Chapter 1, Part 4

An hour earlier …

To the dreamer, the thinker, the sleeper irritation comes in many forms: a continuous drip from a nearby leaky faucet, a distant train, a lovable pet that insists it must wake you up to go outside during the witching hour, an ill-timed telephone call, and, of course, the one that strikes swiftest: the alarm clock.

Jonathan Michael Burcham reached out from under the mountain of bed sheets and blankets that covered him. In blind anger, he grabbed for the clanging antiquated brass belled clock with groping slaps. It fell to the ground in short order, silenced.

The premise holds especially true for the dreamer. It happens only during the great dreams at the most critical times. This axiom repeats itself not permitting exceptions. Why? Jon force himself to sit-up a full hour before necessary.  Good question. He furiously scratched his shaggy red hair with both hands, yawning.  Forcefully, he pushed the covers aside, mumbling with irritation, and placed his bare feet to the plush shag carpet. He stood-up, adjusted his bright green shorts, and grabbed an old wooden baseball bat that rested against his oak nightstand.  He stomped, head down, bat to shoulder, yawning again as he started to enter his Game Room. He paused, tilted his head then turned back to the bathroom.

Jon remained a little sore from yesterday’s practice. Helping his father at the shop afterwards did not help either -- lots of heavy lifting there. Jon enjoyed assisting him on the modifications of their second Ford Falcon XB GT351 Coupe.  His father sought to meet the specifications required by the Australian’s Police Main Force Patrol Pursuit Special. He remained convinced the Hendersonville Police Department would want these beauties given the explosive freeway infrastructure growth the city experienced. Jon already drove the prototype, the Ford Falcon XB Interceptor.

Jon continued his stomping as the toilet sounded in the background. He entered the Game room, half-stumbled around the couch, and, after a short but frenzied search, he finally located his discarded Houston Oilers’ t-shirt stuffed between cushions.  He tapped the POWER button on the table before him and struggled to put-on the shirt quickly.  The large imbedded screen popped to life like an old fashioned fluorescent light tube.

Last night’s game should have proved decisive for his favorite baseball team the Detroit Tigers. Damnable hell - if he would miss that; damnable hell -- if the first day of school would interfere. Wait, something’s missing.

He abruptly turned on his heels and stomped over to the closet under the front staircase, practically ripping the door from the hinges.  A handful of things fell to the floor about his feet.  He paused, another yawn interrupting his efforts.  He set the bat down and dug into the storage area. Odd, it suddenly occurred to him that he had several advantages being the only child and having the entire guest cottage to use. He came and went as he wanted (within reason); he didn’t need to share space or things with anyone; if he found a dirty dish in the sink or clothes on the floor he had no doubt who left them there; he didn’t need to worry about how he looked or smelled – that’s important – but, on the other hand, when something went missing, he could not place the blame anywhere (or on anyone) else. Well, he could blame his mother ….

Jon had watched six innings before father overruled his enthusiasm and powered down the screen.

“Ah HAH!” He exclaimed triumphantly as he emerged from the closet. He slapped his fist into the old mitt, flapping it open several times in succession.  He then grabbed his sacred Tigers cap from the nearby desk, retrieved the bat, and plopped himself down on the couch. He tapped the RESUME button and the distinct sound of a crowd cheering began to fill the room. With mitt and cap on, bat at his side and an hour in his pocket, he would finish the game, and he would enjoy it.

The picture abruptly vanished, replaced by static.

Jon’s eyes widened and turned slightly from the screen; he dropped his head.  He fell over sideways face down on the couch, his cap falling to the ground.  He shouted into the cushions, banging the front of the couch with his fist.  His shoulders slumped in resignation. Suddenly, he shook his legs and arms furiously. “Of all the frik’n frak’n lousy, worst *-”

Jon’s head snapped-up, his body snapping upright: the sound of cheering returned. He grabbed his cap, grinning from ear to ear as he watched the commentators and his beloved team take to the diamond. He hopped boyishly into the kitchen. Tee hee hee hee, he giggled, returning with a large bowl of popcorn and a tall ice-filled glass of ginger ale.

nom, nom, nom ….

No one could doubt Jon’s love of sports when they entered his abode. Regalia, trophies, souvenirs adorned every shelf, the walls, tables – even rugs, napkins, curtains – from every imaginable competitive game in existence: football, baseball, basketball, hockey, volleyball, soccer, rugby, cricket, polo, boxing, bowling, racquetball, table tennis, billiards, golf, track, gymnastics, Nascar, Indy Car, Formula One, SCCA, Sprint … the list grew and grew as one surveyed the area.  He loved to compete; he loved to watch others compete.  Every Fall he would organize Fantasy Football, Fantasy Nascar; every Spring he’d run the NCAA brackets – he had forgotten more facts and stats at the age of seventeen than most would know their entire lives.

Jon leaped-up and his drink splashed onto his t-shirt. It’s going, going, going * It’s GONE! And the crowd goes wild! He jumped ceremoniously in place.

Perhaps he would reach a good mood after-all, fitting given that a friendship, which stretched back to sixth grade took charge of the O today.  He, Matt, and Richard all met during advanced math at Swanson Elementary. Matt had let Richard borrow a pencil, not knowing he was the son of Geoffrey Holst, owner-partner of Gi-Bolst Tektonics.  Not knowing, it seemed, insulted young Richard.  The three of them nevertheless struck up a conversation during lunch, discussing whatever it is sixth graders talk about amongst themselves. They soon became inseparable.

Jon knew that Richard’s choices for officers didn’t sit well with his older brother. Richard, it seemed, chose personal friends over “better qualified” classmates.  Don’t confuse friendship with competence their father Mr. Holst would say (no one called him Geoffrey). A staff will make or break a Tai Pan’s effectiveness.  Richard had also rejected the election to replace Peter Pfiel, because it didn’t “feel” right. Friends and vacancies, the whispers grew, was no way to run the O.

