[SG] A View Of Genocide: The Ballad of Richard Less #3 (2/2)

[Whistling in the Dark]

September 7, 1997
The White House Executive Residence
Washington D.C.

     The Queen's Bedroom was so-named because it had become the preferred
guest bedroom for royalty and other state guests. Before that, it was known
as the Rose Bedroom at the same time the Lincoln Bedroom -- which Lincoln
worked in, but never slept in -- was called the Blue Bedroom. It is a higher
grade of bedroom than many on the Second Floor of the White House Residence,
and unlike many of the residence's bedrooms the Queen's Bedroom was
considered a guest room and not a part of the private rooms reserved for the
President's use. Since assuming the Directorship of the American Authority,
Richard Less had slept in the Queen's Bedroom. When pressed, he claimed he
didn't want to get any Clintonian funk on his clothes.
     The bed in the Queen's Bedroom was one believed to be used by President
Andrew Jackson, one of the few sitting Presidents to be commemorated on
folding money and also one of the few sitting Presidents to be culpable in
genocide. It appealed to Less's sense of the appropriate to sleep on
Jackson's bed, and since taking the bed, Less had spoken of how peaceful his
sleep had been.
     Richard Less's sleep was rarely if ever peaceful, no matter his claims,
thanks to a combination of heavy caffeine, nicotine and alcohol use.
However, when he managed to get to sleep, his dreams were never that bad. On
this night, however, Less tossed and turned, half-asleep and half-awake the
entire night. And sometime around four-seventeen in the morning, he thrashed
to the point of sitting bolt upright, crying out and throwing the bedclothes
off his body.
     Less sat on the bed, panting, covered in sweat. The nightmares were
already malformed and fading, though the terror gripped him. It was a
melange -- something about Dangerousman and Danielle, with side notes of
Reagan and Bush, Carter and Clinton, Nixon and Ford, fire and brimstone and
Satan and explosions and--
     "Jesus," he snapped, pushing out of bed. "Get ahold of yourself, y'big
baby." He stumbled into the bathroom. At this point, a shower and starting
the day early seemed like the best bet. No point in actually trying to sleep
again.
     By five forty, Less was on his third cup of coffee and was downstairs
and in the West Wing. He nodded to the assistants and secretaries and both
the Roulette-dominated Secret Service and the uniformed ULA soldiers as he
passed them. He stepped through the corridor with the Roosevelt Room on one
side and the Oval on the other, then headed down to the Chief of Staff's
office, which had been reappointed as the Office of the Director of American
Authority. The Oval was dark, as it had been since 10-April.
     Before he got there, he noticed Annabelle was at her desk. In the old
days, the good days, the Mega-Intelligence Bureau days, Annabelle had been
"Doctor Green," one of the brain trust operatives. She was scary smart and
Less distrusted her slightly less than her fellows. She was now the
Administrative and Executive Assistant to the Director -- somewhere between
a secretary and a deputy. In two or three generations, Less expected the
positions would codified, but right now -- not so much. She was sipping out
of a Starbucks cup, and arched an eyebrow as her boss walked up, starting to
stand before Less waved her back down. "Can you tell me what good blowing up
a food supply train does for the Montana Insurrection? That food wasn't
going to our forces. It was going to everyday people and almost certainly
would have had a big chunk funneled into the woods for the Insurrection
themselves."
     "Symbolism," Less said. "It proves they're strong and we're vulnerable.
It makes people hungry and hungry people get pissed off and join resistance
movements, even if the reason they're hungry is the resistance movement shot
the food. It makes the oppressors antsy and keeps everyone on their toes.
And you know that, cheeks."
     "Yeah, but I like hearing you talk."
     "Oh, is that why you took the job?"
     "That and the monumental potential to receive graft."
     "That's my girl." He sipped his coffee. "What in Christ's name are you
doing over here."
     "Nightmares," she said. "Nasty ones. Worst I've had since college. Woke
up at three, decided going to work was better than sleep. Besides, for once
I beat you in, didn't I?"
     "Just barely. I had some doozies myself." Less heard laughter from the
