in orbit around Titan but radar can see nothing but an occasional smudgy return signal that could be a glitch or interference. Whatever it is up there is very small or it deflects radar somehow. You see how politics are unimportant compared to this. I needed an industrial economy competent enough to construct the craft on the railway by the airport, which I sincerely hope your troopers have left undamaged. It is weeks away from completion. When done, it will reach orbit. That is why I permitted social and technical change: to make space accessible. To preserve the Titanic from damage I surrendered.”

“The craft is called Titanic?”

“Yes, why?”

“I don’t know. It makes me uneasy somehow,” said Daina. “It really can go into space?”

“Yes. It is not such a grand feat really. I only can imagine what it must have taken for our ancestors to get out of a 1g gravity well, but we can get out of this one with our present limited technology. The hard part was heat shielding for atmospheric reentry, but we developed a ceramic composite for that.” The Luminary turned her attention to Morik. “I have no respect for your politics, Morik, but as a human being, do you have enough curiosity to allow the Titanic to fly?”

“This is utterly unimportant,” he said. “We need to consolidate our power here on Titan and meet the needs of the People. Metaphysics are for effete intellectuals.”

“Sir, for our own safety we should learn what is up there,” said Daina, playing on his occasional paranoia. “It could be dangerous.”

“Well, there is something to that.”

“Yes, Morik,” said the Luminary. “Besides, when your people realize you can’t deliver to them anything more than a boot in the face, news of this flight may distract them from their woes. I suggest you allow the young lady to go with my pilot while you’re busy betraying your promises. You obviously trust her, and so do I.”

**** **** **** ****

The charred Titanic sat on the runway. It would need a complete overhaul before flying again, if it ever would. Re-entry had been rougher than anticipated, but the craft had taken Daina and the craft’s pilot into space and returned them safely to the surface. The flight had been unannounced. As far as anyone outside the program knew, Titanic was just some experimental aircraft. Morik had decided not to risk a public failure; a success always could be revealed afterward. Daina had some fine footage for him, though she no longer had quite the enthusiasm for propaganda she once did. If the pilot, an unprepossessing man named Wonik who had been selected by the Luminary a year earlier, had any political views about the Revolution, he kept them to himself. He simply had done his job and done it well. Morik was not on hand to greet Daina’s return to Titan. This probably was a deliberate safeguard against associating himself with a possible failure. He was off visiting troops somewhere.

Daina made her way to Reena’s quarters. She lived under house arrest, but Morik had taken her up on her offer to remain nominally the Luminary, leader of the faithful. She was, however, stripped of political power. Morik’s security apparatus meanwhile tightened its political grip on the populace. Tea was waiting for Daina in the Luminary’s sitting room.

“That was a very exciting landing,” said Reena.

“More so than I would have preferred, Luminary.”

“I think we’re past honorifics, don’t you dear? You look awfully subdued considering the adventure you have just had.”

“Yes, Reena.”

“So, what did you find in orbit?”

“Everything is recorded on video and audio. You can review it all.”

“I shall, but summarize it for me.”

 “There is an enormous machine,” said Daina. “How it avoids radar I don’t know. It maintains itself with robots that feed on asteroids for resources.”

“And how do you know that?”

“It told me. In our own colloquial language. It is intelligent, sort of, though it denies being conscious in a sense I would understand.”

“How did Wonik react to this conversation?”

“He didn’t. He didn’t hear it.”

“Really? So how do you know it wasn’t your imagination?”

“The voice came over my earphones. I was able to record it so you can hear for yourself. The voice was real.”

“Well, out with it,” said Reena. “What did it say?”

“It said it awaited my orders.”

“Excuse me?”

“My very response. I asked it what it was and what it wanted of us. It said it was constructed as a seed vault. It oversaw the seeding of life on Titan by its subsystems thousands of years ago. It says it was dormant until certain parameters were met on one or more of the gas giant moons. Titan met the bill when surface temperatures on Titan could sustain liquid water and provide a habitat for life. Humans were modified from our proto-genotype only to the extent necessary to keep us from being weakened or harmed by low gravity.”

“Where are the other humans? The ones from earth who built the machine.”

“I asked. The machine said there is no evidence of them anywhere but on Titan. It didn’t know whether they died out or left the solar system or transformed into something else – it was dormant until it awoke some thousands of years ago, long after earth fried, so it doesn’t know.”

“Why didn’t the ship tell us this before?”

“It did, back at the beginning. But your predecessor, the first Luminary Crealla herself, ordered it not to communicate until contacted in person. I’m guessing she decided it was politically inconvenient for the truth to be widely known. The machine continued to send a beacon on her authority, too. I only can guess at her reason for that. Apparently the machine decided Titanic’s rendezvous qualified as ‘in person.’ I think the machine has an almost human capacity to stretch a definition. But it was designed generally to follow human instructions. Frankly, it seemed relieved finally to have someone to tell it what to do. I realize I may be projecting emotions onto it when I use the word ‘relieved,’ but it really seems that way.”

“It offered no insight into what our purpose on this world is supposed to be?”

“It said our ancestors wanted to ‘restore humans to their natural state.’”

“But there is nothing natural about human life on Titan,” observed Reena. “Or about any life on Titan.”

“Don’t argue with me about it. Tell it to them.”

“I’d like to. So the machine was looking to us for its purpose.”

“The irony has not escaped me. So, what do you think we should tell the public? Morik will want recommendations.”

“They might have to wait until Morik and your execrable Movement are history before they are allowed to hear anything about it.”

“Maybe. But whether they hear it now or later, what should we tell them? That we were seeded by a billion year old program that was probably little more than an afterthought by some ancient conservationists? That we fundamentally are a zoo, but one that has no visitors?”

“I think we should tell them they were established here by our ancestors to redeem mankind,” said Reena. “They’ll like and respond to that better.”

“Another lie?”

“A noble lie.”

Cosmic Intruder

Cosmo felt a caress on his face. He reached toward Olivia and came up empty. As he slowly awakened he remembered she was long gone. Maybe the cat had given him a wake-up tap. No, the feline was dead too. But something had touched his face. He began to suspect what it might be. When Olivia committed suicide thirty years earlier he stopped arming his home security systems. They had been for her far more than for himself. A few systems in the house remained active, but not the alarms on the doors and windows. For all he knew, the decades-old technology was no longer functional even if it were keyed on.

