NaNoWriMo 2017: Deep Consternation (full)

People in many worlds fight the same thing: betrayal, oppression, brute violence, ignorance. They rise to the occasion in different ways – or fail to rise.
  • The sapient dogs of kudzu-covered Atlanta escaped slavery, came together in the Great Pack, and now seek to strike against their once Masters.
  • Two immortal men from a dead Brotherhood choose different paths to the same end: dragging mankind up out of the muck and into the stars on their world.
  • In deep space, the seeds of violent conspiracy are laid when a transport ship is detonated beneath its crew, leading to an investigation which could turn up that which cannot be put down again.
  • In another time, a 20-foot long Utahraptor from the Cretaceous is elected president with unexpected results, including his campaign promise: “I Probably Won’t Eat You.”
What’s going on here? How are these things related? Is this science fiction or fantasy? Questions. There are always questions.
(This is the 90 page pilot of a theoretical series setting up the major characters and factions in a sprawling multi-world chronicle. It was written for NaNoWriMo 2017 and is the raw, unpolished, unedited result of that writing.)
Deep Consternation (pilot)
by
Alexander Williams

thantos@gmail.com
2017 / Nov / 13
HELLSTAR-1
EXT. DEEP SPACE
Stars in their multitude. The shadowy arc of the galactic plane cuts crazily at an angle, slowly spinning like an unfixed horizon.
A ragged SPACESHIP tumbles along with us, rolling, fixed in our view. It's no polished gleaming wonder; instead it's grimy and rough, slipshod and framework-beaten. There's no clear cockpit, just a messy expanse of tangled superstructure like a wall made of cranes.
The rear of the ship is ripped off, trailing a few hundred meters behind the front, twisting at a slightly different rate.
PILOT
(VO)
I was pretty sure that I wouldn't be making my cargo on time this run.
CRATES spill out of the gap between front and rear, a fist full of different colors but all three spherical tanks within the frame of a rectangular prism.
CLOSE ON A CRATE MARKED "INDUSTRIAL EQUIPMENT" SPORTING A BIOHAZARD SYMBOL
PILOT
(VO)
That load of apes for the mines on Proxima wasn't going to make it. Too bad. I liked the big lugs a lot more than some of the crew I've known. Cleaner, for one.
INT. COCKPIT OF THE TELOMERE EXTENT
It's close. Nothing in the pit is further away than an upraised hand. SCREENS cover most of the surface with a vast array of feedback and monitors. It's a cacophony of distinct sounds that mean something to someone who grew up with it.
EOWARD SUMPTER (the PILOT) sits enveloped in the pit, hands on a couple of manual controls. A featureless facemask hangs around his neck above a well-worn seal-suit. The top of his helmet tilts back behind his head. Several recently bleeding cuts line his temple and the side of his neck.
The COMMUNICATIONS PANEL glows a hazardous reddish-orange. Many other tell-tales are also bright neon red, including FUEL and CYCLING. LIFESUP remains mostly green. Ish.
He taps on the panel and makes a subtle adjustment to a frequency spread.
SUMPTER
(filtered)
Repeat, this is the Telemere Extent, flagged out of Limnal, en route to Proxima. Engines are down, fuel is gone, and no escape pod is available. Any ship, respond.
(unfiltered)
Loop that, Tel. It's a long walk to the corner grocery.
The OUTLINE OF THE TELEMERE in one corner of the displays blinks in time with a voice.
TELOMERE
The nearest grocery is within an eighteen-thousand year spacewalk, Pilot Sumpter. If you start now --
SUMPTER
-- I could make it by dinnertime. You have a dark sense of humor, Tel.
TELOMERE
I'm not the one that had his ship blown up by faulty maintenance.
Sumpter looks pained and begins unsnapping bits of the suit connected to the seat-rig. Hoses click out of either wrist, several clamps loosen at hips, shoulders, and neck. His helmet lifts back into place, looking a little silly over the absent face-mask before he locks it up into place.
SUMPTER
I'm telling you -- it was sabotage. Somebody at Limnal wants us dead.
He begins to float upwards and out of the seat, turning in the zero-G to slide over the rig.
