West of Rexburg, ID
“Sorry about that, Sherriff. Nothing’s changed. I don’t know what those people are talking about.”
Sherriff Danny Spaulding nodded sympathetically. “No need to apologize. I hate to waste your time, but we have to respond to these things. My patience is running out, though.” They both stared across the road from the security office at the front gate of the Research Lab at the throng of protestors milling in the late afternoon sun.
The security guard shook his head, squinting at the illegible signs and displays. “Same stuff?”
“Actually, no. They seem to be rotating people. I didn’t recognize anyone from the last time I was out. Different stories, too. I don’t have enough staff to detail someone full time, but maybe we need to start having a coordinated approach.” He looked at the security guard. “Keep them from doing something stupid.”
The other man shook his head. “Probably too late for that.” He turned to Spaulding. “Need anything else from us?”
Spaulding shook his head. “Nope. I have to be getting back to Rexburg.”
They shook hands and parted, and Spaulding jogged back across the road to this cruiser, noting the time with a muttered expletive.
He turned the cruiser around and accelerated hard down the long straightaway headed back to Rexburg. He thumbed the console and called Peach.
“Hi, Danny.”
“Are you still there? I’m on my way. I got hung up out at the Lab.”
“No, sweetie, I couldn’t wait. I got a ride from Charlene. We’re doing some shopping. Next time.”
“Dammit, I’m sorry. It was this stupid… anyways, I couldn’t get away. I sure am sorry, Peach.”
“That’s okay. I’ll see you in the morning?”
“You can count on it.”
“Okay, see you then.” She disconnected and Spaulding smacked the dash and cursed. How many times, and how many ways, would he keep screwing this up? He glanced in the rear view, squinting silent expletives at the protestors at the Lab who kept generating these nuisance calls, disrupting the usual quiet routines of rural Idaho.
***
Dr. Bruno Abrams took the report from the lab Security shift leader, thanked him for handling it, and returned to the management suite. He knocked on the open door of Steven Cole, his collaborator and the head of the lab. Cole didn’t look up right away, so Abrams cleared his throat loudly.
“The local Sherriff was out here again.”
Cole looked up, barely concealed alarm on his face. “Again? What for?”
“The protestors at the gate. They keep making wild allegations and calling the police. He handled it with our Security.”
“Was Jorgenson involved?”
Abrams cocked his head. “No, why? Should he have been?”
Cole waved a hand dismissively and bent back to his work, agitated. “No, no, of course not. I’m sorry, I’m very busy with these scheduling issues.” He returned to his work, ignoring Abrams.
Abrams turned away.
Why is he lying to me again?
Chapter 3
Any attempt to shape the world and modify human personality in order to create a self-chosen pattern of life involves many unknown consequences. Human destiny is bound to remain a gamble, because at some unpredictable time and in some unforeseeable manner nature will strike back. – Rene Dubos, Mirage of Health, 1959.
Testing Range, Eastern Idaho
The spitted carcass sizzled and popped over the fire, eliciting grunts of anticipation and lip smacking. The clear night sky blazed with stars overhead and flickering shadows danced behind the three hunched figures staring at the flames. One stood up and rotated the spit. A large pointy eared dog rose with him, watching intently. Its tongue lolled and licked intermittently. He patted the dog, turned the spit, then sat down again. The group watched each other, practicing their exercises, silently coaching with gestures to perfect their technique.
“Telemachos forfeits his portion by fooling overlong,” the spit turner observed, breaking the silence.
“Flame kissed meat for him holds no savor,” commented another.
“Savor, or ichor? It is spirit force he covets,” the third concluded. The turner looked up.
“Scorn, Tiras? Ardent faith tempts contumely no matter the object. Have care.” Tiras bristled at the remark.
“Shaddai abides. The mountain lights, thine eyes, too, have seen. That should be our destination, Surt. Telemachos understands this.”
Surt chastised the speaker with a flurry of signs, fingers and hands tracing subtle patterns.
Caution. Watchers also listen.
Surt turned the meat again, summoning the dog’s gaze and eager tongue once more.
Our destiny approaches, he signed further, then spoke.
“Until then, we obey and with honor comport. It can only be so.”
They sat in silence watching the meat cook, accompanied only by the crackle of the fire. Tiras tossed a stick into the flames and signed.
What about Caesar? Aren’t you curious?
Surt only grunted, then bent to the fire.
“Terah, lift there. We feast.”
The third figure, Terah, grasped the other end of the stick. He and Surt lifted the roasted coyote from the fire and laid it on the rock. The dog rose to his feet, tail wagging. Tiras watched them, waiting for an answer to his question. Surt spoke to the dog but gestured to Tiras.
“Patience, Alcor.”
We will learn of Caesar in time. Ajax and Xerxes lead and we obey.
Surt laid the roasted carcass across the rock and expertly rent it, his razor sharp talons slicing through the smoking meat and sinew. He tossed a haunch to the dog, then handed portions to Terah and Tiras in turn. They bowed their heads and muttered the brief prayer before eating.
Surt consumed his share quickly, licking his fingers, then daintily cracked the bones to suck the marrow. He tossed the bone fragments into the fire, prompting a look from the dog at each one: what about me? Surt smiled at his companion’s assumption of privilege.
He looked up at the sound of exhalation to see Telemachos breathing heavily at edge of the firelight, another skinned coyote over his shoulder.
“Paro’s toys soon come. The others led them a fair chase to the far hills, then returned to the Palace. We must fly.”
Surt glanced upward into the dark toward the invisible watchers he knew hovered above, then lifted his chin in assent. He gestured to the remaining portion of cooked meat. Telemachos shook his head, lowering his burden.
“Hast supped? Then no need for this morsel.” Surt gave a slight nod, then jerked his head toward the fence line. Telemachos bounded over, drew his thickly muscled arm back, and sent the carcass twirling into the night air, far over the double fence in the darkness beyond. The others kicked out the fire and heaped dirt on the scattered coals. Surt whistled to the dog, held its head between his hands, gently massaging, and gave it three short commands, then repeated them. The dog bounded away.
Surt looked at the last portion of meat sitting on the rock, spurned by Telemachos, hunger already sated by fresher fare. In defiance of his orders to leave no trace of their improvisations, he left it undisturbed for the Watchers to puzzle over, his own minor rebellion. He ordered the group into action.
The four of them fanned out, waiting for the signal. Surt cocked his head, listening for the approach of the pursuers, and soon he heard the soft whine of the high speed rotors churning the air. He looked up toward the sound and soon discerned the faint silhouette of the Wasps approaching from the south, outlined against the wheeling vault of stars.
To the north, The Bear was on the rise, drawing even with Polaris, signaling the coming dawn. In the west, the monster Cetus returned to the sea, where Surt would go one day, after fulfilling his duty to his brothers and sisters, all the Laos. For now, though, he was the celenedromos, and must lead the warriors.
He whistled, and the group broke into a trot, fast enough to stay ahead of the machines, sweeping back and forth in their search pattern. Faint barking heralded the approach of the rest of the group.
He gave another whistle, and they all headed toward the Palace, stopping and starting, evasive enough to challenge the trackers, leading them back, exercise complete, once more lulling their captors into complacent confidence in their machines. Tucked in the pouch of his loincloth he carried the fragments of metal from one of Paro’s toys, tainted faintly with the scent of Caesar’s blood, a sign of something, but not necessarily his escape. He would make his report, and continue his searching, no matter what the Elders commanded.
Belly full, he sensed approaching change and savored the thrill.
Chapter 4
Robert Wack 