He opened his eyes and saw a silhouette next to the bed. The shape of a small handgun was in its right hand. The tap on his cheek had been from the cheap .22. Two other silhouettes were in the room. One was a woman. Perhaps they were just burglars, he speculated – young hooligans out for a thrill. He wouldn’t yet assume they were murderers. In his experience there were five kinds of killers: mercenary killers, ideological killers, revenge killers, fear killers, and pleasure killers. The law treats mercenaries most harshly, yet they are the least dangerous to anyone but their specific targets. The ideological types have far and away the highest body count, convinced as they are that they are doing the right thing for the greater good, but they rarely sneak into private homes at night.  Revenge killers at least limit their targets; he knew of no one nursing a lethal grudge against him.  Then there are the people who just enjoy killing, and who are eager to have an excuse. Anyone, though, if they feel threatened enough can kill out of fear. He would avoid making the intruders feel threatened, and would wait to see if they were any of the other four types.

“Hi there old man,” said a young man’s voice.

“Call me Cosmo. I wouldn’t want to be your old man.”

“What kind of a name is Cosmo?”

“It’s mine. What do you want?”

“Gold.”

“Have you tried a job? Flipping burgers might be within your skills. You should be able to buy an ounce in three weeks.”

“You’re hilarious. We have jobs, old man. We’re at work right now. We’re thieves.”

“Fine. So, finish robbing the place and go away. Let me get back to sleep.”

“In case you haven’t noticed, I’ve got a gun. Show a little respect.”

“I noticed the gun.”

“Last week you hired Otis to reroof your boathouse, old man.”

“What of it?”

“You paid him with krugerrands. If you had two, you have more. Hand them over.”

The boathouse was the only structure on his property vulnerable to decay. The main house was custom built out of reinforced concrete. When the doors and windows were sealed it was watertight. It had weathered Hurricane Katrina without a drop getting inside despite its waterfront location on Lake Pontchartrain. Cosmo had known at the time it was a mistake to pay Otis in coin, but he had run short of paper money that week. He could have driven to his usual gold dealer to get some, but he never liked to make a tradesman wait for his pay. He avoided checks and electronic payments whenever possible in order to keep his public profile to a minimum. Cash won friends and silence. Gold coins, however, were odd enough that Otis apparently mentioned it.

“You aren’t friends of Otis. He is an honest man,” said Cosmo.

“We’re not. He told his wife. His wife told his kid. His kid told friends. One of them told me.”

“You shouldn’t rely on such a lengthy concatenation of rumors. There is fresh speckled trout in the fridge. Catfish, too. Caught them myself. Take them and go have a fish fry somewhere.”

“Cut the crap. Get out of bed and take us to the gold.”

“What if I told there is no gold? People tell stories you know. You shouldn’t believe them all.”

“You’d better be the one lying, old man, because if I can’t have the coins, I’ll kill you. At least I’ll have the fun of that. And then maybe Otis’ kid for wasting our time.”

Cosmo crawled out of bed. He considered himself lucky he had worn pajamas.

“Geez, what, are you like a hundred?”

“No, but I’m told a hundred is the new seventy.”

“Well, like you say old man, you can’t believe everything you’re told.”

 Cosmo addressed the other two intruders “Young man and miss… this is a bad decision. You don’t know just how bad. You should leave now before you do yourselves irreparable harm.”

“An old creep like you already did ‘irreparable harm’ to me. You would too if you could,” said the girl.

“No I wouldn’t, but I’m sorry someone hurt you. Don’t let him ruin your life further. And if you must deal in revenge, deal it to him directly. Who knows? Maybe I’ll help.”

“Help by giving up the gold. Where is it?”

“Downstairs in the basement.”

“Let’s go,” said the fellow with the .22.

“Have it your way.” Cosmo paused to look out the window. In the distance the causeway stretching across the lake to New Orleans was just barely visible. Olivia had loved being this close to and this far from the city. He walked out to the hallway. One of the intruders behind him flipped on the hall light. Cosmo glanced back.

It was a shame, thought Cosmo. They were so young. In the light he could see they couldn’t be much more than 18. The fact they weren’t hiding their faces was a bad sign – either that or they were incredibly foolish. He led them through the kitchen and to the basement stairs. The treads creaked under his feet. The stairs ended in a finished room with pine paneling deeply yellowed from age. It was filled with disused furniture.

“Damn, don’t you get water down here?” asked the gunman. “The Lake is right there.”

“No. I never get water.”

“You’ve got a bad electrical connection,” said the gunman. “I can tell you that.”

There was indeed something like an ionized sharpness in the air.

“The connections are good.”

“If you say so, old man.”

“Once again, I prefer ‘Cosmo.’”

“I don’t care.”

Cosmo spoke patiently to the intruders. “Suppose I said once again that there is no gold, and I’ve gone along until now just to give you a chance to reconsider your actions.”

“I already told you I’d kill you. Maybe I’ll let Wanda do it. I think she’d like that.”

“I’m not so sure she would, but I believe you would.”

“Why are you using names?” asked the boy who until then had been silent. He was a mop-headed teen with acne. “You said not to.”

“Because he intends to shoot me anyway,” said Cosmo. “Surely you’ve figured that out. Look son…”

“I’m not your son.”

“Fair enough, but I’m old enough to know you are far too young to destroy your life over this. I’m not going to save you from yourself if you insist on being pig-headed, but I will give you one more chance. Leave now. These two don’t need you here. Besides, are you aware that as a witness you’ll be a liability to them? Have you considered the implications? Leave now, and I promise there will be no consequences to you. I’ll tell no one you were ever here.”

“You’ll tell no one all right,” said the gunman. “If you leave now, Jack, you get nothing,” he said to the quiet boy. “And then we’ll come after you.”

Jack stayed. Cosmo sighed.

“A collection of tea cups?” asked Wanda, fingering a dusty corner hutch. “Doesn’t suit you, Cosmo. Were you married or something?”

“Or something. A long time ago, and yes those were hers. I haven’t let go of some things even though I never use them.”