Richard, however, remained a stickler for detail, always neat, formal, and proper. Even in sixth grade his desk and locker smacked of military order and cleanliness. Today, he could indicate an opinion with silence, say volumes with a glare. More discussion would erupt if Richard showed-up without a tie than if he had shot someone dead.  He would find a replacement his own way on his own terms. Then, there’s Matt, Richard’s opposite: street-smart, spontaneous, wise-cracking, unruly – clothes do not make the man, he would often say.  Although Matt came from the “other side of the tracks” he never asked anything of Richard, and that endeared Matt to Mr. Holst.  And, Jon?  Too cliché to say he fit somewhere in the middle.  No, Jon’s father had worked for the automotive department of Gi-Bolst Tektonics, since before Jon was born.  Jon knew Richard his entire life and that cleared Jon of all false pretenses.  Jon moved in cliques like a fish moves through water. He could be at home in the football locker room, hanging out with the drill team after a game, participating in the chess club, and attending a PTA fundraiser all at the same time. He blended, because he was unassuming, and he just wanted to have fun.

He even tried to make the best of Homecoming after the stabbing last year, though everyone pretty much agreed it, following so closely after a death, placed a serious damper on the festivities.  Everyone also knew, though no one dared to say, that Derrick Phelps somehow stood at the tempest’s center.

The Gang.

Oh no, they couldn’t have a cool name like Lords of Death, Savage Huns, Farmtown 12 or Los Magnificos, but then again all those names were taken.  They called themselves simply the Gang.  When Richard became Tai Pan, his brother confessed that the only regret he carried remained the Gang’s continued existence.  No one knows its origins for certain, other than another Phelps stood at that center as well. It surfaced generations ago, when, apparently, a handful of kids were expelled from the O by the Tai Pan of that time.  At first, the Gang seemed nothing more than a quasi-organized band of friends and acquaintances that on occasion teamed up for various shenanigans and came to each other’s aid. Soon, however, shenanigans turned to petty crimes.  Over the years, it had grown, like a cancer, with its stupid initiations, rites of passage and other dares so one could wear an idiotic red vest. Even though Hawkins had long since banned wearing them, it remained a badge of honor, and you could spot a member of the Gang at football games, pep rallies, dances, by their small red ring. Legend told of a distant ancestor to Derrick Phelps, who rode with the infamous Pima County Cowboys. The red vests apparently paid homage to the red sashes they had worn then.

During the holiday break of last year’s Saturnalia, after one of those odd religious festivals called Christmas, Richard’s brother had become obsessed with this “cancer.”  For the first time in the O’s history, a sitting officer had died, and it happened on his watch. Peter Pfiel was killed in a traffic accident while heading to Nashville to see his father in the hospital. The investigation concluded it a tragic accident, but, come to think of it, Peter’s father died too that night. Coincidence? Apparently others didn’t think so.  Police soon invaded Hawkins. That commotion, however, faded as quickly as it appeared. Rumor had it that, when Robert Gibson’s name surfaced, the investigation halted. Robert was the son of Gi-Bolst’s other half, Jeremiah Gibson, a powerful man with strong political ambitions.  Then, of course, there’s Derrick’s younger brother Shane. Why did yet ANOTHER Phelps have to be in Jon’s class?

Jon advised Richard that it all rested far beyond the influence of the O; the proper authorities would handle it. They’ve “handled it” for decades, Richard retorted. “Ah, hell,” he then added, scribbling absent mindedly on his yellow legal pad, “Peter’s girlfriend was the daughter of a Captain in the NPD. Did that do any good?”

He had a point.

“Extra innings?!” Jon sighed in disbelief.  He then realized that his second alarm clock had sounded a few minutes ago. He threw the mitt, expertly knocking the clock off the table that stood by the door to his bedroom.  Suddenly, the screen changed, the game replaced with the overpowering image of his mother. “Time for school,” she announced. “Be here in fifteen minutes.” The screen went dark.

“NOOOOO!” John dropped face first back into the couch cushions, shaking his arms and legs as before. He sighed and stood up, seemed to think for a moment, then stomped back toward his bedroom.

“I hate school,” he muttered. “I hate today; I hate that game; I hate popcorn.“

He kicked the clock as he passed, dropping his cap on the table.

Chapter 1, Part 3

The black and gray Krystal 72 Lincoln limousine pulled to a slowing halt outside the palatial, contemporary estate.  A noticeable contrast to the surrounding environment given that the neighboring houses existed since early the previous century.  The relative cool of this morning came as a welcomed relief to those that resided just north of Country Music, U.S.A. after the monotonous mini heat wave that gripped the area for the past week.

The driver’s door opened as the entry driveway electronic gate clanged to a close some hundred yards back.  The gentleman, whose true age would prove hard for anyone to divine but dressed in a durable utilitarian black suit, stepped into the morning light.  He assumed a stance of alert vigilance beside the vehicle as its door slowly shut and latched. He stood patiently.  At that moment two thin but obviously healthy Doberman Pinchers silently rounded the far corner of the house in full stride.  They did not bark but one would not misread the intent in their eyes.  Suddenly they halted, looked at the Driver for a moment, and turned about.

A series of distinct “pops” fired about the grounds as tiny metallic devices emerged from their subterranean housings.  Soon, an even and thoroughly fine shower of water covered the outlying grass – all except where the dogs trotted.  Each succeeding emitter would pause as the canines entered their field of fire only to resume as the dogs cleared each area.  The Driver leaned back against the limo and unfolded a newspaper he had under his arm as the dogs continued their patrol out of site. Security cameras lined the outlying wall, which stood some twenty feet into the air.  Cameras also protruded from the corners of each building, covered the hidden walkways. They kept vigilance 24 hours a day every day. 

Five out of seven days each week, sometimes six, the limousine arrived promptly at 5:05 am.  Two of those five days, the automatic sprinklers fired at precisely 5:07 am.  At 5:10, the entire kitchen came to life: the stove preheated, the coffee pot began to brew, the cleaning bots returned to their stations. 

At 5:15 am, an athletic looking bald gentleman with a sharply trimmed goatee emerged from the front door, immaculate in his suit, attaché case gripped firmly in his left hand.  He would hop down the steps as the Driver would fold his newspaper, work his way around the car while the rear door opened. The man handed his attaché case to the Driver as he entered the vehicle. The Lincoln sped off no later than 5:17 am.  At 5:20 am, the house intercom system sounded soft music throughout the dwelling, the blinds withdrew and the tint that shaded the main windows began to fade permitting sunlight to enter.  A small staff moved into action, grabbing this, moving that – breakfast only moments away.

