The Brotherhood #26

By Mark W. Meier

Part 26

Act III

The First Horseman

You spent weeks on damage control. You’d appear on cable news shows, and they’d play video of you saying you’d run for president. Then they’d all ask the same question in one form or another: “Was that a mistake, or did you change your mind?”

Politicians seldom answer questions. A skilled craftsman will phrase a response that’s deliberately vague without addressing the issue, but make it seem like they’d said something.

“A run for president would be premature at this time. I’m not ruling out a run in the future, but for the time being I have other priorities.”

The whole situation worked to your advantage. Newsrooms featured you, your name, your ambitions. Name recognition went through the roof. When you ran for governor you were very well positioned.

Enemies fought you. Politics is dirty, but I fought dirtier than anyone. Of course I kept a genteel exterior. If anyone discovered my true nature, Leo Jeffrey would be useless.

Even with everyone knowing you, what you stood for and against, the incumbent governor nearly beat you. An affable fool can make lots of friends, and he had. All you needed was one more vote than him.

You made it.

Barely.

Three separate recounts put your margin of victory at less than a hundred votes. Three weeks after the election the governor conceded in a brief online statement.

Maybe you’d learned to follow my directions. Maybe.

That winter a troubling flu-like illness broke out. A dozen people in the same city were quarantined. Four died. Nobody noticed except a few regional news outlets. After all, flu deaths were common.

A few other cases were scattered statewide, but vicious cold and near-record snowfall pushed illness away from mass awareness.

Fundraising the next summer was simple. Millions of dollars found their way into your campaign coffers. At first nobody noticed. But as winter approached again a couple of national media probed your finances. By Christmas they were close to uncovering what only you and I knew – most of your money came from illegal sources.

Then the disease hit with a vengeance.

Thousands flooded hospitals across the state. Hundreds swamped funeral homes. Grieving families covered the front pages of publications across the nation. Only one New York paper broke the trend with a headline on page five. “Who Owns Wilson?” The story implied foreign organizations with unfriendly connections. Few paid attention to your finances when the flu-like sickness killed tens of thousands from Newark to Portland.

While winter didn’t have an iron grip on the whole country, the illness terrorized colder northern cities and clogged hospitals. The CDC shut down interstate travel in the northern half of the United States.

On camera, you were sympathetic. Privately, you laughed.

“Oh, Leo, how did you do it?”

I sipped an expensive cognac in your office. “Trade secret. Now we have work to do.” I didn’t bring up your missing tree. Neither did you. I smiled to myself.

“Work? Can’t we celebrate for a while?”

I gave you ten minutes. My enemies never slept, and you could block some of their strategies if we kept working. This epidemic provided too many opportunities to pass up.

“I want you to invest your entire personal fortune in a research center on the verge of discovering a cure.” I plucked the bottle of liquor from your cabinet and refilled your glass – and mine.

“A cure?” You scoffed. “Why? Didn’t you want this chaos?” You’d turned deliciously heartless. “Find the cure and the people will be forever grateful, as will their families. Pour all your money into that and you’ll be a hero.”

You sipped while thinking. “All my money? Every cent?”

Idiot. “No. Just your above-board personal accounts. Nobody knows about Libya. Using that won’t benefit you at all.”

“Caymans? Switzerland? China?” Your eyes widened.

“And Russia. Every cent others can connect to you.” I tossed back my last bits of cognac.

“That’s fifty million dollars.”

I smiled. “The federal government will buy enough vaccine to inoculate every man, woman, and child in America. Canada has millions of cases, and it’ll crop up in Europe and Asia for hundreds of millions more. Your cut will be pennies per dose, but the overall take will be pushing a billion dollars. You’ll more than make up your investment.”

You made a call right after I left. “Josh, it’s Bob. I want you to sell everything. There’s a research company I want you to buy, and put everything else into funding their search for a cure for this epidemic.”

You were mocked for twenty-three days. By the thirtieth day the scope of your investment sank in and you were called a philanthropist. When a cure was announced six weeks later, you were vilified as a money grubbing opportunist.

Headlines screamed, “Governor Wilson Cashes In!” Attention like that can’t be purchased. A press release detailing how seventy percent of your profit would be handed over to not-for-profit organizations satisfied most reporters. You were loved by most of the nation for backing a little-known laboratory using your money to find the cure, despite the media’s continued attacks.

