Soon the sound of a key in the door announced his return to the Conclave fold as grandly as a fanfare of trumpets.
Forcing himself to breathe deeply and slowly, he instead concentrated on the jackhammer pounding in his skull. He was coming to understand that pain had its purposes, and in this case, it seemed to help him focus.
In the case of 452, her pain would bring him only pleasure, and her death would ensure the triumph of the Conclave, in the imminent Coming.
Chapter two
Naughty and nice
From the op ed page of the New World Weekly:
Sketchy’s Sketchbook
by C.T. “Sketchy” Simon
“Silent Fright”
Not so long ago, if you’d told Emerald City residents that they’d see Christmas lights strung from the high fences of Terminal City, you’d have been not so politely told you were frickin’ nuts.
But a lot has changed in the six months since the so-called “Terminal City Siege” began. For one thing, the siege is officially over — both the unconventional residents of the compound and city government agree on that point. Though a brace of police cars remains parked outside the gates, 24/7, the truce has held.
That truce was struck not long after the apprehension of Kelpy, the chameleonlike serial killer captured by the transgenics themselves — the one, defining action that had convinced many in the city that the Manticore refugees were serious about wanting nothing more than to fit in. The National Guard is long gone now, as is the threat of the U.S. Army.
Still, a large segment of the populace remains unconvinced, and so the police still stand guard at the gates. The new mission of the boys in blue, however, is to keep out those who would try to destroy the peace, and not pen the transgenics in.
The denizens of Terminal City are now considered Seattle citizens, American citizens, as equal as any other. Of course, that still doesn’t sit well with some of our fine city’s less understanding occupants. So, most of those who live inside Terminal City remain within the confines of this offbeat gated community, seldom venturing out for more than work.
Their new place in the community, however, has garnered the transgenics a controversial nonvoting seat on the city council, and at the next election, Terminal City will elect its own alderman to a regular city council post. The New World Weekly supports this decision — the transgenics are human beings, too, after all, even if they are genetically enhanced creations of a secret government operation gone awry. (Editor’s Note: Elsewhere in this issue, read the latest article in our continuing Freak Nation series: “Manticore — the U.S Government Freak Show You Paid For!”)
For the time being, Max Guevera — the enigmatic, beautiful, raven-haired X5 who negotiated the peace — remains the de facto mayor of Terminal City. The dark-eyed and high-cheekboned Max — whose full lips and pleasing form draws stares from men and women alike — has a sultry presence that allows her to succeed in leading this rabble into becoming a full-fledged community. Her taking a stand... her courage and leadership... has been the backbone propping up this ragtag bunch of squatters since those early difficult days of the siege.
In a black ensemble of turtleneck sweater and vest and form-fitting slacks and boots, the petite, shapely killing machine that was Max Guevera sat in a booth in a restaurant across the way from Terminal City. She was sipping coffee, reading the tabloid rag her friend Sketchy wrote for, a half smile dimpling one cheek. Oblivious to her own Catwoman chic, Max shook her head, thinking she’d have to give Sketch a little kick in the behind for that “sultry presence” stuff.
Ironic, though, that of all the media, the sleazy New World Weekly would become the voice of reason, the first among the press to take the side of the transgenics. Ironic, too, that this least respected of Seattle publications would be the only one with national impact, due to its grocery store checkout-counter status across America.
Other than her own centerfoldish write-up, she could hardly argue with anything Sketchy said in his editorial. Things were better for the transgenics now — surprisingly so, considering the genocidal threat they had faced. Still, problems remained — different problems, new ones, often mundane — and a peacetime Max found herself having difficulty adjusting to such minor troubles in a way the wartime Max had never experienced, where major troubles had abounded.
Being bred as a genetically enhanced super soldier had its advantages, no question; but as much as Max had complained about wanting to fit in — and to be like everyone else, and just live in peace — there’d been too many times during the last six months when she felt a restlessness, a yearning for action that distressed her. Had Manticore hardwired her in a way that meant a normal life would remain out of reach, despite her best efforts?
These thoughts, these feelings, troubled her, especially since everything seemed to be falling in place for her fellow transgenics.
Incursions by antitransgenic forces had been nil — unless you counted the occasional protesters — and, for their part, the Manticore refugees were fitting in nicely with the community, economically if not physically. To their surprise, the same attributes that made them premium-quality soldiers had also served them well in a business setting. With handsome X5 Alec leading the way through much of this new wilderness called commerce — had he been an ’80s yuppie in a former life? — the transgenics had not only become successful, but were actually thriving.
The spark for this pleasant bonfire of capitalism in the transgenic commune had been an unlikely one. It turned out that the very first Manticore creation — that hulking, lovable dog boy, Joshua — wasn’t the only Terminal City resident with an artistic bent. Joshua’s paintings had earned him money before, in a top Seattle gallery, and with the group in need, he’d painted with a new fervor.
Based upon his sheer, instinctive talent, Joshua had been successful even before his tabloid celebrity, and now the value of his powerful, primitive paintings was skyrocketing. Gallery owners were clamoring for more “transgenic art,” and the residents of Terminal City responded.
Dix, the potato-headed security man with the monocle, and his baseball-skulled partner Luke, were more than engineering whizzes who had hooked up Terminal City’s security network, supervised the motor pool, designed and built its own power generator and water system. They were also burgeoning welding sculptors, forming abstract shapes that created concrete images in the eyes and minds of viewers. Overnight their hobby became a business.
And Mole, it turned out, had a knack for sand sculptures; and many of the others had skills of their own, not always on the artistic level of Joshua and the sculptors, but in an arts-and-crafts fashion reflecting their own peculiar makeup.
Max grinned at that thought. Let’s face it, she told herself, who on this planet has a more unique combo of environment and genetics in their past than the transies?
So they opened up a street market, and within a month the transgenic art had become a hit with patrons throughout the city, from culture mavens to average folks. Not only were the transgenic artisans prolific, they were talented, and they were media darlings — not the first media devils who’d made that transition — whose pieces fetched top dollar. In less than three months they had leased the seven-story building on the corner across the street from the main gate.