Perhaps he should have let go, he thought to himself – especially the habit of sleep. Had he been awake all this would have been avoided. He had taken up sleep in the first place only to please Olivia, but then he found he enjoyed it. An old Rita Rudner line: “It’s the best of both worlds; you get to be alive and unconscious.” And there were the dreams. He assumed that what he experienced was what others meant by dreams. Sometimes he got to visit people and places in his dreams that were long gone in reality.

“Never mind the damn teacups. The gold! Focus!” The gunman nudged the barrel of the gun between Cosmo’s eyes.

Cosmo turned to a wall and pulled on a pine panel. It popped off exposing magnets and a small wall safe set in concrete. He dialed the combination, turned the handle, and opened the safe door. Inside were two dozen coins, a mix of krugerrands, eagles, and maple leafs.

“That’s all?” asked the gunman.

“What were you expecting? Fort Knox? I make them as I need them. Why stock up?”

“You make them? You’re crazy, old man.”

“Look, I can close the safe and you all still can leave. I won’t call the police.”

“It’s a pretty good haul, Darryl,” said Jack. “So it’s not a million bucks. Let’s take it and go.”

“I told you not to use my name.”

“You used ours.”

“Shut up! And you… back away from the safe, old man.”

Cosmo complied.

Darryl reached for the coins and froze in place.

“Darryl? What what’s the matter?” Jack touched Darryl’s arm and also froze in place.

An aroma similar to overcooked lamb joined with the ozone. Cosmo grabbed Darryl’s shoulder and pulled both boys away from the safe. They sprawled on the floor and lay still. Wanda ran forward and picked up the gun dropped by Darryl. She pointed it at Cosmo. With her other hand she pointed at the safe.

“It’s electrified,” she said.

“Obviously.” He closed the safe door and spun the dial. A spark arced from his finger to the door face. He strode to the stairway and blocked it.

“Why are you still standing? Are you insulated or something?” she asked.

“No. Actually I’m grounded. Not that it really would matter. Put the gun down, Wanda.”

“I want to leave. You said I could leave.”

“That was before the recent unfortunate events. Now your leaving poses a bit of a problem.”

Wanda fired two shots. Cosmo didn’t move. She fired two more.

“You’ve ruined this nightshirt. Good thing it’s not a favorite,” he said.

“Can’t you die?”

“Oh yes, but not from that.”

“What are you?”

“You wouldn’t believe me.”

“Yes, I would. ‘Cosmo’ is a joke, isn’t it? You’re from out there,” she said with a wave upward.

“Let’s just say I’m not from around here. You’re at least open-minded if not particularly smart.”

“Hey?”

“Come now, Wanda. Would you call your actions tonight smart?”

“I’ll accept ‘foolish.’ Smart people can be foolish.”

“True.  Also, I think you fired the handgun in fear, which is the most forgivable motive – not excusable but forgivable.”

“So I can go?”

“I haven’t decided,” he said.

“You weren’t joking about making coins as you need them, were you?”

“No I wasn’t. A device you need not see extracts and separates elements from the salt water of the lake. The extracted gold particles are assembled to duplicate a model, such as a krugerrand. It’s not a cheat. The homemade coins are real gold, at least as pure as the original. There is much of value besides gold in the water, of course. It’s not a fast process, but it is steady.”

“Was your wife also from… um…”

“Olivia wasn’t actually my wife. And no, she was from Jackson. That was the problem. She didn’t like growing old when I didn’t. It was too much for her in the end.”

“But you do age. You’re an old geezer.”

“Because I so choose. I have to look the age on my driver’s license and other documents. She knew it wasn’t real.”

“You mean you could look 20 if you wanted?”

“Yes. I could look like a great Dane if I wanted. A change that radical would take some time though.”

“Forget the great Dane,” she said. “Look, I think you’re lonely. That’s why you’re still talking to me. If you could look 20, maybe I could…you know…keep you company. I don’t like old dudes, though.”

“So you said. You don’t seem too concerned about your companions on the floor. Why would I think you’d be better company to me?”

“Because you’d be better company to me than they were?”

Plausible. I’d have to create a new identity in order to be young again. That is harder now than the last times when I just could print up a birth certificate and stuff it in a county Hall of Records file somewhere. Then I’s have to sell this place to the new me.”

“But you can do it – make a new identity, I mean.”

“Yes. Truthfully, it’s near the time when I’ll have to anyway. After a certain point, age itself draws attention, and I don’t want attention.”

“Then it’s settled. What do we do with the bodies?” she asked.

“I could feed them to the machine that makes the coins. It would break them down into their constituent elements. Or… Does the old creep you hate so much live near here?”

“Yes.”

“We could plant these two on his property and then give the police an anonymous tip. The tip could say he abducts young men, and that we saw him carrying something suspicious.”

“Cool.”

“I told you I’d help.”

“Is this how you met Olivia?” Wanda asked.

“Close.”

“Why are you here, by the way?”

“I like to fish.”

“OK, I’ll pretend to believe that.

“I think it’s for the best. But I do like to fish.””

Tropic Freeze

September

Lucius whiffed the rich floral aroma of land long before the island came into sight. Prior to a few weeks earlier, his only exposure to vegetation other than seaweed had been grasses during his brief sojourn to the tundra. That was a rawer and simpler smell than this. He looked up at Cygnus in the clear moonless sky. The bright stars were all the light he needed. He scanned the horizon until he spotted the dark line of an island. Lucius had touched upon two isles already, but they proved to be too small and they had lacked fresh water. This one appeared larger. Lucius tacked to port toward the dark line.

As the distance shrank he could see this island was definitely larger than the others. Given the island’s low elevation, Lucius guessed it had emerged from the ocean only after sea levels fell in the Freeze. This increased the odds that it was uninhabited, though it was possible some people fleeing disease and disorder on the mainland had stumbled on it just as he had. On near approach, he could see no signs of habitation. This was good. Very possibly no human ever had stepped foot on the place. As he paralleled the shore a line of bushes bisecting the beach caught his eye. He turned the sailing yacht toward the shore.