You told skeptics, “If the lab had failed I’d have been penniless.”

You were nominated for a Nobel Prize, but my Brothers had other plans for it.

A few people dug deeper and found the groups receiving your donations were political action committees. Some of the critics accepted payoffs.

The rest vanished.

When your personal fortune climbed above a hundred million, you again showed signs of rebellion at our arrangement, but I put my foot down again. You fumed, but followed my advice.

“There’s a festival in a town thirty miles away.” I placed a map on your desk with the town circled. “You should be in that parade. Thousands will line the streets, and those could tip the balance in your presidential run.”

An avaricious smile crossed your face. “Presidential run. I like the sound of that.”

“The effect will be even more pronounced if you’re actually walking the route and shaking hands.”

You grimaced. “I don’t like touching people like that. They’ll have ice cream residue, beer splatter, cotton candy – it makes them sticky.”

Humanity in general was repulsive. “Sometimes you have to bite the bullet and do what you have to.”

After a disgusted nod you put your people into action. Calls were made and paperwork filed. Governor Bob Wilson could be accommodated.

The first part of the parade went well. You refrained from using wet wipes in view of the cheering crowds. Every couple of blocks you ran to your car to wash your hands on an endless supply of wet, soapy towels carefully hidden from spectators.

Then Phyllis Renstan appeared, decked out in Bob Wilson regalia. She had pledged her loyalty to my enemy, so I couldn’t touch her. You were under no such prohibition. She drew you like a moth to flame.

You couldn’t resist the photographic opportunity. The “BW” baseball cap itself was worth breaking the rhythm of your parade progress. The homemade “We Love Bob!” t-shirt – honey for the bear trap.

You stepped through the crowd, greeting people along the way, and up an incline to where she jumped for joy under a massive oak. Photographers closed in.

Phyllis gave you a hug and introduced herself, her husband, three children, and five grandchildren. “You saved us all from the flu!” She went on to explain how her family had been hit hard, and the prognosis had been that of the ten infected, eight would die. The cure you’d discovered had saved most of her family.

Your smile never wavered as you greeted each in turn. I watched, trying to “push” your handlers into taking you away from her. These kinds of meetings were dangerous. You had a presidency to win, and one woman pledged to Him could derail my plans.

Finally a member of your protection detail pulled you away. As you retreated Phyllis yelled, “I’ll be praying for you, Bob!”

That was the last thing I needed. You turned to wave, happy with a true supporter, but inwardly sneering at her belief. My people – and my Brothers – did everything we could do stomp that recording out of the media. Only one local report managed to air the pledge despite our efforts.

That night, as if Phyllis had sparked a trend, dozens prayed for you. The next night word had spread through their contacts and hundreds more joined in.Then thousands.

My control was slipping.

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The Pirates 8

“Bill.” Lannetay sighed with relief. “Get Goofball aboard. As soon as Penn releases their docking clamps, get us out of here.”

“What about your fashion designs?” the AI asked.

“Send them over. She paid for them.” Lannetay wasn’t likely to wear any of them again. She’d used each one at least twice.

“Goofball is aboard,” Bill said. “Their power levels are increasing. Uh, now they’re falling.”

Lannetay dove toward the control cabin. “Maximum speed. Now. And find out what’s going on, if you can.”

Carnifor followed as the ship thrummed, moving once again. “Why did you want us to sit quietly?”

“I had everything under control.” Lannetay smiled as she sat. “Thankfully you’ve learned to trust me at least a little.”

Marc sat behind Lannetay, listening to the exchange. “I’m just glad to be alive.”

Bill said, “We’re at maximum rated velocity. They’re not pursuing.”

“Rantaal’s Pony never wavered.” Carnifor scowled. “At close range, a J-12 will leave a really nasty headache – after you wake up. And Cabon looked ready to shoot if we even breathed funny. I wasn’t eager to try anything they might object to.”

Bill cut in. “Uh, Goofball has some bonuses for us. He raided their cargo hold.”

L-T barked a short laugh. “Leave it to him to turn the tables on those guys.”

“What could he get into a fighter?” Lannetay asked. “Those things are nearly as form-fitting as my body suits.”

“Delicacies.” Goofball stood in the hatchway, hands behind his back. “Mushrooms, spices, caviar, and more. All proprietary, not synthesized. Small packages, so I stole as much of a variety as I could.”