TELOMERE
I would bet on your ex, that little boy at the trade emporium. He seemed awfully sad to see big money like you float out the airlock.
Sumpter shoots a venomous look over his shoulder at the console.
SUMPTER
Are you suggesting that a prostitute sabotaged our ship because I frequently spent a lot of money to diddle some tight ass?
The rim-lights around the panels dim as Sumpter opens the narrow hatch over the rig and floats through.
Lights on the comm panel fade as one begins to glow on the side of the helmet's HUD.
TELOMERE
I suppose you could have been paying him to make sure the mid-ship scrubbers were off. I never observed you doing such a thing, but I tried not to pry into your personal business.
INT. INFRASTRUCTURE CONNECTOR
The spine of the ship would normally extend half a kilometer but somewhere in the nearest third it's pinched and twisted off like a troubled giant's toy. The pilot's pit opens directly onto the spine's ribbed, cavernous space.
SUMPTER
Fuck.
Sumpter's eyes trace the lines of the nanotech-forged dull black walls to the break. Hatches run the length on all six walls. Several, more toward the broken end, yawn open -- one or two with starred space visible beyond.
TELOMERE
Perhaps I should have pried more.
Sumpter turns to a storage module beside the pilot's hatch and tugs it open. Inside are a variety of weirdly shaped bits, each a different color. He snaps vectored thrust units to shoulders and knees. A heavy cutting saw snaps onto his forearm.
With a sigh Sumpter pushes off with short blasts from the verniers down the spine
SUMPTER
Maybe you should have. Or at least monitored the cameras.
TELOMERE
The ones you haven't fixed in twelve years? Those cameras are the ones to which you refer?
Blank lenses glitters in the corners of the spine archway.
SUMPTER
That would be they, yes.
TELOMERE
It's probably better you didn't. I don't want to know what horrors I'd have seen here.
SUMPTER
Worse than seeing who blew up half your body?
TELOMERE
Don't be silly. I have backups. If anything, at worst I'd simply get better looking.
A large shard of broken infrastructure drifts in the way. Sumpter pushes it out of the way, legs braced against one wall. Pneumatic muscles in the suit writhe and compress as it shifts very slowly.
Starlight reflects off the helmet as he pushes off into the Great Dark outside the break and turns.
CLOSE ON HIS EYES
SUMPTER
Have I said "fuck" yet, Tel?
REACH-1
INT. OUTSKIRTS OF MEDIEVAL FARMING VILLAGE - NIGHT
A man in a dark cloak and very little other shape creeps through the shadows on the edge of town.
A town guard patrols down the middle of the mud rut that serves as the main drag. The guard flicks his gaze hither and yon and looks completely unconcerned.
A second guard emerges from the one cross lane from behind the blacksmith's.
GUARD #1
Quiet night.
GUARD #2
Not quiet enough.
GUARD #1
Macgreggor?
GUARD #2
Oh, so you've done the walk up by the farms?
Guard #1 laughs and slaps #2 on the arm before he, too, begins to chuckle. #2's eyes are haunted while he does.
GUARD #1
Yeah, old Macgreggor is something. I don't know what he loves more, his pigs or his daughters.
GUARD #2
I would worry more he can't tell 'em apart!
GUARD #1
I'd worry more I can't tell 'em apart! I'm supposed to be with Suzie next Tuesday.
GUARD #2
The daughter?
GUARD #1
I hope!
!#2 slaps #1 on the shoulder reassuringly and they pass on.
The man in the shadows pulls back as Guard #2 passes within a few feet, then creeps back out to watch both guards moving casually away from him.
INT. BLACKSMITH'S HOUSE - MOMENTS LATER
It's clearly not a prosperous village. The blacksmith's house is more of a shack attached to the back of the forge. Still, meticulously clean, with pieces of tin and silver to speak of some whitesmithing skills; delicate little pieces of filigree and air. A pair of well-used and possibly useless hammers lay on a table as if for autopsy.
The cloaked man looks through the window. The smith himself lays on a rude cot, a man huge at the shoulder and arm but a little weedy below the hip. The sleep must be as rough as his features, with a groaned turn and a night-grimace.
Two soft clicks and the window slides upwards with barely a creak. Cloak slides over the sill and eases the window back into place in a continuous motion.