Twice weekly the landscaping bots came to life. They trimmed bushes, mowed grass, serviced the pool.  Every morning the main fountain sprang to life and an American Flag came to rise up the one hundred foot pole that rested squarely in the center of the front lawn, its thirteen red and white stripes and fifty-two stars on a field of blue shining in the sun’s light.

Richard Daniel Holst groaned as he pulled a pillow over his head, the music playing throughout his room. He rolled over, pushing sheets of paper that littered his bed off onto the floor.  Paper also blanketed his desk and dresser, spotted with newspaper clippings, magazine articles and hand written notes.

“Woa!” Richard exclaimed. He had run out of mattress and now lied on top of the paper he just inadvertently tossed to the floor.

“Are you alright sir?” A distinctly artificial female voice asked, interrupting the music.

“It must be the first day of school,” Richard muttered to himself. “I’m fine Mother,” he then said forcefully as he struggled to remove himself from the bed sheet that now wrapped his legs. “Oh Jesus Christ,” he snapped, kicking wildly. Once freed, he leaped-up, reached down, wadding the bed sheet in overly exaggerated arm motions and faux anger and threw it down on the bed. “Don’t get-up,” he hissed, pointing at it.

He had stayed-up far too long last night.  Then again, he wanted this day to mark a perfect beginning and that meant preparation, so he dotted all the i’s and crossed the t’s.  Richard walked over to his main window and the blinds withdrew revealing the rear grounds. He gazed across the second largest Estate in Hendersonville though his thoughts lied elsewhere.  He ran his fingers through his dark wavy hair. 

He had always taken his lifestyle for granted; he simply assumed everyone lived this way. As he grew older, however, he started noticing that his life was, shall we say, somewhat unique.  Not everyone had “estates” nor servants or bodyguards.  He then became aware of just how hard his father worked to build the company. This labor had tested his parents’ marriage; it had tested the family; it had at times tested their entire lives, but it held together – just like his father’s company, it held together.

Richard turned back to his room and collected the papers strewn about the floor.  After placing them on his desk, he slid on a dark robe and headed down the long highway his bare feet slapping the marble.  He hopped down the main staircase, ignoring the family portraits that adorned the massive curved wall. He proceeded across the main lobby and through the short entry hallway. He knocked on the suit of armor that stood at the hallway’s end with a couple of rapid taps as he passed it and then moved briskly across the great room into the kitchen.  

He nodded to the staff as he entered, pausing only to grab his cup of coffee.  “Cream. Sugar,” he said and watched as they dispensed into the cup.  He then turned to the television in the far wall, interested, at least somewhat, in the news. It showed a view of what appeared to be highlights from a recent Congressional debate. The streaming text indicated a full docket revolving around international aid: the United Earth Oceans Organization’s current Secretary General had just suffered impeachment, and now the UEO’s founding members (United States, Canada, United Kingdom, and France) appeared to question the purpose and effectiveness; the International Lunar Finance Commission had just declared completion of the Plato crater moon base, coined “Alpha” though it was the second lunar facility built, and turned operations over to the World Space Commission. The United States Astronautics Agency’s own Clavius crater base reported the successful testing of the final Ares booster in the CLV development program, which now marks the official beginning of the Mars Capricorn Program. 

Richard took a sip of his coffee, a nasty habit he had picked-up from his father who drank the stuff like water. He could not, however, bring himself to drink it black.  He found the news topics fortuitous, since his father’s company had several dealings in the aerospace industry.  A beep from one of the myriad of devices in the kitchen intruded. He had stopped longer than he intended and now headed for his father’s study.  He walked to the rear of the room to an inconspicuous keypad located by a door sandwiched between two enormous bookshelves. After keying the combination he entered the dark room after the door slid aside.

It closed and a noticeable hum remained. Almost immediately, a series of lights began to illuminate, imbedded in the walls -- hundreds, thousands of tiny little stars came to life. The room stood no larger than ten feet in every direction, octagonal with walls angled at both the ceiling and floor. They reflected solid white, looking almost like a padded cell with each light serving as a button.  A singular overhead light snapped on, shining directly on a lone computer console resting in the room’s center. It had an old styled keyboard and practically ancient monochrome monitor. Richard sat and began to type. Good Morning Mother.

His father’s company bought the prototype mainframe from a British competitor, Weyland Industries, just prior to its merger with the Japanese corporation Yutani. The computer yielded interesting fruit his father would joke as he had it installed in the house. Bulky, difficult to cool, and designed to run a space station, Weyland pulled the plug before President Santos had announced the Ares program.

“Let’s see,” Richard said absently to himself as he set down his coffee mug.  He typed some more. Connect CS Hawkins Terminal 1.

Interface 2067 Ready for Inquiry.

Tai Pan.

Access student class schedule. Junior.

At times he still found it hard to believe that the title had become his the past summer, even though he felt strongly that he had indeed earned the privilege to take the reigns – despite the criticism he remained but a legacy.  Yes, his brother had run the O successfully for two years, but, after the secret ballot, no doubts should have remained with anyone. His brother smiled as he handed Richard the ring, then, true to form, rubbed the top of his head furiously.  Every Tai Pan must nominate a sophomore his senior year, groom him (or her), offer the ballot by spring break, and then resign upon graduation.  Richard wasted no time: he applied himself to the task from the moment he placed the ring upon his finger.  His brother raised an eyebrow, when Richard immediately rescinded the call for a special election to fill the fourth seat of the circle – a seat left vacant upon the accidental death of its member.  Richard would fill the seat himself, as was his prerogative now crowned the new Tai Pan.

For the second time in the O’s history, it faced a school year without a full officer’s corps.  In addition, he hadn’t made clear contact within the Knox Doss or Klein Forest provinces – not to mention they had yet to make inroads with the city’s newest high school Hendersonville High.  Curious, the city had existed for over two centuries yet did not have a “central” high school until last year.  Busy times ahead, it seems.

“No, no, no,” Richard said as he shook his head. “That will not do. That will not do at all.” He sat upright and typed with more force this time. No one’s schedule matched.

One item, however, seemed to haunt his expectations: the stabbing during last year’s great Hawkins / Knox Doss football game. It indicated, at least to a select few, a much broader scope of events with farther reaching consequences than appreciated. Richard’s brother used inordinate resources to follow the various leads, indicators, rumors to no avail.  No one would listen to a kid, and the specter still remained.

End of Line.