Lucius held himself steady against the deceleration as the yacht’s hissed onto the beach. There was no stirring of the kids below though the lurch should have awakened them. Lucius tied one end of a rope to a gunwale and looped the rest of it over his shoulder. He lowered himself over the side above shallow water. By instinct he braced himself for biting cold. The warmth of the water that enveloped his feet was just as shocking even though he intellectually expected it. He waded out of the water and crossed the beach to a young palm. There he tied the rope with a mooring hitch knot. He walked to the line of bushes had interested him. It ran from the island’s interior across the beach to the waterline. He endured the scratches as he pushed through the brush. He discovered the treasure for which he had hoped. The trickle barely deserved to be called a stream, but, when he tasted it, it was fresh.

He emerged from the brush and sat down on the sand. The white hull of the boat seemed to glow. The brass and teak trim looked black at night. A gentle breeze caused some hardware to ping against the mast. The kids either were still asleep below deck or pretending to be. He chose not to arouse them yet. Making them safe was all he had left. He thought back to his first encounter with them only weeks before. They had been anything but endearing.

August

The grey clouds in the west threatened snow for the next day but at least promised a rise in temperature. Tonight, though, was bitter cold. Lyla was snoring peacefully. Lucius accepted her disinterest in him, but would have preferred it otherwise. The tent offered only limited protection against the wind, but their mukluks provided adequate insulation to prevent hypothermia. He hoped the frozen caribou carcasses on the sledges outside didn’t attract bears. Still, he’d rather face a bear than the Tundrites.

Lucius and Lyla been twice lucky in their expedition south of the ice line to the tundra. They had traversed the tundra for weeks and had found a caribou herd without ever encountering Tundrites. Tundrites killed poachers, and they regarded all hunters other than themselves to be poachers. A larger expedition could have taken scores of the beasts. Lucius and Lyla had taken only two. They had no way to transport more. The two carcasses would be a great coup for Lyla and he back at the Village even so. No hoofed meat had been seen there in more than a year. Lucius drifted off to sleep dreaming of caribou and bears.

Emerging from a dream in which a bear’s claw touched his throat, Lucius lay still as he felt a real point pressing on his larynx. He hoped the bear just would sniff and then turn its attention to the carcasses outside. He heard no sound from Lyla. As the fog of sleep lifted more fully from his mind he realized the modest weight on top of him could not be a bear. In the trifling moonlight leaking through a displaced tent flap he could see only a dark silhouette. It was humanlike but small with huge eyes. He could discern another figure like it atop Lyla. He guessed the point at his throat was a knife, though a claw was still a possibility.

“Don’t move,” said a voice that was pitched on the high side.

“Are you ghouls?” Lucius croaked.

“Is that a nice thing to say?” said the silhouette.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he heard Lyla say. “They’re children.”

The flap of the tent opened wider and a shape there asked, “Everything under control?”

“Yes, so far,” said the figure atop Lucius. “You two: get up and come outside. No weapons. I don’t want to kill you.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Lucius.

The knife point withdrew. Lucius and Lyla crawled out of the tent behind the two smallish figures. Outside in the moonlight Lucius could see they really were kids. There were three of them. Ski masks and goggles accounted for the illusion of big eyes. The one who hadn’t entered the tent was holding a rifle. Lucius hadn’t seen a functional firearm since he was a boy. Ammunition was dug out occasionally, but long burial in the ice did something to it that made it unreliable. He hunted with bow and harpoon. The kids’ clothes looked like synthetic simulated fur.

“Does that rifle work?” asked Lucius. “Where did you get the clothes?”

“Yes, of course the rifle works. The clothes are from Saks, or what’s left of it.”

Lucius didn’t know what Saks were, but let it pass. “Who are you?”

“I’m Meiling,” said the one who had sat astride Lucius. “This is Carrick and Ruben. We’re from New York.”

No one called the Ruins “New York” anymore. Most of the old city had been scraped over by the advancing ice wall. The portion of lower Manhattan not yet overtaken by the glacial cliff looming above it was nonetheless embedded in ice deep enough to bury all but the stories of the few skyscrapers still standing. All but the most adventurous Villagers avoided the place despite the ripe opportunities for salvage. Prospectors had a way of not coming back. According to folk legend the Ruins were home to ghouls who ate trespassers. Polar bears were not a mere legend. They made homes within the artificial caves of the surviving structures and posed a factual danger. Perhaps Meiling’s people did too. In a way, his first question had been on the mark.

“I’m Lyla, that’s Lucius,” said Lyla.

“You live with the… bears?” Lucius checked himself from saying “ghouls” once more.

“Under, not with,” said Meiling. Or we did. In the tunnels and subways mostly. Some buildings completely imbedded in snow are still accessible from below. Natural geothermal heat keeps the tunnels above freezing and the heat difference with the surface can power electric generators. We knew we’d have to leave eventually because the ice wall advances every year, but we expected more time.”

“How many of you are there?” asked Lucius.

“There were a lot. Now it’s just us. We’re all that are left. I see you’ve been hunting somewhere to the south. How long have you been away?”

“We left the Village almost months ago,” said Lyla. “We’re headed back. Could you ask that young man – Carrick is it? – to point the gun another direction?”

“I could,” said Meiling. “We need your help. Can you sail?”

“What has that to do with anything?” asked Lucius.

“Just answer the question,” said Carrick.

“I go fishing sometimes. But none of our boats could carry all five of us.”

“Ours can. And that’s more experience than we have, so we need you.”

“Well, that’s too bad, because we’re not sailing anywhere,” said Lyla. “We’re going back to the Village. You’re welcome to come with us. We can take you in. There’s room for three more. There are hundreds us at the Village. I haven’t counted lately.”

“Counting will be a lot easier now.”

“Why?”

“The plague.”

September

Lucius lay back on the sand and stared at the sky. Sitting bare-chested in the warm night air was a surreal experience he couldn’t have imagined such a short time ago.

Meiling’s head popped above the rail. The kids were awake. Meiling was a strange girl seemingly twelve going on forty. She was calculating and ruthless, but in a way that wasn’t adult. Lucius still had trouble understanding her. She gave the two younger boys their best odds of survival, however. Even so, he assumed those odds were long. There was every reason to believe the plague still raged on the mainland in these climes. Yet, the disease was so deadly that it would have to burn itself out eventually. There wouldn’t be enough people to maintain a chain of infection. If the kids could stay isolated until then they would be alright. Eventually they even could make the trip to the mainland or big islands. For now they were safer here. He wished Lyla could be here too.