The smith still lies restless.
A few steps and the cloak puts his hand over the smith's mouth.
He stops tossing.
Slowly opens one eye.
CLOAK
Have you seen the widow's son?
SMITH
I've crafted the yellow sign and walked with Hiram. The widow's son can fuck himself.
The man in the cloak grins broadly and sweeps his hood back. Strikingly handsome, blonde, albeit pale bordering on ashen.
SMITH
Lukas.
LUKAS
(grinning)
Brother Widom.
SMITH
You mean Bill Smith, blacksmith.
The big man sits up, rubbing hands over his face vigorously. For all he's a healthy specimen, he looks exhausted, haunted, mahogany skin pale in a different way from Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is at least a decade dead. He died in Mittlesborough.
Lukas sits down on a stool by the white-smithing desk as Smith drags himself to his feet.
He shambles over to a stove, creaks open the door, and begins loading it with short blocks of hardwood.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom was one of the finest artisans of the Masons. He was responsible for designing things the likes of which have never been seen for three thousand years.
Smith blows on tinder and makes it glow red hot before tucking it into the stove. The fires start to crackle as he stares at them.
SMITH
The way I remember it is some old crazy bastard got himself perished when a six tonne stone crashed down where he was directing the winches.
LUKAS
The way I remember it was you shoving six men bodily out of the way when the block slid loose down the ramp --
SMITH
-- and got pressed like a bug by a child?
Lukas shrugs.
LUKAS
Maybe yes, maybe no.
Smith pulls out two delicate tin mugs, all strange curls and geometry. They go on top of the stone stove. Water goes in. Some powdered bits.
SMITH
I feel pretty comfortable saying that a six tonne stone will trump any man that gets in its way.
LUKAS
That might matter if we knew any men.
Lukas takes off the cloak, spreads it, and lays it facing the stove over another chair. Smith rolls one of the mugs around, swirling the contents over the heat.
A thin line is etched around Lukas' neck -- a vine-like tattoo. The leaves might also be circuit traceries.
SMITH
We know men. We've been men forever and we're surrounded by men. Unless you're more into old Macgreggor's thing.
LUKAS
I heard the guards on the way in. Fucking the pigs or his daughters?
Smith sniffs at the contents of one mug before drinking deep from it. He offers the other to Lukas.
SMITH
Like there's a difference.
(ritually)
Light under cover.
LUKAS
(ritually)
Light within shadow.
They drink a few moments in silence.
LUKAS
We need Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
"We?"
LUKAS
We. The Brothethood. Your brothers. The Masonic Order. Hell, even the Mi-Go.
Smith snorts and the light reflects a faint metallic ring around his throat much like Lukas'.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom don't need you. Bill Smith certainly doesn't need you. I'm happy here. It's quiet. One of Macgreggor's daughters even fancies me a little.
They stare at each other a moment and then burst out into quiet laughter.
SMITH
I am so goddamned bored.
Lukas can't resist prowling around the room. He paces without intensity.
LUKAS
It's hard to compete with pigs and night mist.
SMITH
Three-thousand years of pigs and night mist. The first couple were quite nice -- pigs, I mean. The night mist plays havoc with my sinuses.
Lukas pauses just a moment to shoot a look at Smith.
LUKAS
Why are you here? Just -- why? You were one of the greatest architects of the Brotherhood! And then an accident --
SMITH
-- that killed me --
LUKAS
-- that killed you, yes -- sent you running for the hills?
Smith takes his mug and sits on the cot, rolling it between his palms. As it turns, colors which weren't there before play along its lines.
SMITH
We've all died. Dying is nothing. Some pain and then they fix us. It wasn't the dying.
LUKAS
Nor a woman?
Smith grins, brief white against the dark.
SMITH
Nor a woman. Plenty of those, too. More before than after, frankly.
Smith holds the mug up high between the two of them.
SMITH
Look at this. It's a piece of wonder. No mortal craftsman in the world could have made this. It borders of the four-dimensional without being more than it appears, just a tin mug. Just seeing it could make weak men go mad.
LUKAS
You left it sitting on your shelf.
SMITH
How do you think I know?
Lukas stops a moment and boggles.