”Thank-you Mother,” he quipped as he grabbed his coffee and exited the alcove.  All of his officers shared second, fourth periods, lunch and breaks together – more for convenience than outright necessity but something Richard wanted nonetheless.

“Lights,” he barked as he entered his bathroom, dropping his robe. “Water, Hot,” he added as the room came to life. “It’s going to be a great year,” he tried to convince himself as he dropped his pajama pants and jumped into the shower.

“JESUS CHRIST MOTHER!”

It was cold. No, it was beyond cold.

“It has got to be the first day of school,” he stammered leaping back out. “I said hot, Mother.”

“Adjusting.”

Chapter 1, Part 2

One cannot help but feel a peaceful calm by listening to lake water as it gently rides up the sand of its shore. The aerobatics of overhead birds and their melodious song spotted the continuous motion subtly. Soon, accented beats follow with the soft background chatter of distant ducks or the splashing of a far-off fish as the last of the chirping crickets come to rest. A passerby comes to appreciate this myriad of sounds gathered throughout Indiana Lake at this time of dawn: a virtual symphony.

Rising, disguised as thickening fog, a blanket of white covers the surface, punctuated by the day breaking sunlight that reflects off the water. It becomes that familiar mirage of a hot steaming bath, creating a sense of the eerie, the unnatural – no, simply the unexpected.  So thick does the vapor rest that it would not permit the waters to mirror the great star as it cleared distant Old Hickory.

This marvelous sight stood ignored by the shaggy brown canine as it padded its way along the shore, playfully hopping along the water’s edge. To even the casual observer, it clearly had something on its mind that directed its course. It wondered only a few times to chase a collection of geese into the water or ducks into the air. In the immediate distance, and across the lake itself, a din began to crescendo, giving birth to activity as automobiles, buses, bikes moved along their charted paths, coming into and going out of sight.  With each passing moment, the activity increased, even if only slightly, broadcasting the motions people made to face the opening day. Clockwork.

The dog trotted up an embankment, passing through a hole in the chain link fence entering a camp trailer park.  It appeared to move effortlessly, darting over, around, under, through obstacles almost subconsciously with that look only a dog can hold.  It indicates that the animal doesn’t really notice where exactly it’s going just that it’s going.  Nevertheless, all dogs have purpose and ultimate goals in mind.  It darted under a porch and around an overturned tricycle and then across a driveway to hop up a particular set of stairs.  It sat patiently, just inside the open door.

It shook and began to scratch behind its ear.  About that time the sound of coughing became evident.  William Matthew McClane straightened his arm that had covered his eyes from the morning light.  He lied nude on his back, a cigarette hanging loosely from the side of his mouth. He exhaled a blast of smoke, almost dropping the filtered stick of tobacco onto the sheets.

He did not want to get-up.

The dog let out a small but not insignificant whine, as if urging Matt to do what they both knew would prove necessary.  Finally, he sat-up and ran fingers through his thick head of semi-curly hair, scooting to the foot of his bed.

He rubbed the black stubble coating his face, a distinct contrast to the blond mop that hung just below his shoulders.   He coughed again then gathered a wad of saliva to blast it out the open window above his bed.  He inhaled from the cigarette a final time and tossed it after the spittle.

“Damn,” he muttered, looking at the dog. “I’m a beautiful sight aren’t I?”

The dog watched as Matt planted his feet upon the tile, pausing a moment to acknowledge the cool air now assaulting his naked person.  He turned, reached toward a card table against the wall. He almost fell forward. He grabbed a chunk from the remains of last night’s roast beef and lobbed it at the dog, who took hold of the chunk eagerly.

Matt went to the refrigerator, not yet having opened his eyes fully and removed a Flager. He proceeded on across the trailer’s kitchen, hunted for an opener, popped the top letting it bounce indiscriminately on the floor.  He became momentarily confused; he really needed a trash can.

He stepped-up to the toilet and took a huge, albeit slow, swallow – some of it running down his neck. He continued to stare at the ceiling as urine splashed … waiting …

Finally, he belched – that deep resonating kind of belch that seems to rise up from the Underworld, bringing with it every unholy inhabitant from one’s intestines. It felt good.

He shook his head violently and stepped backward out of the bathroom, he glanced over to the dog still sitting patiently. “School really sucks, mutt.” His voice resonated with more force, clearer.  Then, as if snapping himself alert, he snatched a towel off a kitchen chair, shaking it with his free hand as he walked into the morning light.

He could not stop himself from chuckling quietly as he observed the old hammock swaying ever so slightly with two covered intertwined bodies sleeping lazily upon it.

Matt gulped down a second large swallow, kicking the hammock’s dip. “Up, dickhead!”  Not even a stir.

He wrapped the towel about his waste, placed his thumb over the bottle’s opening and shook it violently until a shower of barley suds erupted.

“hey .. Hey.. HEY!!” A boy shouted angrily while a girl let out a scream.

Matt laughed, shaking his head as he let the growing foam run out onto the ground. “Rise and shine.”

“w-What?” Mark Daniel McClane muttered as his girlfriend began a frantic struggle, she pulled herself from Mark’s grasp and leapt from the hammock. “Shit,” she hissed, violently thrashing her hair with her fingers. “My parents are going KILL me, and ground me from YOU.”

“Again,” Matt added.

“Come back to bed baby,” Mark pleaded. He rolled over to reach for her. The hammock swung, and he promptly fell flat on the grass below. “GODSDAMMIT!”

Matt gulped down the last of the Flager, tossed the bottle onto a rubbish heap as he headed for their mother’s trailer.

“Actually,” the girl added as she struggled to put on her sandals, hopping on one foot. “They will kill YOU.”

“AGAIN!” Matt shouted as he opened the front door.  She took-off down the street in a sprint, as Mark slowly raised his head. “Gods school sucks.”

The blasting hot water proved exactly what Matt needed as it stimulated each and every nerve ending.  School, he thought, nothing more to say really.  Three months ago seemed like only yesterday. He pushed open those great double doors and ran out like a screaming banshee amongst a stampede of screaming banshees.  Today, he returned an upperclassman.  Big deal.  He returned as Secretariat of the Organization – the “O” as it was more widely called. Okay, that was a big deal, something he had wished upon himself for quite some time. His appetite grew during his freshman year when he first experienced it up close.  It recruits during one’s seventh grade year; your responsibilities grow with each graduation. It reaches everywhere; it provides everything.