next room over. "Hrm."
     "Hrm?"
     "We're not the only ones up."
     "It's the White House. Some folks probably didn't go home to bed last
night. Others come in at two in the morning and consider it a late start."
     "Maybe." He started in that direction.
     "Yeah, that's a good idea," Annabelle muttered. "Go down and bug people
who came in extra-early to get uninterrupted work done." Less ignored her.
Something wasn't kosher here....
     Bankert was drinking coffee, standing next to Lisa from the G.A.O. He
was already standing when Less walked in, though Lisa stood smoothly.
"Jesus," Bankert said. "You look forty minutes dead. Go back to bed, Mister
Director."
     "You don't look so hot yourself," Less said. "And you've never been
early a day in your life. What are you doing here."
     Bankert shrugged. "Rotten night's sleep. Tossing and turning.
Nightmares -- old college shit."
     "Really?" Lisa asked. "Man, I had the worst nightmares last night. I
finally--"
     "*Shit,*" Less said, whirling on his foot. "Lisa, call the Center. Tell
them emergency one." He shouted down the hall. "Get the commanders in here
*yesterday!* Use their pagers, half of them are already up! Bankert -- Sit
Room *now.*"
     "What is it?" Bankert asked, following. He had dropped any familiarity.
It was one of the reasons Less prized him -- when shit hit the fan, Bankert
just grabbed a broom and went to work.
     "I told them," Less said. "God damn it I *warned* them about this."
Less shot down the stairs to the bunker. The ULA soldier on guard outside
the Situation Room snapped up to attention as he approached, the blast door
opening. Less ignored him and ran inside. "Who's on watch here?"
     "Sir?" a lieutenant asked, pushing out of his chair. Advisor, not
mind-dominated. "I- that's--"
     "Shut up. Fire up the chain of command. I want every one of the
non-Psybernetted assets checked, on duty or not. Find out how many of them
couldn't sleep last night. Find out how many had nightmares. You hear me?
     "Yes *sir,"* the lieutenant snapped, dropping back to his seat and
grabbing the secure line.
     "Wait," Less said. "What time did you go on duty?
     "Sir. Twenty-three hundred, sir."
     "When did you last wake up?"
     "Twenty-thirty, sir."
     "How did you sleep?"
     The lieutenant bit his lip. "I've been pretty ragged today, sir. Not a
lot of sleep."
     "Nightmares?"
     "I don't remember. But I was--"
     "You were what?"
     "I felt anxious after getting up, for a couple of hours. Anxious and--"
     "Tired. Make your damn calls."
     "Sir, we have Arsenal on secure," Lisa's voice reported over the
intercom. Less slapped the call receive button.
     Arsenal's face appeared on one of the secondary screens. "What?" she
snapped.
     "God damn it," Less said. "I told you. I told you that you had to take
Dreamweaver down. I told you Dreamweaver had to die. Not be captured, not be
scared off. I told you we needed a bullet in her blond head, and you--"
     "Calm *down,*" Arsenal said. "We don't know where Dreamweaver is."
     "Austin. She's always in fucking Austin -- is it *rocket* science to
just kill every woman about her age in Austin City Limits?"
     Arsenal frowned. "What is this about--"
     "Nightmares," Less said. "We're just beginning to get reports in, but
as near as I can tell every important person to our fight had a monumentally
bad night's sleep."
     "That's ridiculous. Why--"
     "How'd you sleep, Gabrielle? Huh?"
     Arsenal stopped short. "I... don't believe that's any of your--"
     "Let me guess. Tossing and turning. Bad nightmares. Revisiting your bad
dream greatest hits for four to six hours before you just gave up and woke
up." Less swore. "We need a global alert. Pull forces back. Consolidate.
There's going to be--"
     "There's going to be *nothing,* Mister Director."
     Less whirled. Adrian Wollstonecraft and Oracle were walking into the
Situation Room. "Don't give me your shit today, Wollstonecraft," Less said.
"We've had a global epidemic of nightmares. This is it. The god damned
shoe's dropping. We're about--"
     "We're about to have *nothing* happen," Oracle said, smoothly. "We will
trade movement back and forth with the Awe-Inspiring Force on several
fronts. Defense Squad New England will attack an outpost at eleven-twenty
this morning, but we've warned them so there will be a firefight and
Nor'easter and the Iron Jenny will both be captured. There will be a