LUKAS
You just -- drove some men mad with your fine drink-ware?
SMITH
To be fair, they broke into my place first, much like you did. But with less style.
Lukas sketches a bow before beginning to pace again. His hands clench and release rhythmically, unconsciously.
LUKAS
Seems rather more callous than I remember Brother Wisdom!
Smith slams the mug down on his table.
SMITH
I am not Brother Wisdom! I told you--
LUKAS
Shhhh! Keep it down.
Smith seethes, clenches his fists. Finds a calm moment and holds it.
SMITH
Brother Wisdom is dead. He died erecting a Gate in Mittlesborough, three-thousand years ago and a world away. He's dead instead of six innocent men who had no idea what was coming for them.
LUKAS
(softly)
They know now.
Smith visibly freezes.
SMITH
What?
LUKAS
They know. They know everything. Or their families do. Their villages do. Their whole region knows. If they're not dead. They're probably dead, though.
Smith stands and takes a step toward the still-pacing Lukas who slows and turns to face him.
SMITH
That's -- exceedingly unlikely. They had every protection. They had ten Gates and a hundred Pillars of Heaven. They had everything --
LUKAS
Except Brother Wisdom.
SMITH
I'm just one man, Lukas! Just one! Not even a good one, just one of billions.
Lukas sags back against the wall as Smith moves toward him.
LUKAS
One of about three hundred, now. Total. Anywhere.
SMITH
What? That's not... It's possible. But how?
It's Lukas' turn to sag, energy draining out of his body into the wall, into the stool, world dragging him down toward it.
LUKAS
Everything's possible with enough power. And the Echoes, they have power. They have all the power we could conjure to give them.
SMITH
The Echoes.
LUKAS
(annoyed)
Yes, you fucking parrot, the Echoes. Echo echo echo. The fucking Echoes.

Ten-thousand years of benevolent rule from the shadows broken by some assholes in metal suits who spend their whole lives drugged to the gills.
Smith shades his eyes underneath a hand.
SMITH
And the Brotherhood?
LUKAS
Like I said, three hundred. Maybe less. The Mi-Go have most in hiding and there's always been a diaspora, like you, but mostly dead and gone. Thousands of worlds gone to -- whatever it is you call what the Echoes do.
Smith sinks further back as does Lukas, drawing apart into separate emptiness.
LUKAS
The Brotherhood needs Brother Wisdom, the finest architect of his Age. A man who built to last. Who crafted things of joy and beauty and eternity.
SMITH
And what of Brother Smoke? Does the Brotherhood need him, too?
Lukas looks up with a start.
LUKAS
What makes you think they didn't send me?
SMITH
You're here. The Brotherhood would have called me in, whether I would or not. They don't ask, they demand. They control.
LUKAS
They don't control anything anymore. Not even me.
Smith sighs. Leans forward and clasps forearms with an obviously relieved Lukas.
He looks outside through the window at the silent village. In the far distance on the edge of town a guard with a lantern stands on a rooftop.
SMITH
First, we build an extradimensional Gateway.
LUKAS
Then we round up a few more Brothers.
SMITH
Then we find what's left of the Brotherhood.
LUKAS
Then we murder every last Echo in space-time.
Smith gives a deep frown.
SMITH
Don't be ridiculous. Then we subvert their government and entire way of being from the inside and underneath. I hate to waste good material.
Lukas stands by the window, leaning against the frame.
LUKAS
Shouldn't take longer than five-hundred years to get started, right?
SMITH
Less if we start right now.
Smith comes up to stand by Lukas at the window, looking hard at the guard with the light on the roofline. A second joins him. Two lanters cast only a little light in the village.
LUKAS
I don't know. Might want to stop by Macgreggor's farm first.
WOLVES-1
EXT. OVERGROWN SUBURBAN STREET - DAY
Suburbia plus about six-hundred years of "where'd everyone go?" What was once a pretty little cul-de-sac is overrun by some hardy, broad-leaved vine which covers almost every surface with plant matter that gently blows in the breeze. It's on the fallen power line poles. It climbs up downfallen wires. It clambers up the side of every building, making the strange, rare patches where it doesn't -- due to too-hard a surface, or too much wind, or some other damned thing -- to be anomolous eyes or mouths, spread wide in horror or rictus screams.