The Organization spawned curiously, an interesting if not utterly fascinating phenomenon. Its beginning took place well over a century ago, during severe economic times.  Four juniors from Hawkins started with a simple task: help a fellow student, a friend of theirs, save the family farm north of the town.  They worked with local business owners, parishes, town council members; they organized blood drives, yard sales, labor pools (hence the all-too-original name).  Soon they began bartering with neighboring schools, towns. They even contacted and formulated a partnership with the Political Director of the local Federation of Interstate Truckers.  Over the next few months, during even that most difficult time, they raised money. Lots of money.  

The local chronicle captured the bank’s surrender of the title; the headlines briefly dominated the State newspapers. In the background of the most circulated photograph, off to the side, smiling amongst themselves, stand those four juniors.  That picture hangs in the School library to this day.

Yet, once one gives birth to a living creature, you cannot simply lock it away. It existed, it breathed, it functioned. it provided … it continued.  Its operations defined themselves loosely, allowing varying degrees of flexibility within its own self realized mission.  Everyone recruited benefited – either financially or materially.  It demanded only time and effort.  Ultimate authority rested with the Organization’s High Chancellor (though that term lost favor after the Germania War), referred to now simply as Tai Pan. This Chinese word Big Shot took hold last century when H.K. General Stores opened its first satellite in Hendersonville. Dairy Farm owned and operated the H.K.’s, which itself was a subsidiary of the massive trading conglomerate out of Hong Kong: Straun and Company. Its head? Tai Pan. The High Chancellor at the time liked the sound.  The O’s lifestyle, however, consumed; it did not relent. Whoever assumed roles in its upper echelons required total devotion; the fundraising tool had quite simply become the machine – and that machine wanted Matt McClane … well, at least, the incoming Tai Pan did.

Matt shut off the water and hung his head upside down. He scratched it violently with both hands, stepped out and wiped the mirror clear of its condensation.  I hate shaving, he thought. At least the thin mustache he coaxed all summer looked good. He shook the can vigorously and sprayed the foam into his palm.

“School,” he sighed again as the faucet started to fill the sink.

Chapter 1, Part 1

Chapter 1: Strangers and Friends

August 25 – The outskirts of Nashville, Tenn. Hendersonville

“There’s no defeat in life save from within, unless you’re beaten there you’re bound to win …”

Author Unknown

---

Old Hickory Hill took the first enlightening whispers from the morning sun. Far beyond the region of the Smokey Mountains, yet east of the great Mississippi river rested that quiet bulge, which stood benignly defiant of the horizon’s rarely noticed dip.

Hundreds of feet below, the emerging sun brought a small community into sight. From its base, the sunrise began with a creeping clearance of the dominant summit.

Etched by the already evaporating early morning dew, unusual for so late in the summer, sunlight stabbed its way through crevices, holes, insignificant cracks and other spaces.  That magic transition between dawn and day began; when the goddess Aurora began her graceful withdraw.  And, with the sun’s relative angle still low, a stark contrast grew: midget flowers shone purple and yellow. The grass seemed to glow, and above this there rose from the flat tableland great pine trees. Some of these grotesquely crooked, yet still upright giants reared fully some thirty feet above the flatness.

Through most the prior evening, other less pronounced light stabbed the darkness in the little settlement called Norchester. Along the southern rim of the floor surrounding the Hill, a series of blue-white incandescence blasted upward. These brilliant yet tiny houselights created a series of oases, which banished Nyx.  And now, as day crept into existence, those lights faded.

Through this maze of natural and manmade objects, the probing sun found his way into everything and uncovered movement. Two men wearing the light brown jumpsuits and white hardhats with fluorescent strips of the city’s sanitation department stepped off the slowing truck. One glanced at his watch then turned to study the long series of metal and plastic containers that lined each of the driveways before them. “About that time,” he noted. His companion nodded, indicating the front door of a house not too distant. “Any minute now,” he smirked as the refuse collecting bots deployed form their bins.

As if on cue, the door to that house opened and a teenage boy stepped out, turned about then stood expectantly as he slid on a pair of dark lensed sunglasses. He appeared slightly anxious, as if wishing to himself that whatever this morning’s schedule held would happen quickly. He wore grey, baggy sweatpants, no shirt. He stood just shy of six feet, perhaps a little thin but carried himself with confidence, his dirty blond hair somewhat disheveled.

He stood for a moment, breathing slowly, looking out past the small collection of vehicles in his driveway and plotted a path before him.  His hands moved slowly and placed a pair of older headphones over his ears. He forcefully clamped them down with a lightly colored and sweat stained strap, then shook his head, adjusting their position. Satisfied, he placed the microdisc in his Walkman; time to move.

Nathaniel Barthalemew Baird ran in disciplined form, his legs kicking up dust from the gravel as he ground-up distance. He deliberately fell into rhythm with the music, and, once achieved, his stride mirrored the swing of a clock’s pendulum.  His subconscious took control as he kept going.  He rarely concentrated on the ground or reflected on the distance traveled, but instead coaxed the music through his head, allowing it to keep him in sync, the pendulum as constant as a universal coefficient.

The air felt unusually cool and crisp, dry despite the evaporating dew. It forced Hypnos’ clutches loose and the last vestiges of sleep departed.  He nodded to the workers he saw each week, ducking under a bot as it returned with a container. He cleared the truck’s length in short order.

Nathan became a junior this year, an upperclassman in the micro-society of high school.  With a wrenching force, it seemed, the times began to change.  Whether society moved gloriously forward or fell back a step or two would remain for others to argue incessantly.  Theories came and went like wisps of wind, but last night on the evening news, an interview with a distant college student struck some hidden nerve within Nathan.  He didn’t fancy himself particularly ideological; politics, it seemed, simply existed as a necessary evil.  Still, he sympathized with what the student said.

“We are the people of this generation, bred in at least modern comfort, housed now in university dorms, looking uncomfortably at the world we will inherent.” She then looked straight at the camera. “Today’s youth, tomorrow’s leaders are sensitive, searching, poetic. We seek the establishment of true democracy, of individual participation in order that we may share in those decisions that will determine the quality and direction of our lives.  We will be silent no longer.”