Carnifor’s eyes gleamed. “What kind of mushrooms?”

“Furanto black truffles.” Goofball’s expression indicated his thoughts about mushrooms. “Some others, too. Don’t remember their names, but I recognized the Furanto label.”

Carnifor smiled. “When we get to a place I can use a stove, I’ll make you all a meal you’ll never forget.”

“Don’t bother.” Goofball waved away the offer. “I can’t stand mushrooms, and it’ll be wasted on me. But if you’d sell all that stuff on a civilized planet, it would be worth more than all those tractors we’re hauling. Then there’s the box loaded with cash.”

“Uh, cash?” Lannetay asked.

Goofball pulled the small bin from behind his back. “There’s about sixty credit chips here. No markings on how much they’re worth, but why would pirates have chips with less than a hundred credits?”

“That would be six thousand,” Carnifor said, “if they each have only a hundred.”

L-T whistled. “That’s a lot of money. Especially if it’s more.”

“First order of business,” Lannetay said, “before we even cook Carnifor’s mushrooms, is find out how much money that is. Goofball, see to it.”

“Absolutely, my liege.” Goofball bowed in sarcastic deference.

Bill said, “The pirate ship never made a move to follow us or to fire their weapons. What did you do, Goofball?”

“I . . . changed the ship’s programming, ruined their disrupters, and gave their Core a virus.” Goofball beamed. “Penn and his merry band of pirates will spread that virus when they get to their home base.”

Bill hummed an ancient tune for a moment. “I overheard you talking in the cargo bay. His aunt owns that ship?”

“Yes.” Lannetay looked at Carnifor and shrugged. “And a dozen others.”

Bill asked, “So we were attacked by the pirates of Penn’s aunt?”

Carnifor and Lannetay groaned. Goofball’s smile grew as he withdrew to the common room, whistling “Tarantara.”

If you're wondering more about these characters, their origins are detailed in Ebony Sea: Origins. If you appreciate this story, please share on social media, and consider supporting the author's ability to continue writing by purchasing the Origins story and leaving a review at the link above.

Next week: Tractors for Sale, as Ebony Sea: 1 continues.

The Brotherhood #25

By Mark W. Meier

Part 25

Act III

The First Horseman

You watched the television report of Frank’s assault with glee, then switched off the unit. “How did you do it, Leo?” You sipped gin from a tumbler. We were forming a tradition you appreciated.

“You don’t want to know, Bob.” I took the remote and slid it into a drawer.

You frowned. “Mandy claims Frank never laid a hand on her.”

I gave a mysterious smile. “Tomorrow the newspapers will publish a story about Mandy attending a support group for abused women. Frank will be unemployed by Monday. People will wonder why Small would hire a campaign manager who abuses women.”

The story ran, using the angle I’d paid for. Small’s primary campaign never recovered. A twelve-point margin of victory energized your backers. Contributions flooded your accounts, and your victory in the general election was easily predictable.

Your acceptance speech at a college football stadium mentioned me by name. I slipped into the shadows behind a floor-to-ceiling banner of your face. No sense having my likeness noticed since the national media were there. My Brothers and I work best while unnoticed.

Your first months in office were busy. Significant donors needed a quid pro quo. With my help, your services went unnoticed.

Two years later your reelection’s victory reached legendary proportions, thanks to the spin I managed to give your useless floundering. Your approval rating skyrocketed, despite having proposed no serious legislation. Kowtowing to everything suggested by your party’s leadership gave you broad support, and you never noticed the goals you’d had in the beginning had faded away in favor of the unending quest for reelection.

You invited me to visit your office and asked about running against the president at the end of his term. Your dwarf mugo pine had moved with you on your way up the political ladder, giving off a scent pleasant to humans and Brothers alike.

“No. It’s too early to run for president.” My denial surprised you. “You need at least two more terms, then you should run for governor. Congressmen don’t do well when they try to win the presidency.”

You dropped the pen you were using to edit a speech you would give next week to the UAW convention at the Walter E. Washington Center. Though you still thought of yourself as an idealist, your power-hunger had outgrown everything you’d stood for. “Governor? Of an insignificant plot of land in Middle America? The whole state is routinely bypassed by presidential candidates because the electoral votes are meaningless.”