Wearing shorts and a tee shit she had found stored on the boat, Meiling lowered herself to the beach and approached him.

“I think this is the spot,” Lucius said to her when she stopped several feet from him. “We may have to stay here for years. The plague could take that long to end.”

“Yeah, well I’ve been meaning to talk to you about that. The only one at risk is you.”

August

 “What plague?” asked Lyla.

“Fugitives brought it up from the south. They boated to NYC hoping someone still lived there. They told us all about the plague – just before their own symptoms appeared. They were from the Carolinas but said the disease originally had crossed the Atlantic with someone who had got an old seaplane to fly. So, the whole world is shot. More than it was, I mean. If you catch it you will die. It spreads like fire.”

“But you don’t have it?” said Lucius.

“We don’t.”

“Then maybe there are others...”

“Everyone in New York caught it.”

“Is that why we saw no Tundrites” asked Lyla.

“I don’t know what Tundrites are, but if they’re people I’d say yes. We need to leave this place. The fugitives’ yacht is moored by the ocean.”

“Isn’t it infected?” asked Lucius.

“I’m sure the cold has sterilized it,” said Meiling. “The fugitives said it spreads easily person to person but doesn’t survive long outside people. Besides, we can’t stay here.”

“We’re going to the Village first,” said Lyla.

“No! Some of our people left New York when the plague was spreading. They went to your Village. We need you to sail us away from here.”

“Then you can’t afford to kill us,” said Lyla. “You’re just going to have to shoot us if you want to stop us from going home.”

Lucius hadn’t asked to be included in Lyla’s ultimatum, but he chose not to challenge it.

Meiling went silent for a few moments but then acquiesced quicker than Lucius expected. “OK, you can look,” she said, “but don’t touch anyone. Don’t even expose yourself to their breath.”

“How old are you?” asked Lucius.

“Twelve.”

“You don’t talk like you’re twelve.”

“The ones who acted twelve didn’t make it out of New York.”

Lucius suspected she was right.

They left the caribou carcasses behind to speed their hike to the Village. Meiling and Lyla walked in front. Carrick, rifle still in hand, brought up the rear.

Two hours passed before Ruben, the smaller of the two boys, spoke to Lucius in a soft voice not meant to be overheard.

“Are you two married?”

“Lyla and I? No. We’re not even a couple.”

“Why?”

“She prefers Jack – that’s the chief’s youngest son.”

“So he’s a prince.”

“I guess you could look at it that way.”

“Are you a prince?”

“No.”

“I didn’t think so. But you’d like to be a couple with her?”

“We don’t always get what we like. What about you and Meiling?” Lucius asked mischievously.

Ruben nodded his head back toward Carrick.

“Ah, I see.”

The eastern sky was red behind them but the west was dark and overcast as they topped a rise overlooking the Village. Nestled in a glen, the village had a ramshackle appearance. The houses were built from lumber and rubble excavated from the ice. All manufactured tools were mined in the same way. No one was in sight and there was no smoke from cooking fires, but the wailing of children could be heard.

Lyla rushed forward in the direction of her cabin. “Samantha!” she called out to her little sister.

Lucius began to run after her but Carrick blocked his path.

“Don’t go!” said Meiling. “I told you, you can’t touch anyone. They’re all infected. She is a dead woman as soon does it.”

“I’m going to help her. You’ll have to shoot me.”

“No, I’ll tell Carrick to shoot her.”

“You’re an evil little girl.”

“Am I?” She didn’t sound too concerned with the answer.

“Don’t you two ever override her?” Lucius asked the boys.

“Not when she is right,” said Carrick.

Lyla emerged from her cabin carrying ten-year-old Samantha. Samantha was coughing.

“That’s it, we go now or I’ll tell Carrick to shoot them both,” ordered Meiling. “Don’t think he won’t. They’re both doomed anyway, but I’m guessing you don’t want to see it.”

September

“What do you mean the only one at risk is me?” asked Lucius.

“The plague kills adults. Nearly all kids who get it survive, and they never get it again. We three all have had it.”

“We could have saved those kids from the Village!”

“There wasn’t room on the boat. I didn’t know if we could feed them. And there was you to consider.”

“Lyla and Samantha followed us to the water’s edge! They called to us as we disappeared into the fog! We at least could have taken Samantha.”

“Lyla was already a goner. If Samantha had come with us she’d have infected you and you’d be dead by now. I saved your life.”

“You all are fine specimens of humanity and I have no doubt you’ll recreate the world that existed before the Freeze,” he said sardonically. “I’ll leave you to yourselves.”

“Leave? Don’t be silly. Where are you going to go? You can’t risk meeting anyone else.”

“I can live alone.”

“Nonsense. We need you here. Besides, maybe in 10 years or so we can snare a wife for you from the mainland. The plague should be gone by then, and the survivors will be old enough.”

“Kidnapping isn’t my preferred style.”

“Suit yourself. But we can’t let you take the boat.”

He noticed her bodyguard Carrick standing on deck. No doubt he was armed as a precaution against any hostile reaction on his part. Lucius knew the girl was right, but, despite the heat, he felt cold.

Cold Dishes

Geoffrey turned into the driveway belonging to his Great Uncle Ryan, the twin brother of Geoffrey’s paternal grandmother Isabel. Isabel had died ten years earlier from an infection caught in the hospital where she had gone for a minor knee operation. Ryan and Isabel had a younger brother, Geoffrey’s disagreeable Great Uncle Brent. All three had inherited the family hardware store in the 1970s, but only Ryan had taken a real interest in it. He  bought out Isabel and Brent before the end of the decade using loans that he somehow successfully paid off in short order. Isabel and Brent assumed he would be crushed by the huge chain home-supply stores sprouting up in malls everywhere, but somehow he made his neighborhood business thrive. He sold it for nearly $2 million in the ‘80s. Ryan sat out the ’87 Crash, but then invested heavily in the stock market, riding the 90s boom. He weathered the ups and downs of the 21^st century market cannily and was now reputedly worth close to $10 million. This was not yacht-and-private-jet superrich, but it was secure-from-financial-worry rich.