Rehearsed words, but their impact ignited the crowd about her. This message echoed repeatedly from university campuses throughout the nation, reiterated by students of varying ages, diverse ethnicities, differing religions. It originated from a tragedy that literally exploded onto the headlines shortly after President Richard Nixon’s second inauguration -- its crescendo growing with each month.  It has become known as the Bath Consolidated School Disaster, where 38 elementary school children, two teachers, four other adults and the bomber himself, Andrew Kehoe, died. At least 58 people were injured.

When authorities found Andrew’s open letter, they learned he had become ostensibly upset by a property tax levied to fund construction of the school. He blamed the additional tax for financial hardships that led to foreclosure of his farm. He used a detonator to ignite dynamite and hundreds of pounds of pyrotol, which he had planted inside the school over the course of many months. As rescuers started gathering at the school, furthermore, Kehoe drove up and detonated a bomb inside his shrapnel-filled vehicle, killing himself, the school superintendent, and several others. During rescue efforts, a second series of explosions destroyed the school's south wing.

President Nixon went to the site the very next day. Overriding Secret Service objections, he spoke to the crowd, standing near the rubble. He rejected the apparent division some saw in American society. He vowed to “bring us together.”  “We cannot learn from one another until we stop shouting at one another, until we speak quietly enough so that our words can be heard as well as our voices.” 

The election of Richard Nixon surprised few when he unseated President Matt Santos six years ago. Although Nathan had barely reached the age of eleven, his family – always political junkies – became wrapped-up in the unfolding drama.  Nixon won not because he emerged as the overwhelming favorite, not because he was particularly well liked, not because President Santos was doing poorly but because of a single exchange on the border of New Mexico toward the end of the campaign. A growing rift over immigration caused the first markings of what many started to see as a division in society at large. The death of a young child, just prior to a campaign rally brought it all to the forefront.  When confronted by some of the demonstrators, Nixon calmly stood his ground, refusing to move. “You must understand that we are willing to die for what we believe in,” said one protestor. “I understand that,” Nixon replied. “I would like you to understand that we are trying to build a world in which you do not have to die for what you believe in.” Unscripted and filmed by someone in the crowd, it played over and over for the rest of the campaign – and with that came the White House.

Such matters remained distant, almost as if they took place on another planet.  Nathan had other more pressing problems: high school.

Fate possesses a keen sense of irony. On the one hand, things may seem to fall into place; how his current situation reflected the desired change for which today’s “youth” cried – for “change,” it certainly was. For two years, Nathan attended, and hoped to graduate from, Knox Doss Senior High, but, alas, such a fate did not rest in the stars. It would not come to pass. The School Board voted to rezone the whole area with the completion of the city’s third high school built to accommodate the growing population. Two years of deliberation, months of debate on a bill that faced rewrite after rewrite, and then, with the stroke of a pen, Nathan now attended Christopher Samuel Hawkins Senior High School, the city’s oldest and most well-known institute of secondary education.

His former school’s number one rival.

Personally? Nathan never quite “got it.” He never understood the pride, how it consumed those around him. Sports?  Maybe.  Football?  Okay.  But, the student populace as whole? No.  To be labeled by where you live? You’re either a Laker or a Dosser, and naught in the twain shall they meet. This held especially true for gangs.  They too seemed rather mindless, and yet they existed in both schools, like a growing cancer.  Last year a student almost died after a stabbing at the year-end Knox Doss / Hawkins Game. And, for what, exactly?

Nathan opined that people wanted to belong to something greater than themselves, but he did not truly understand the deeply rooted feelings that back these actions. He, however, learned to respect their intensity and become wary of their consequences. Surviving high school with your sanity intact rests in analogies not maxims.  Once can illuminate the consequences of actions in comparable situations, yet each individual must discover for themselves what situations are in fact comparable.  In other words, just keep your head down.

Deliberately, Nathan began to slow his pace, lessen his stride, retarding his momentum until he came to a brisk then slower walk and finally halted.  Down the hill, past the fence, Nathan could see the back of his house.  Only one obstacle stood between it and him. He lowered his sunglasses.

Saint Patrick.

Actually, Nathan did not really know the great German Shepard’s name – or the name of his owner for that matter.  He did know, however that it did not want anyone near its yard, and that it was also a great way to end every morning run: a true challenge not simply a contest against yourself.  That’s why he nicknamed the beast after his younger brother.

It rested on its porch, staring intently at Nathan as he stood still in the street above.  Nathan bit his lip, bringing his breathing back under control then regulating it into short spurts.  He moved without the slightest broadcast of intent.  Using his left arm as a pole, he cleared the chain link fence and now invaded the dog’s sacred territory.  He landed flat, both feet square, knees bent. He checked his Walkman then launched himself forward, taking huge strides as he cut across the yard. In the short sprint, a Shepherd can reach almost 35 miles per hour, and Nathan did not even see it leap from the porch. He did, however, hear its barking.  It was fast, incredibly fast, and closing rapidly.

“Don’t look back,” Nathan hissed between his clenched teeth as he cleared the side of the house.  “Don’t look.” The yard took a sudden dip, and Nathan almost slid down the embankment; he glanced over his shoulder. “You looked,” he sighed to himself.  The dog was in flight, leaping the length of the embankment.  Nathan switched course, heading for the old stump. The dog landed and started its turn, almost losing its footing in the grass, yet it still gained on Nathan with every completion of a stride.  It lunged.

Nathan’s foot touched the stump, and he vaulted himself a good eight feet into the air, both hands gripped the top of the privacy fence, and he swung his legs over as the Shepard land on the far side of the stump.  Nathan hit the ground a tad harder than he intended, rolled, finally sliding to a halt as the dog continued barking and throwing itself against the fence. Nathan smiled as he came to his feet.

“Whoosh,” he exhaled. “Someday … maybe.”

With that, Nathan removed his headband and walked toward his house.

Nathan's Prologue

History does not teach as a cookbook that offers pretested recipes. It instructs by analogy not maxims. No academic discipline can remove the burden of difficult choices. This holds true especially for someone whose degrees, expertise and training are in history.

                I witnessed burden first hand, though, as I must repeatedly remind everyone it seems, my personal role remained quite negligible. At best, I can attest I shook then President McCallister’s hand, having met him for all of about six minutes. Yes, my “stint” in his White House lasted some nineteen months, four days but that came about quite by accident and passed quickly.