demonstration in Atlanta that will result in thirty-seven arrests, two
deaths and sixty disappearances followed by sixty separate work camps
getting a new worker. Do you understand me?"
     "Bullshit." He looked at the ULA soldier. "How's that report coming."
     "Sir, we're still collecting it, but--"
     "What do you *know?*
     "Sir! More than half those checked have had disrupted sleep tonight,
sir. Most report anxiety, bad dreams or--"
     "Did you *predict* that?" Less demanded Oracle.
     Oracle's chin went up. Her bearing wasn't offended -- it suggested she
couldn't be *bothered* to be offended by a peon like American Authority
Director Richard Less. "I don't predict every ridiculously irrelevant detail
of a day, Mister Less. I did not foresee some of your troops having
nightmares tonight. I also didn't bother to foresee if Mobile, Alabama was
going to have rain or sunshine or if the Chicago Cubs would win their
baseball game. You will speak to me with more respect or we will find--"
     There was a sharp alert on the situation board. Less turned to look at
it.
     "Mister Less, I am talking to you. You will not be distracted by...."
Oracle's voice trailed off, as she realized Wollstonecraft and Bankert were
also looking at the board. There was a flashing red light in the rockies.
And then another one near Mount Washington. Another in Yosemite. Three along
California. Two in Florida. Flashing lights... followed by icons of
unidentifieds in flight. Then more. Then more.
     "What's going on?" Bankert asked, quietly.
     "Sir," the ULA Lieutenant said. "We're getting reports of explosions --
no, not explosions -- launches, bursting out of the ground, clearing some
kind of shafts--"
     "The elevator shafts," Less half-whispered. "They were down the
elevator shafts--"
     "Sir," the ULA Lieutenant said. "Sir, there's... we have... there are
at least nine major attacks being spread -- no, eleven... no, fourteen--"
     "Situation Room!" came a priority channel through the gear. "This is
Repeater Hub Base Nineteen. We are under attack! I repeat, we are under
attack! Preliminary reports indicate Particle Girl and Captain Marvelous are
launching a major as--" the signal cut.
     "Situation Room!" came a second. "This is Forward Guard! The Atlanta
Center is being attacked by--
     "Situation Room! We have Mighty Guy on scope, and he's--"
     "Situation Room! This is the New York Center! Awesome Force One is
attacking! We have a breach of defenses! Repeat, we are under attack by the
Awesome Force!"
     Arsenal, still on her secure line, swore. "I don't believe it," she
said. "Less -- we've got... dozens of assaults happening all over the world.
Not just our forces but reports are coming in -- the Awe-Inspiring Force is
also being attacked in Europe and-- blast it, Repeaters are going down.
We're having major problems coordinating Psybernet's forces. I'll be back
when I can be--" she cut the transmission.
     Less slowly turned to look at Oracle.
     Oracle. "But... that's not right," she whispered. "That's..." She
blinked. "I... there is... the paths are changing. That's not... possible.
We can't jump paths like that. Those possibilities were closed off. Those
doors shut. They can't reopen the doors. No one can re-- the burning sign.
The sign is afire, burning in the sky with the union of light and dark..."
her eyes were glazed, as she sunk to her knees. "No! Not the burning sign!
The waters -- they... no... no, that can't be. That can't *be!* There is the
false one! The false one with the molded smile! He has betrayed -- he will
betray -- he will be caught.. he *cannot* be caught--"
     "Oracle!" Wollstonecraft cried out, dropping next to her, holding the
woman in his arms as she descended into a full froth.
     "Get those two the fuck out of my Situation room. Where the *fuck* are
the commanders! We called them down how long ago? Someone get me a tactical
assessment! We need to start charting this before we lose the fucking
country on points!"
     By eleven twenty that morning, it was clear the nation was in
significant trouble. The counterattack had been spearheaded by the major
superheroic forces that had been silent since before the American occupation
had begun, but it was hardly confined to heroes. Rogue and defecting
military forces from occupied counties all over the world had been carefully
hidden and rebuilt. Allies had been recruited. Nations not yet attacked or