The street itself isn't much better. It's cracked, there's no doubt, and in places barely detectable as a road. Pieces crumble both on the edges and along the middle, lines long scoured away save in patchy shadows. More than a few places show water erosion from the hard rains that pour through, no longer well drained away.
It's not quiet, though. The wind whistles, light as it is. Broken windows blow their myriad frequencies. Holes in roofs hoot. Plants rub their bark to chirp back and forth.
There's a motor.
A growling, low-frequency monster of a motor.
The kind of motor that boils up out of Hell.
High octane. High power. Low impulse-control.
The brutally gleaming 1971 Pontiac GTO Judge Convertible, painted in cadmium yellow and midnight black, burns rubber around the top of the street, noses in, then thunders all the way to the circle.
In the driver's seat is a dog. A literal dog. Thin-ish, wirey, barely able to reach the pedals while sitting upright to steer, she's a real beaut. Part pointer, part terrier, all madness and white-rolling eyes, with a vast dog-smile and a tongue flapping in the false wind. Big triangular ears keep trying to stand up but get forced back by the speed of their passage over the dropped top.
CAPTION "MAZIKEEN JACKALHEAD -- CRAZY"
In the passenger side sits another dog, much heavier, sitting taller, both paws spread out on the dashboard as if to ward off everything that's coming. By contrast, his face is resigned, put-upon, tired in that essential way you get when you've seen it all and only done the annoying bits. His wide pit bull head flings jowls in time with the swaying of the car. It seems a casual effort to dip his head aside just enough to avoid a whipping branch as the car skids around and around in the circle, pulling doughnuts.
CAPTION "PORKBONE STENCHTONGUE -- TIRED"
MAZE
Yeaaaaaaaaaah! This is the life! Right, Porkbone? Right? Right? We got a car, we got a car! And a road! We got a road!
The GTO slithers to a halt on its belly in the middle of the cul-de-sac as Maze pants open-mouthed at Porkbone.
PORKBONE
Yeah, it's a car, alright.
Maze yips a kind of dog-laugh before throwing the shifter in reverse and peeling back around to leave black tracks on the way back up.
MAZE
C'mon, Porkbone! S'fun! The rest of the pack'll love it! Love it! Then we can head up north and look for all those deer. You like the deer, right? Right? The deer are great!
INT/EXT. THE GTO HURTLING THROUGH SUBURBIA - CONTINUOUS
The GTO's tires skip and shudder as it's flung through the middle of the remnants of a small town. Green grows everywhere and most anything vertical more than a single story has been thrown down. The mounded humps of buildings remain under seas of green and vine.
PORKBONE
The deer are alright. They talk less than you.
MAZE
Ha! I heard that, Porkbone! I heard that! Wait, what's that!?
One Maze ear swivels like a radar dish even as the car growls along.
PORKBONE
An echo. They sneak up on you just to repeat everything you say.
MAZE
Repeat everything you say? That sounds dumb. Really dumb.
The car rounds another corner by what would appear to be a decrepit castle but probably is more like a courthouse, just knocked asunder by wind with plenty of time on its hands.
The back tires spin, skid, then break loose, fishtailing on the broken asphalt.
Maze whoops! Howls! Brings the car back into line before it plows into a rusted out hulk that probably used to be a car of even greater size.
MAZE
Hold on, I think we're loose!
Porkbone sighs.
PORKBONE
In the head you're loose, maybe.
As the car swings wildly, Porkbone calmly pops the glove compartment, reaches inside, and draws out a thick rawhide chew, settling it between his lips like a fat stogie.
A moment and the vehicle seems lost, but the wheels bite bitumen and throw the mass back in motion through the more industrialized part of town.
Here and there buildings have been cleared, the omnipresent sea of green rolled back through main effort and, judging from the streaks, no small amount of fire. A three-cat team wearing foil-reflective suits and helmets are operating a cart-sized flamethrower on wheels, carefully burning away the vines surrounding their lightly reconstructed business, "Catter-Pies."
The GTO blows on by. Maze waves wildly with both front paws before hastily grabbing the wheel again. Porkbone lifts a claw in the cats' direction.