                That time, furthermore, does not represent my first exposure to Pennsylvania Avenue. As many know now, I was part of the archaeological team that unearthed the craft. We preferred that term over the oft used “find.”  I, for one, have no doubt, given its odd location in the Peiraieus, that those who buried it did not want it found – at least not easily. I still do not completely understand why I was part of Dr. Daniel Jackson’s final team, or why, for that matter, the United States Air Force became involved.  I nevertheless assisted in the final report’s presentation to then President Hayes and his panel chaired by Dr. Arthur Nielson, where Dr. Jackson deciphered a new ancient Greek word on the craft: “Raptor.”  True, one cannot overstate the significance.  As my much more well-known fellow graduate student Harry Jones retorted (once the headlines broke): we can no longer doubt that life here began out there. No, I do not know where the craft went or where it resides now.

                Perhaps the question I receive most asks if anything prepared me for the most difficult decisions I made. The short answer?  No. Nothing can, really. History, however, I firmly opine, provides an idea, a framework in which one can assess complex circumstances critically. By “history” here, however, I mean one’s personal history. For this tale, I mean my own.

                Disclaimers first: my life does not exude exemplary exaltation. I wondered most of it as a boat without a rudder. I was late to graduate high school, late to graduate college, long in pursuing my degrees – did not complete my Ph.D. – did not serve in the military, wasted too many years working in the public sector, then became a tepid business owner.  I was dinged with an alcohol related traffic violation, have a failed marriage, was late filing my taxes (twice), and, finally, according to many, never quite matured. I became caught-up, however, in a massive whirlwind.

                My friends will attest how often I joke about Hendersonville, Tennessee.  The “city by the lake” rests just a scant eighteen miles north of Nashville, had (at the time I think) a population of about 100,000. This ordinary town in a typical State in a regular part of the Country did not proclaim a historical significance, and yet some cosmic force, some planetary alignment, or the gods themselves made this place a key focal point for history altering events. 

This, in hindsight, took place long before the scandal that engulfed Governor Gibson, the most popular chief executive in the State’s history (and most certainly would have been a Presidential candidate) – a scandal that began, I can say now, with a cover-up of a petty, but not insignificant crime, which took place at my high school.  Of course, in the great scheme of things, it stood as a rather ordinary crime in an unremarkable location during an apparently unimportant time. While many of you all know of this crime, you do not know this crime – as the links running from the curious activities of a teenage gaggle to ITC to the State’s Executive Mansion have never really seen the light-of-day.

                Now, to the point:  I graduated from Christopher Samuel Hawkins Senior High School, Hendersonville, Tennessee a very long time ago – a school not unknown to many at the time. It made national headlines throughout the country during the extended hostage crisis, the one, which unfolded shortly before I arrived, where a certain James Cole held fifty-two students hostage for several days and then, poof, up and vanished without a trace (to this day).

                Younger people sometimes forget that all of us from my generation graduated two full years later that we should have, because of hurricane Alycia, or that the entire country faced great challenges after the destruction of Denver, the war with Japan, not to mention those years from Presidents Palmer to Taylor, where we swapped Chief Executives like baseball cards during what seemed like endless national crises and terrorist attacks.

                Before these years of “upheaval,” life seemed simpler. As I entered a new high school the nation prepared to send men to Mars, the headlines chattered with benign drama: budget debates of how much money should the United States provide the UEO or contribute to Moonbase Alpha or the Earth-Saturn Probe. Other headlines merely chronicled the mundane: the killing of Jim Crumb a.k.a. Buffalo Bill, the court martial of Colonel Nathan Jessup, the return (and subsequent vanishing) of the Oceanic Six, or local celebrity Raylan Givens, a lawman who seemed to make the Tennessee papers more than Bloom County. Of course, Rocky Balboa had just retired, the Cubs finally won the World Series, and we had those rather curious incidents in both the Sonoran and Gobi Deserts, where in the case of the latter, if you remember, an entire ship, one missing for years, reappeared.  On a more straight forward note, the 6^th Day Laws had just passed; the Glass Tower, the largest skyscraper in history, erupted into flames; and then we had that train wreck near Devil’s Tower Wyoming, which forced an evacuation of damn near half the State.

                In hindsight, the first rumblings, which should have indicated the years of turmoil to come, started emerging then. Maybe what we considered mundane and benign hid a deeper mystery. That summer, for example, before I started at Hawkins, my family had travelled to Dyersville, Iowa and visited Mr. Kinsella’s baseball field. There, I met two FBI agents who had just left Sioux City. While our paths crossed but for a day, the curious chat we had left a deep impression. Some claimed to see dead people there (I did not). This came on the heels of swirling local rumors of alien abductions. We all want to believe, one agent mentioned, and his conviction has stuck with me. The melodrama of Hawkins Senior High, which encompassed my teenage years, should have served as a looking glass, a crystal ball foretelling what would come to the country writ large. I, however, wanted, like in that movie whose title eludes me now, the blue pill. I would become a modern day Platonic Odysseus: be an ordinary man and mind my own business, except that did not last long.

                This is not a history book.

                This text remains primarily a personal account of people and events as I perceived them many moons ago and can remember today. I did not fathom the roles the four of us would play until long after they had played. Furthermore, I do not claim to fathom them all today. I do believe nonetheless that they set the stage and prepared me for the things to come far more so than I appreciated then.  I only offer you one account that chronicles the actions of myself, Jonathan Michael Burcham, William Mathew McClane, and certainly Richard Daniel Holst, a circle of four that continuously butted heads with Michael Holt, Robert Gibson, Todd McElroy, and, of course, Shane Anthony Phelps.  Others, too, played critical roles, the women, for example, Tonya Marksberry, Kelly Armstrong, Gwendolyne Stacy, and, of course, Suzanne Snyder and Melanie Denaro.  Still, the cast of characters does not stop there: Daniel Godston, Mark Anderson, Colleen McNally, Glenn Reeves, Jeff Williams, Brian Stewart, and a whole host of secondary characters, et al. shaped events to come more than history has recognized. An oversight I will correct now.