I shook my head. “Your state may look like it’s nothing, but in six years it will become the most important state in the union. If you’re elected to that seat in four years, you’ll be in the middle of a term in office that will give you the attention you need to campaign for president.”

“How could you know that?” You didn’t believe me. “I should run now, while I have the approval rating.” You returned to your editing, only halfway listening.

Perhaps you were the wrong person. “Your approval rating is what gets you into the governor’s mansion. That chair will be pivotal to your presidential run in eight years.”

That is where I wanted you – where the Brotherhood needed you. As president, under my control, the possibilities were enormous. If you rebelled, though, you’d be useless.

The Oval Office is where you wanted to be, and my mention of the presidential race finally stopped your pen. After a moment you turned your chair around and picked up a decanter of twenty-four year old McCallum scotch. You poured a tumbler half full and sipped. “I’ll do it your way. For now.” No offer of a drink for me.

I left, fuming. Some of the plants in the corridors of power wilted as I passed. Yes, I was that angry. With a flicker of will I killed your dwarf pine tree. Nobody would notice the death of an evergreen for a couple of weeks.

After your reelection you announced a run against the incumbent president. Foolish, to say the least. The current office holder had too much value for the Brotherhood. I tried talking you out of it, but you wouldn’t listen.

On the streets of Washington D.C. we argued as pedestrians swirled around us. Bystanders interrupted to greet you. You spoke with each of them, blocking my attempt to get you to listen.

After one brief chat with a lobbyist you turned to me. “Leo, I’ve seen your reports. They show me as the first horseman, the man who conquers the world. I’m not going to give you twenty percent of the Earth.”

I could crush you as quickly as I’d killed your tree and you’d never know who made it happen. “You need me, whether you admit it or not.”

Another sycophant approached, but I shot her a withering glare. She gulped, eyes bugged, and she turned away. The streets were full of people like you, and she found a senator in seconds.

“Why did you do that, Leo? Her firm could bring millions to my war chest.”

I took a deep breath. “Bob, if you run for president now you’ll fail and ruin your chances to win later. The nation is about to be hit with an illness that will kill millions. We’ve invested heavily to get this timed just right for you to ride the wave of success following a cure by a researcher in your state. You have to be governor – not congressman.”

Your eyebrows drew together. “How do you know there’s going to be an outbreak?”

You no longer cared about the millions of deaths, only what it would mean to you. “You’re not the only one we work with, Bob. We’re more than political advisers. We are everywhere, in every industry, in every country, and we control things you’ve never dreamed.”

Your expression faltered. “You can really control diseases?”

If we wanted to, yes. My instructions, though, were to corrupt you and put you to use. Killing was beside the point. I leaned in and said, “Try me. Before we go on I need certain assurances. You’ve resisted me for the last time.” Foot trafficpassed within inches of us, but we were alone.

“What ‘assurances’ do you mean?”

I’d prepared for such a moment. Years of planning and maneuvering had gone into this project, scores of Brothers both higher and lower had worked for occasions like this. Regardless of your cooperation, my goals would be advanced. In the long run you were meaningless. Your inflated ego, however, would never let you see that.

“Your life is mine. Say it.”

You blanched. “What?”

My eyes narrowed. Our noses nearly touched. “The only thing you value is your life. If you defy me again, I’ll kill you.”

Your chest puffed out. “You wouldn’t dare. I’m a sitting Congressman.”

I smiled. “If I remove you nobody will ever know it was me. Would you like a demonstration?”

I raised a finger and your heart thudded three times before pausing. You clutched your chest and struggled for breath. Your knees wobbled and you grabbed my lapels for support.

I relented.

Your heart beat once.

Twice.

Then it found its natural rhythm.

“I did that to Congressman Gordon's replacement. Remember him dying on live television? I was seven states away at the time. I can do the same to you – from across Pennsylvania Avenue, the other side of the Potomac, or from Pakistan.” Stretching the truth, but he wouldn’t know that.“You are mine. Say it.”

You let go of my suit but didn’t look me in the eyes. “I am yours.”

My voice snapped. “Look at me. Say it like you mean it.”

If looks could kill, you were capable of murder. “I am yours.”

Hatred is beautiful.

If you appreciate this story, please consider supporting the author's ability to write more stories by purchasing The Brotherhood, available in print and on Kindle. Please share on social media, and leave a review on the page linked above.