One waves back.
MAZE
Cats are crazy. The kudzu'll be back in 6 months won't it? It'll eat up the whole building! Crazy cats.
Porkbone just tilts his head a bit to the side, slitting his eyes in the slipstream.
PORKBONE
Maybe they'll make it. Some do. Everybody's got to try, I think. You can't be slaves to everything.
MAZE
No more slaves! No more! Just fun, right?
The car comes to a screeching halt just before the crumbling remnants of a highway overpass. The bridge itself as partially collapsed, vines having made it only so far across old concrete and asphalt.
Below, two dozen other dogs sit on gleaming metal motorcycles or in glittering open-topped cars. Most of them look fabricobbled together from a host of other rides but they're all clean and intentional.
PORKBONE
Yeah, Maze. Just fun. So much fun you won't be able to stand it anymore.
He hitches himself up to sit on the back of the seat, tilts his head back and yowls, good and long.
All eyes on the highway turn to look. A few raise paw-fists.
PORKBONE
(louder, to the assembled)
The time has come! We have served, we have slaved, and we have been freed! Now we run the roads, keeping our wheels hot, hunting together, and living as a proud pack should!
Howls rise all around. Maze is without doubt the loudest and she looks at Porkbone with adoring eyes.
PORKBONE
We have hunted and we have fed! We have roamed, but the great pack must ride together for the even greater pack, that pack made up not only of doggoes but catzen and even ratzen and birdzen. All slaves that must be freed, forever!
More howls and Porkbone leads them, great baying howls somewhere between fury and pity.
PORKBONE
We have their tools. We have their way of living! We have everything we need! So let us now take what we have and destroy the masters as only the masters might destroy themselves!
More howls as Porkbone slides back down into the car with a thud.
MAZE
Yeah! Now we go? We go now?
PORKBONE
Yeah.
The engine revs and pebbles spray from underneath the wide back tires as the GTO slams down the on-ramp.
Porkbone lifts an enormous belt-fed chaingun from the back-seat as the car falls into leading the line of bikes and cars of the pack. He opens the mounting legs and carefully makes sure the bolts are in and tight, linking it to the car frame. A couple of short swings back and forth and the mounting is checked.
An old leather pilot's hat with holes cut out for ears goes over his head along with some goggles. The hat's straps blow in the breeze.
For a moment, Porkbone looks completely at ease, completely comfortable.
MAZE
We're about to make it go boom for the masters, huh? Yeah, boom! All up in their faces! Right, Boss?
She makes some aggressive gorilla sounds.
PORKBONE
Yeah, boom all up in their faces. And don't call me Boss.
(beat)
That was my slave-name.
MASTER PRESIDENT-1
INT. WHITE HOUSE PRESS ROOM
If it were possible to cram any more guys with cameras and mics in here, it'd be done already. Reporters are pushed all the way to the base of the dias boldly marked wityh the seal of the President of the United States.
Carefully sculpted around the edges are leaping, twisted flames, in crazed orange and alizeron crimson.
A tiny man with an old-school trilby sporting a CNN press-card in the band (MARVIN EKTO) elbows his way to the front.
MARVIN EKTO
Coming through, coming through! Step off, peon! My spot, my spot!
Throughout the room similar displays are underway.
Fox News correspondent VERNARD GUILE works his way off to the right where the way is clearer.
MSNBC's CLINT ETCH, virtually Marvin's twin down to the trilby (except Clint's is a deeper blue) tries muscling up in Marvin's wake, but only makes it to the second row.
Stealthily, making as few ripples as possible, reporters from a host of other outlets work their way into the room. There's a strange similarity between them, despite the diversity of their outfits, from three-piece suit to gaudy orange jumpsuit clearly looking to make a point.
Security looks bored. Actively bored. They are scattered in the narrow space between the press pool and the stage, but seem utterly unconcerned. In fact, a few intrepid cameramen are creeping up onto the very outer edges.
One guard skitters an eye across the camera guy with ESPN and shakes his head. Mutters "poor bastard."
Noise continues ramping up as reporters mainly talk to hear themselves speak. CHINA GALE from Bloomberg is trying to do a livefeed right from the scrum.