conquered were -- as out of nowhere as Less had ever seen -- suddenly fully
coordinated members of an Allied Coalition. Where there had been two
international powers at war at six that morning, there were now three, and
the original two were heavily on the defensive.
     "We've confirmed," Bankert said, setting his secure phone back down.
"The heroes went literally to ground, going down the core elevator shafts to
hide near the center of the Earth, then using them to emerge."
     "What do you mean 'core elevator shafts?'" Goldenrage demanded. The
beautiful woman of gold had never been calm. After being hurt for the first
time since her transformation, she was even less so now. She had pulled back
to the White House under orders and protest.
     "Ancient history," Less said, downing yet another cup of coffee. "Back
in 'Eighty-nine a pack of talk show hosts were members of the Cult of
Personal Radioactivity. They believed Dangerousman was their messiah -- the
Son of the Bomb -- and that his powers would and could be used to set off a
gigantic nuclear weapon near the center of the Earth that would shatter the
planet and kill everyone."
     "Have I mentioned how much I hate religion," Bankert said.
     "Dangerousman stopped them, but the explosion he *did* set off sent
countless cathedral sized hunks of rock up the elevator shafts that led to
the center of the Earth up into low Earth orbit, from which they've been
crashing down onto us ever since. We thought that between the explosion and
the gigatons of rock forced through the shafts that they were impassible.
Clearly, we thought wrong."
     "A base no one could detect, with exit points all over the globe,"
Bankert said, shaking his head. "I'd be impressed with the ingeniousness of
it if I weren't so busy pissing myself out of fear."
     "Very well then," Goldenrage snarled. "How do we chase them right back
down their *holes?*"
     "Today? We don't."
     "*What?*"
     "Jesus, take a pill, blondie," Less snapped. "Don't you get it? We were
caught out flat-footed. We and the Awe-Inspiring Force were both taken
completely by surprise. We have it worse than the AIF does in fact. We're
not going to just repulse them today. This is going to take weeks --
*months* of work."
     "Why didn't you prepare for this eventuality, little man?" Goldenrage
demanded.
     "I did," he shot back. "I warned you fuckers. I warned you about
Dreamweaver, I warned you about Andy Awesome, I warned you we were leaving
ourselves too weak and unprotected. But *you* morons trusted your little
*precognitive.*"
     "She's not mine," Goldenrage snarled. "When I get my hands on her--"
     "You will do nothing, Goldenrage."
     All eyes turned to the priority screen. The Crimson Crowbar was there,
clearly agitated -- or he would be, had his face been capable of showing
emotion. "As much as it pains me to admit it, Director Less was right. The
so-called Allied heroes found a way to screen themselves from her
precognition, and we made our plans based upon the information she was able
to give us. We must regroup, see if we can eliminate their screening effect
so Oracle can again see clearly, and begin to consolidate our current hold
while planning our next move."
     Goldenrage's anger was palpable, but she nodded and ran from the room.
     "Less," the Crowbar intoned woodenly. "Is it feasible to deploy Radian
against the Allied heroes? Her sheer power could take out all but
Dangerousman, Mighty Guy or ! without--"
     "No," Less said. "I don't recommend it."
     "May I ask why?"
     Less rubbed his eyes. "We want her under wraps for now. Held in
reserve. In part because we need to assess the damage and redeploy her where
it will do the most good, and in part because we can't afford to lose her."
     "I thought her sheer power--"
     "It's not her power, it's the Galatea Protocol," Less said. He was very
tired now, thanks to little sleep and the terrible day. "Out of any thousand
telepaths, nine hundred and ninety nine couldn't do anything to touch the
personality and emotional factors we've reassigned in her. But the
thousandth is Healer, and her telepathic *specialty* is the elimination of
imposed mental constructs and the repair and reconstruction of damaged
psyches. Doctor Unorthodox estimates Healer could restore Radian's original
personality within seventeen minutes of contact."
     "Damnation and Hellfire," the Crowbar intoned woodenly. "All right.
We've got to make plans. Keep us informed."