Geoffrey never had been able to fathom Uncle Ryan on a personal level. The man was sharp-witted, hard-working, and gruff, yet in no way mean. Despite never having attended college, he was extraordinarily well-read. He always had the air of knowing something you didn’t. Once a handsome youth, today he was craggy and white-haired, but quite fit for someone in his mid-sixties. The man never had married or sired offspring despite involvements with an endless series of floozies who looked nearly identical to one another in height, hair color, facial characteristics, and age. Photographs of Ryan over the decades appear to show a man who slowly ages with a companion who doesn’t. Ryan found the women in odd places, not all of them (perhaps not most of them) reputable. Rumor had it he had picked up one literally off the street. A weakness of this sort typically costs men who have it dearly, but somehow Ryan had contained the damage. None remained with him for long. Each would leave when she realized there was neither an emotional, marital, nor a substantive financial future reward for staying.

Other than in his dating habits, however, Ryan eschewed extravagance and pretense. While he easily could afford Benz’s and Jaguars, he chose instead to drive Fords and Chevys. His house, designed by himself, was no mansion. Hidden amid a few acres of pine and spruce, the woodsy stone and cedar dwelling was comfortable rather than elegant. For some reason, Ryan always had taken an interest in Geoffrey, providing him with summer employment maintaining his property when he was in high school and now assisting with his college tuition. As far as Geoffrey knew, Uncle Ryan extended no such aid to his other grandnephews and grandnieces on Uncle Brent’s side of the family. Perhaps this was because the chronically debt-ridden thrice-divorced Uncle Brent himself was drain enough.

Uncle Ryan had called Geoffrey yesterday saying only that he wanted a family member to witness something. Geoffrey didn’t recognize the three cars parked in the driveway. The smell of a Connecticut autumn was in the air as Geoffrey walked from his Kia to the front door. Although the house was surrounded by evergreens, the aroma of decaying deciduous leaves on neighboring lots wafted on a breeze mixed with the smoky odor of a wood fire. The door opened before Geoffrey rang the bell.

“Come in, come in, we’re all ready,” said Uncle Ryan. He wore a corduroy jacket and a light blue open-collar shirt. Except at the most formal events, which he usually avoided anyway, this was about as dressed-up as Ryan was likely to be found.

“Am I late?” asked Geoffrey.

“No, you’re right on time. We’re early.”

He led the way through the wood-ceiling living room where a fire burned in the stone fireplace. In the dining room at the table sat a portly middle-aged balding man in a rumpled green business suit. Next to him was a prim bespectacled 40-ish woman whom Geoffrey recognized as Uncle Ryan’s attorney. A neat stack of papers and a pen were on the table in front of her.

“Geoffrey, this is Judge Alfonso, and I believe you’ve met Ms. Menendez,” said Ryan.

“Yes. Hi.”

A young woman with an open bottle of Snapple tea in her hand sashayed into the dining room from the kitchen.

“Geoffrey, this is Angelique.”

Angelique was pretty, hazel-eyed, strawberry blonde, and winsome: yet another lookalike of Ryan’s previous women. If anything she was younger than average – Geoffrey guessed maybe even younger than he. She was dressed casually in blue jeans and a black tee shirt that read “Come to the Dark Side, we have cookies.”

“Hi, Geoffrey. I’ve heard a lot about you,” she said pleasantly.

“Um, hello. I’m afraid I’ve heard nothing about you.”

“I’m sure that’s about to change.”

“If everyone is ready, let’s get on with this,” said Ms. Menendez, whose tone and expression indicated disapprobation. “Please everyone sit down…thank you. I’ve gone over the details with both parties – Geoffrey, you’re just here as a witness.”

Geoffrey nodded.

“Nonetheless, I want to reiterate to you in particular, Angelique,’ Ms. Menendez continued with an odd emphasis on the name, “that this prenuptial agreement eliminates any future claim to alimony. In addition, in the event of divorce, there shall be no division of any property acquired by either party before the marriage and no division of any property acquired after the marriage unless it specifically has been purchased or received in both your names. In short, you’re not likely to leave with more than you came with, which is basically nothing. Do you fully understand that?”

“Yes,” she answered with a smile.

“Prenuptial?” Geoffrey hadn’t meant to repeat the word aloud, but it had gotten away from him in his surprise.

“Yes,” said Angelique. “I’m going to be your great aunt. How trippy is that?”

Ms. Menendez slid the papers with a pen on top to Angelique. “Please sign all four copies at the indicated place.”

Angelique did so without a glance at the text. She passed the papers to Ryan who signed and slid them to Geoffrey.

 “Please witness the signature at the indicated place on the bottom,” said the attorney.

Geoffrey did. He noticed the name on the prenup was “Lee Ann Smets,” so “Angelique” was her own – or perhaps Ryan’s – invention.

“OK Ry, I’m going to get ready now,” said Angelique. “I won’t be long.”

She got up and headed toward the bedrooms.

“And I’m leaving, too,” said the attorney. “I’ll leave copies for you two, and will file one in the courthouse. Judge, I leave the rest to you.”

“Of course. See you in court sometime, Elena.”

Ms. Menendez treated Ryan to one more scornful squint, and strode to the door, banging it behind her.

“Sorry to keep you waiting, Judge,” said Ryan.

“Quite all right. Truth be told, I came early in order to see this.”

“I hope we were suitably entertaining.”

“Oh, yes.”

“Is that everything you want from me, Uncle Ryan?” asked Geoffrey.

“No, no, my boy. You’re here to witness one more thing.”

Carrying a small camera, Angelique re-entered the room in a tennis outfit. She spun around. “This is the only thing white I have with me,” she said.

“You look delightful,” said Ryan.

“Geoffrey, take this camera. Start ‘record’ by touching this. But when this is over, don’t you dare call me Aunt Angelique,” she said with a wink.

They entered the living room. Judge Alfonso stood with his back to the fireplace while Ryan and Angelique faced him. Geoffrey stood back and recorded as the judge intermediated a simple exchange of vows. Alfonso declared them married. It was all over in two minutes. Angelique gave Ryan a quick peck.

“I’ll get comfortable again and pack a few things,” she said before bouncing back to the bedroom.

“We’re going to Charleston for the weekend,” Ryan explained to Geoffrey.

“I see.”

“No, I don’t think you do. Not yet anyway.” He handed Judge Alfonso an envelope. “Thank you for your help.”