Unfortunately, a few dozen secrets remain locked away with a handful of others that can answer the questions, which will undoubtedly surface after my tale. I hope someday that they will all find an audience.  With regard to myself, I did what I did; I will not deny it. But, at the same time, I did not undertake some actions imputed to me by the Hendersonville legends – not that I would not claim some of these deeds, but rather too many who come to walk C.S. Hawkins Senior High have come to paint me as a modern day Theseus. The truth is some seventeen kids lost their lives the four years I was attached to that school, far too great a number to remain overlooked or dismissed. Indeed, at one point, many thought I too had died.  Some of the scars still remain rather raw, and I therefore cannot attest that I remain truly objective, but, since this is first and foremost a personal account, it does not matter. Enjoy.

Author's Introduction

I started the story (-ies) I post here in 1983, when I was but seventeen years old. I had (what now seems) an ostentatious plan: craft tales that began by chronicling the adventures of four (4) high school juniors (I was one at the time).  I would use quasi-autobiographical material as a starting point but thoroughly construct a whole fictional universe around them. In other words, live out a fantasy on paper, start a task with no real end in sight that would take forever.

Within two (2) years, my universe began drawing from fictional universes I enjoyed; it came to have no limits. Like the ancient Mediterranean Mythographers, I found I had brought an entire cosmos into being, similar to our own. I continually shaped it, nurtured it, and expanded it as needed.  I call it “The Planeaux Paniverse.”

My initial inspiration sprang from Murray Leinster’s “Sidewise in Time.” Soon after I had read this gem, however, DC’s Crisis on Infinite Earths as well as Alan Moore’s Watchmen and his League of Extraordinary Gentlemen exploded onto the scene. My Muses began to sing in chorus.

My tale focuses on teenage melodrama, is primarily character driven, but the plots reach far outside the realm of their high school. Their actions have consequences on what most adults would consider the real world.  In short, it offers a realized importance to youths, who in our world mistakenly believe their lives, their drama are for more consequential to the larger world.

I continued to work, build upon, and re-write these tales as I grew older. My characters would grow older with me. At some point in the mid 80’s, I believe, I then decided to craft their end stories. Consequently, I paused and wrote the final tale (at least outlined it).

Thus, from that point forward, I could add to this universe as my own world progressed knowing I had an endgame. I could then, if I desired, start over at some future date and re-tell the story from different points-of-view. For example, I might write a new tale that left the teenage world I created behind and chronicle again the now established historical events in my fictional universe from the “adult” side.

These stories would not only offer a series of tales I crafted over twenty or so years but also become an insight into the author by revealing my shifting views, reflecting my changing life, proffering my altering values as well as demonstrate the growth I experienced. I would do this while illustrating the growth of my characters from their experiences.

For the most part, I continued this labor until I got married and had kids. It all then stayed buried until I unearthed the box recently in my attic, having sold the house to my Ex.  I have, unfortunately, lost half of the material – most of it ancillary: individual character biographies & my sketches of them; oodles of labor – very sad –but most of the actual writings I have retained. Yay me.

Who knows, maybe someone somewhere found my sketches and may stumble across this blog and return them to me (and maybe monkeys will fly out of my arse humming Hail to the Chief too). I do know, however, exactly when and where I lost them: 1990 or 1991 in the Nora area of Indianapolis, Indiana.

Back to the point, the core premise of this tale is my own, but I do not claim that all of the individual story ideas stem entirely from my own imagination.

My creation has become a very complex multifaceted crystal. I started with the experiences in my own life, added the history of this world, altering various details, and then I added the history and events of fictional worlds from all mediums in existence.  Then, like Greek and Roman Tragedians, I also liberally borrowed plot ideas, character personalities, situations, and even chunks of dialogue from a plethora of sources, re-crafting their essence into my fictional universe.

In sum, I took historical events and biographies; I incorporated them into my Paniverse. I then took movies, TV shows, novels, comic books, et al and incorporated them into my Paniverse.  I might also see something I particularly liked from any of the above and incorporate specific aspects (like a scene or a bit of dialogue, a plot point). Like a good term paper, however, I diligently cite my sources and give credit where credit is due.

My justification is simple: plagiarism is the HIGHEST form of flattery.  Everyone today has at one point or another imagined themselves being a superhero (e.g. what I would do if I were Superman) or placed themselves inside a movie (sort of like Last Action Hero or to a lesser degree Pleasantville) or wished they were present at some historical event (like throughout Forest Gump).  Well, I do it all here.

Therefore, I must proffer the legal mumbo-jumbo first, since I do not want sued six ways to Sunday (is that phrase copyrighted as well?):  my stories reference two main genres: history and fiction. I refer to historical personalities and others’ fictional characters as well as actual historical events and others’ works of fiction. I treat them all as “real.” In addition, I make changes to all of them. I am, I think, writing an overly nuanced (and new?) form: fan fiction from a parallel universe.

My Paniverse co-exists with a myriad of the real and well-established fictional universes.  I do not, however, use anyone’s personality as if it were my own. For example, while I may refer to Carl Sagan, and he is (essentially) the Carl Sagan you know, his life story unfolded quite differently in my Paniverse.  In addition, I might also call attention to James Bond as if he was a real person, and you can assume the essentials of the stories you read (or saw on screen) actually took place in my universe. You will not, however, see me use James Bond in my stories.

That said, the art of incorporating these universes into my Paniverse is in fact my own creation. Therefore, any references should not be considered the ideas of the originators or an endorsement of me or my work by them.  I have simply created a universe that treats what they created as real and having actually taken place side-by-side with each other -- like the League of Extraordinary Gentlemen – as well as the “real” world you know, but where events have not quite unfolded as our history dictates. My behemoth has become substantially more complex.

Lastly, with respect to my own fictional characters, any resemblance to otherwise known or unknown real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental. Well, okay, I tried to write that last part with a straight face.

As I have repeatedly said, I use my own life as a starting point, so of course my friends and acquaintances make appearances. Whole characters are modeled from them. I hope simply they find it all flattering.

I therefore expressly disclaim any liability for any consequences arising out of a mistaken belief that any of my stories are in fact real, that any living or dead actual person or fictional character depicted in the world I have created actually did anything like that in their worlds.  No one should conclude anything I mention from a work of fiction becomes established canon in their worlds.

So, without further ado, I have decided to keep a promise I made to myself thirty years ago and publish these damn things. 

While I have proof read and made minor corrections before posting, please remember, that these started with the imagination and from the hand of a seventeen year old boy long on ambition but short on experience (I mean, seriously, could I have constructed an accurate conversation of teenage girls?).