     The signal went dark.
     "Keep them informed, they say," Bankert muttered. "That's so helpful."
     "Shut up." Less lit another cigarette. "What's the latest--"
     "Sir, we're getting a jamming signal on our broadcast network," one of
the advisors said. "Both terrestrial and satellite. We're losing control--"
     One of the screens in the room was tuned to CNN, which had been
suborned since that first week of Martial Law. As the advisor spoke, it went
to static. Bankert turned the volume up as a woman in powered armor appeared
on the screen.
     "--we on? Are you -- what? *Now?* Right!" She cleared her throat. "This
is Shanna Shannon of TONN, The Other News Network, reporting living from the
front lines of the war of liberation of the United States of America from
the occupation of the Unimaginable League Amoral! Though we call ourselves
The Other News Network, today we are The Only News Network, as we are the
first to clear its signal and now are broadcasting as free news across the
world on all stations.
     "At approximately ten minutes after six Eastern Daylight Time this
morning, a massive coalition of superheroes, alongside uncompromised
military forces from America, the United Kingdom, the European Union,
Russia, China, NATO, the former Warsaw Pact, Israel, the United Arab
Emirates and others launched a comprehensive counterattack against the
terrorist organizations that have been imposing their will and slaughtering
innocent civilians in their mad bids for world domination. Partisan forces
in the affected country have joined in the coordinated attack, using the
positions they have already established as bases of operations to help
strike against oppression. TONN has received *exclusive* footage of an
announcement made by Andy Awesome, Commander, Allied Paranormal Forces just
moments ago." She paused, then stage whispered. "Now. Cut the feed over now.
*No--*"
     Andy Awesome's awesome face filled the screen. He looked a decade
older, and somewhat pale, but his chin was set, his glasses gleamed, his
coat was impeccable and he radiated awesome confidence from every pore.
"Fellow Americans, citizens of the world, oppressed and frightened people
everywhere, take hope. After meticulous planning and preparation, the Allied
Coalition has today moved to eliminate the invaders who have caused such
pain and hardship across the world.
     "We have spent weeks preparing our counterattack. Our one highest
regret has been our need to prepare carefully, which meant we could not act
any sooner. Our highest imperative is redeeming the blood of the innocent by
securing freedom for their people and their kind.
     "In America, a strike force has just managed to secure and liberate the
ULA prison facility called Coventry. This maximum security installation has
housed the surviving government officials from American local, state and
national governments who would not collaborate or cooperate with the
occupying powers and the puppet government installed by and on the behalf of
the Unimaginable League Amoral."
     Less glanced at one of the ULA commanders. The one who had been
watching Coventry. The commander nodded, grimly.
     Andy Awesome looked earnest. "Let me be clear. Despite the lies of the
Unimaginable League Amoral's collaborators in the so-called American
Authority, the United States Government did not and has not surrendered,
formally or informally. President Clinton, Vice-President Gore, Speaker of
the House Gingrich, President Pro Tempore of the Senate Thurmond, Chief
Justice Rehnquist, and the other officials are alive and well, having not
been unduly ill-treated. We expect they will be returning to their official
duties as quickly as possible.
     "Let me be clear to all in America listening. The Martial Law and
occupation you have suffered under, the nationalization of goods and
services, the imposition of sentencing without trial, the work camps
dissidents have been sent to -- all the trappings of these terrible times
are illegal, immoral and imposed against the wishes of any and all
legitimate governmental authority. To resist these institutions is no crime.
To support these institutions amounts to collaboration. While we can fault
no one who has needed to survive these terrible times, the time has come to
stand up for your nation.
     He then shifted to Spanish, and began to speak on behalf of the Mexican
citizens who could hear him. Less turned to Bankert. "Well," he said.