“I wouldn’t have missed it. I’ll let myself out.”

“Thanks again. Geoff, my boy, come and talk with me.”

Ryan led the way to his study, which was lined with overstuffed bookshelves on every wall. He shut the door behind them. He sat down behind his desk. Geoffrey sat in a wing chair

“So, what do you think of the blushing bride?” asked Ryan.

“She seems nice.”

“I didn’t ask you in here to exchange inane pleasantries. You can be more honest than that. Be so. Your next and final semester’s tuition is pre-paid – don’t thank me! – so there is no risk to offending me.”

Geoffrey took a deep breath. “OK,” he said. “Well, she’s not blushing but she is awfully young. May I ask how young?”

“We usually ask ‘how old,’ but no matter. She’s 19.”

“Two years younger than I am. Oh, Uncle Ryan... Where did you find her?”

“California, with private detectives.”

“You’re not kidding. Why?”

“I am not kidding. I’ll explain why shortly. So, you disapprove.”

“No, not as such, but…well, she could be your granddaughter.”

“The thought has crossed my mind.”

Geoffrey’s stomach was suddenly unsettled. “You don’t mean…”

“No, of course not. Even I am not that twisted. Did you know I had a vasectomy back in the ‘70s? They were very popular at the time for those with no interest in children. That’s before all those ‘80s diseases started making us wear condoms again anyway. It rather defeated the point.”

“No, I didn’t know, and this conversation is taking a very odd turn. Perhaps I should go, Uncle Ryan.”

“Please, not yet. There is more you should know.”

“Well…alright. But marriage… why now, Uncle Ryan? Why marry after all these years? Why this kid instead of any one of the others who looked just like her?”

“Maybe because this one, who isn’t really a kid, isn’t quite like the others. Or maybe because I wasn’t ready to die on the inside until I was ready to die on the outside.”

“I don’t understand.”

“A small attempt at a joke. I’m dying, Geoffrey. That’s what there is to understand. The doctors give me six months at the outside, unless I submit to vigorous, harsh, and expensive treatment, in which case I might last a year. I’ll skip the torture and take the six months. Don’t worry, you’ll get the Mustang.”

“Uncle Ryan… So this is a final fling? You wanted to get married once before…before…”

“‘Death’ is the word you’re groping for. Not exactly a fling. First answer this, and be honest. I haven’t time for evasions. What do you think of your Great Uncle Brent?”

“Well, grandma didn’t like him much. Neither does dad. He tried to hit them up for money all the time. He still calls my dad. I know he is your brother and you two are close, but…”

“What makes you think we’re close?”

“Dad says that if it weren’t for you, Uncle Brent would be bankrupt – that you’ve bailed him out repeatedly and kept the bank from taking his house. You don’t do that for an enemy.”

“Are you sure?”

“Well, it seems improbable. Uncle Brent also seems to think he is inheriting your estate. That’s what he told my dad anyway. It’s how he said he would pay back the money he wanted from dad, though I don’t know why he thought he would outlive you… unless he knew about your…uh…condition.”

“He does not. And your assessment of Brent is far too kind. He is a drunken, lying, cheating, thieving, pill-popping, self-indulgent skunk with a gambling addiction.”

“Oh! I just realized…he’ll be horrified that you’re married,” said Geoffrey.

“I’m sure you’ll be getting a call from him as soon as he hears about it. Please reassure him that you witnessed a very stringent prenup and that my existing Will remains unaltered. I want you to promise me you’ll do that.”

“OK, Uncle Ryan, but I don’t understand why you are so generous to him if you dislike him.”

“Sometimes in order to be sure a fall is devastating, you have to be sure the object you drop is sufficiently high off the ground. I’ve been keeping Brent high enough off the ground.”

“What kind of fall?”

“Ah, that brings us to the story. Did you know that you and Brent are not blood related? No? Well, you’re not. You and I are, but not he. You see, your grandmother Isabel and I were adopted as twins. We weren’t supposed to know, but kids find everything in a house; there are no safe storage places. Isabel found the adoption papers and showed them to me when we were little. We never let on that we knew. Our adoptive parents after ten years of marriage apparently had assumed that they were unable to have children of their own, but then, as not infrequently happens after adoption – hormonal changes or something – they did conceive one of their own after all: your Uncle Brent. The three of us grew up working in our parents’ hardware store. I was the only one who enjoyed it.

“All three of us were good students – even Brent despite his laziness and chronic lateness with assignments. The problem was that there really wasn’t enough money in our family for college tuition for all three of us. So, while still in high school I agreed to work the store when it came time for Brent and Isabel to go on and get their degrees. I was confident I could educate myself through my own reading – especially if Isabel would share with me her texts and notes. She said she would. Life was not all work and school though. I met a young lady. These are pictures I rarely show to anyone.”

Ryan unlocked a drawer in his desk and removed a small box containing photos. He handed them to Geoffrey who flipped through them. The young Ryan in the photos was almost unrecognizable, but despite the headband, fringe leather jacket, and granny glasses, the young woman with him could have been Angelique.

“Is this…?”

“You have a habit of not finishing awkward questions and statements, Geoffrey. Work on that. Yes, this is the original – the first of the line and the only one who mattered, until now.”

“Who is she?”

“Her name was Angelica. And no, that’s not an assumed name like Angelique. Have you ever been in love, Geoffrey?”

“Um, maybe. Yeah, I think so.”

“Let me clarify matters for you. No, you haven’t been, or you wouldn’t be expressing any doubt. Well, I was – am – in love. Angelica was my first, and, in a sense, the last.”

“Did she feel the same way?”

“In a word, no. This was the 1960s and she was a free spirit, very much in sync with the times. She loved me to be sure, but she loved lots of people. That was OK. It was who she was. In that era I was a serious minded young man and she was a much needed unfettered counterbalance. She taught me how to dance – not very well but well enough for us to attend the Senior Prom, which she agreed to do with the words, ‘Sure, sounds like a trip.’ She taught me everything about life and love that you can’t learn in school or in a job. So, though she was not ready to settle down so young, I was sure that in time she would want to – and would want to with me. Even if it took years, I would be there for her.”

“But she didn’t end up with you. What happened?”

“War. It turned out that there was one piece of paper more important than a Bachelor of Arts of which my absence from college deprived me: a 2S student deferment for the Selective Service. I was drafted. While I was in Vietnam, my brother Brent attended college demonstrations against the war in which I was fighting. Out of habit, Angelica continued to stop by my house and the family store, and soon she was joining him in the marches. While I was fighting the NVA at Snoul during the Cambodian incursion with the 11^th Armored Cavalry, she was protesting that same operation with my brother in DC, camping out at night in the hallways of the dorms at GWU. She was joining him in more intimate ways as well. He didn’t really care for her as I did. For him she was just another dalliance. Perhaps she regarded him the same way, but he was just enough influence on her to turn her mind and affections away from me permanently.

“Shortly before I returned to the States, she left Connecticut. She was going to California, she said to Brent. She never sent either one of us so much as a postcard ever again. She’d always been on rocky terms with her family so she didn’t stay in touch with them either. I looked for her with the limited resources I had available then. Social networks and cyber-footprints did not exist as they do today, however. You could disappear easily if you wanted to.”

“Uncle Ryan, I hesitate to say this, but she left you. She obviously didn’t want to be with you anymore.”

“Maybe, but I wanted to hear that from her. I would have overlooked the Brent affair, much as I hated it. I wanted to state my case, and, if she still refused to give us another shot, I’d have let her be. But I wanted to hear it from her.”

“So, instead of the woman you wanted, you’ve been finding substitutes for her time and again ever since. Uncle Ryan…”

“If you have something to say boy, spit it out.”

“You do realize that these substitutes of yours can’t possibly have much resemblance to the real thing. Your old girlfriend has lived a lifetime since you last saw her and has become someone else. She is collecting Social Security.”

“No, actually she isn’t. I know because I did find her eventually, though it took a decade. She never went to California. She went to a commune in New Mexico. There she developed a serious substance abuse problem and died of a heroin overdose in 1979, but not before having given birth to a daughter whom she gave up for adoption. From the birth date, I was pretty sure the child was Brent’s.”

“You blame him for Angelica’s death as well as for the betrayal of your trust.”

“Indeed I do,” said Ryan. “The smallest change in her life could have made all the difference. Her downward spiral began with Brent.”

“So, you hate your brother…really hate your brother…but keep helping him because of the old advice to ‘keep your enemies closer?’”

“Precisely. Do you know how eagerly he awaits my demise? He has debts amounting to hundreds of thousands of dollars, many of them owed to very dangerous people. Only my largesse has kept him from bankruptcy and from the hospital. His belief that he is my prime beneficiary is all that keeps him going. He’ll be much relieved to hear of the prenup and the unchanged Will.”

“I’m sure he will be. But then what does your young wife Angelique have to do with your issues with your brother?”

“Because the existing Will that remains unchanged is the one I filed six months ago when I first found Angelique, not an older one. Brent is cut out completely. She will get the bulk of my estate and, now that we are married, the Will will be very hard to contest. If my brother does try to contest it, she will fight him for every scrap. Angelique, you see, is an unapologetic golddigger, and I’m proud of her for that. I’m relying on it. She won’t let her heritage weaken her grip on what is due her. Angelique is Angelica’s granddaughter – and DNA confirms she is Brent’s, too. I was able to track adoption leads for her mother – not always entirely legally – and they led me eventually to her and to Angelique. I have paid Brent back at last. At his moment of his highest hopes and expectations, I intend to rob Brent of his future, his past, his anticipated fortune, and of a family he didn’t know he had.”

“Uncle Ryan, you asked me to be honest. Cavorting with the granddaughter, legal age notwithstanding, of your old girlfriend and your adopted brother is creepy. Also, I’m not sure I’m comfortable helping you with your frankly perverse revenge.”

“I suspected you might feel that way, so fully one million dollars (and the Mustang) is earmarked in my Will for you – provided you keep my confidence prior to its execution. The other 9 million or so goes to Angelique. I assume that will help overcome your distaste for the situation and assuage your conscience.”

“But Uncle Ryan…how do I put this? You won’t be able to enjoy your moment of vengeance because…because you won’t be here.”

“I’m enjoying it now, Geoffrey. That’s quite enough. There are times when revenge is best served not only as a cold dish but by a cold host. And now, I have a honeymoon waiting for me, so move along, Geoffrey. Keep your promise and my confidence. If I don’t see you again, it is likely you nonetheless will see me.”

It was a chilly overcast March day at the gravesite. The grass was still wet from an early morning rain. Geoffrey stood next to Angelique who looked stunning in a black mini-dress. Suppressing a smirk, she elbowed Geoffrey lightly in the ribs.

“You really shouldn’t be stealing glances like that at your widowed great aunt,” she whispered.

“You asked me not to refer to you that way, Angelique.”

“Did I?”

“Yes. Do you really think Uncle Brent committed suicide?”

“No,” she said. “He thought too highly of himself for that. His underworld creditors strung him up once they were sure he could never pay them.”

“That was my take on it. I liked Uncle Ryan despite everything, you know, but I feel sad that he wasted his life living in the past and plotting revenge.”

“Wasted his life? He did nothing of the sort. If he had married my grandmother, who from all accounts was a flake, that great love of his wouldn’t have lasted a year. They probably would have divorced, and then he really would have been a bitter, broken, and cynical man. By idealizing her and dedicating himself to avenging her he illumined his life, not wasted it. He lived as a romantic and died fulfilled. And what do you mean by ‘despite everything’? Does that mean me?” asked Angelique.

“No…I meant…”

“It’s annoying when you don’t finish your sentences.”

“So I’ve been told. I meant the vengeance thing, though your defense of it is interesting. I’m not sure I agree with you.”

“You are perfectly within your rights to be wrong.”

“I see. You know we’re not really related,” Geoffrey observed.

“I know, but this is not really the time or place to discuss what you’re hinting at so unsubtly. Besides, I’m a free spirit, just so you know. I’ll certainly never get too serious about anyone poorer than myself – which you are, at least as of now. You, on the other hand, strike me as obsessive, like your great uncle. If I played with you and left you, I think you would take it pretty hard.”

“Maybe. But maybe you were right about my uncle, in which case there is something to be said for family tradition.”