"That's torn it. How many of our sheep do you figure just heard the wolf's
been their shepherd for the last hundred and fifty days."
     "Conservatively? Best case scenario?"
     "Yup."
     "All of them."
     Less snorted. "Yeah, that's what I thought."
     "Sir," one of the ULA advisors said. "We have Arsenal en route to the
White House. There are reports of Allied incursions into the Washington D.C.
area."
     "What a shock," Less said dryly.
     "They want essential personnel prepared to evacuate. Tentatively, we're
going to relocate American Authority to the Shoshoni Center."
     "Wyoming?" Bankert asked. "You're relocating us to Wyoming?"
     "No shock," Less said. "They've had stuff built up there for a while.
S'why there's a ULA Center connected to a town of less than a thousand.
Think of it as NORAD, only with better Indian crafts nearby." Less took a
drag off his cigarette, then crushed it out on the table. "Crash the White
House. Tag everyone. Be ready to move them out."
     The Secret Service agent, eyes glassy with Psybernet's control, turned
and scooped the blue phone up. "Crash it," he said. "Get everyone tagged.
Prep for evacuation on the Director's order."
     "Oh, here we go," Bankert murmured.
     "What?" Less asked.
     Bankert nodded to one of the local screens. "The Washington Center's
under attack."
     Less looked. It was a live video feed from one of the exterior secure
cams. Underneath, secure feeds from the inside could be seen. The Masked
Bruce and Exemplar both flew overhead, streams of red and silver
xolchapulses and the silver arclight from Exemplar's bracers seared down
into the reinforced building, while Trashman coordinated an assault against
ULA troops in the front. Unorthodox Lass threw herself over one barricade,
holding what looked like a jar of pickled hot peppers which she was opening.
Less had a pang of sympathy for the soldier who was about to be blinded by
vinegar and capsicum.
     "What significant assets are still in the Washington Center?"
     "Doctor Chauvinist and Doctor Unorthodox," one of the ULA Advisors
said.
     "So, Unorthodox Girl's hated father and the man who made Exemplar
'Spandex Babe' -- coincidentally two of the people who subverted
Dangerousgirl into a mass murdering weapon -- are trapped in a building the
Adjusted League Unimpeachable is attacking?"
     "Sounds like," Bankert said.
     "Yeah, that's going to go *really* well."
     Arsenal burst into the room. "The Washington Center will fall within
ten minutes. We're going now," she said.
     Less got up and followed the armored woman out. Bankert fell in step as
well. "He's necessary?" Arsenal asked.
     "Damn straight," Less said.
     She nodded. They got upstairs, and circled. Various ULA forces were
shepherding out the designated personnel.
     "Wait," Less said. He saw Annabelle standing by her desk, under guard
by a ULA soldier. "Her too."
     "We're out of room," Arsenal said. "She's not on the list."
     "I don't care. Her too."
     "We don't need her."
     "I need her. Besides, we can't leave her."
     Arsenal looked at Less. "Why not?"
     Annabelle looked at them both. She was scared, Less could tell, but she
was steady.
     "Because she knows too much," Less said. "She has operational details,
codes, any number of things we can't afford to let the enemy find out."
     Arsenal considered. "Makes sense," she said.
     Less relaxed slightly.
     Arsenal lifted her right arm, which had a thin antipersonnel flechette
gun deploying out of the forearm. Before Less could react, the tube spat,
and Annabelle's head exploded.
     Less watched her body drop to the floor.
     "As soon as we launch the evacuation, kill everyone else still in the
building," she said to the ULA soldier. "After that, you and the others
should kill yourselves. Respond."
     "As you command," the mind dominated soldier said, and moved to follow
his orders.
     "Let's go," Arsenal said, starting out again.
     Less and Bankert looked at what was left of Annabelle for a moment,
before turning to catch up.



YIKES!

WILL ANNABELLE'S BRAINS STAIN THE CARPET?

WILL ORACLE GET OVER BEING TOTALLY CRACKERDOG?

WILL SHANNA SHANNON GET A PEABODY?

WILL SHANNA SHANNON GET ELECTROCUTED?

WILL PARVENU AND INCANDESCENCE FIGURE OUT THE WHOLE MIDDLEMAN THING?

AND WHAT ABOUT RICHARD LESS'S DOG?



The answers to at least some of these questions -- but not others --
can be found in Superguy Digest -- now back... in POG form!