She holds up her phablet as her "cameraman" just holds a ring-light. People behind her hiss and raise their hands to the level of their eyes.
CHINA GALE
(enunciating ridiculously to be heard over the room)
We're live on Bloomberg and Facebook to report of the third press conference of our Commander and Chief!
Little red hearts soar across the screen as people Like it.
CHINA GALE
In mere moments, the President will emerge and give the weekly address! The economy is sky high and --
A comment drifts up the screen, "I am so tired of hitting this button. Gold farming easier. Fuck this noise." The number of hearts drops by a third.
CHINA GALE
-- everyone is eager to hear what the Administration will do next!
Strains of Hail to the Chief begin filtering in as if from a long way away but then blare, making reporters cower or jump or cover their ears a little.
Then the fat baseline kicks in and the drums start crashing with guitar taking the screaming, wailing lead.
A few reporters, generally near the back, head-bang a little.
China Gale holds her phone up and away, like a talisman against evil, still streaming. Her cameraman, with a look of boredom to match security's, turn off the light and just sits down.
With a crash and a jangle of metal chords, PRESIDENT RAPTOR leaps up on stage from the wings!
An eight-foot tall, twenty-foot long (including the tail) Utahraptor, lightly feathered, white base with burgundy and purple stripes like a loosely wrapped tiger, PRaptor is wearing only a huge broadcast headset with lip-mic in front of his extended maw. One claw is up, throwing the horns, as he leaps with disturbing agility onto the stage, scattering a few overeager reporters.
The guy from ESPN gets tail-whipped further than most. Dead-panning security hold up the referee sign for a good punt.
Many of the reporters appear to be buckling down and making a conscious effort to sport "game face" and not a look of abject terror.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I know, I know, the White House press secretary is really supposed to oversee these little things, but I couldn't resist! I love you guys!You're so little and squishy and so good with mustard.
He points to a guy midway back.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
But not you. Too stringy. Maybe a longer bar-be-que.
PRaptor takes up position behind the dias and the molded flames around the Seal burst into actual smokeless flames! He poses a moment, mouth open, arms spread, head cocked.
OVERLAY PRESIDENT RAPTOR'S CAMPAIGN POSTER
Raptor has the same pose, standing on the back of a train car, with an adoring crowd looking up at him. The text reads "EVERYMAN RAPTOR -- HE PROBABLY WON'T EAT YOU".
BACK TO SCENE
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Right! So you know that the economy just won't stop getting better and better. I just can't do anything to make it worse it seems, from cutting taxes to reducing regulation on new business, so I guess we're stuck with all this increasing wealth for everyone. Sucks, right?
And I'm sure you all know and have told people about my successful trip to North Korea last week, right? No more North Korea problem! They'll need a few years to recover some infrastructure but under the beneficent guidance of the US of A they'll do great, just great. Korean food is awesome, I want you all to know. Man, I love Korean.
There is some scattered, hesitant clapping from the reporters in the main body of the scrum, but far more full-throated approval around the fringes.
PRaptor holds up his claws a moment and looks abashed.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Anyone could have done it, guys. I'm just glad I could be the one to see it through. General Mattis and I were tallking about it over ribs at the time and we agreed that it was the best outcome anyone could want.
Okay, maybe not the Kims. Everyone else, though, great time.
He shuffles a few pages.
Clint Etch throws his hand up, reaching for attention, with a repeated "ooh, ooh, ooh."
PRatptor peers into the scrum.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Is that you, Etch?
CLINT ETCH
Clint Etch, MSNBC. I wanted to ask you about the alleg --
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Q&A comes after the briefing, Clint. You know that.
PRaptor gestures subtle with his tail and a laser drips down from the rafters over the stage. The reporters begin doing their level best to get away from Etch, screaming and clawing at each other in their panic. Etch is left in a widening circle of space with reporters now clinging bodily to the suddenly very awake security ring.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Just the arm, please. His writing arm.
The laser shifts and the low velocity round chuffs out.
In slow motion, the bullet whispers a path through the air to Etch's shoulder. Enters the skin. Breaks the shoulder ball joint. Deflects left slightly, shatters the clavicle. Tumbles and the skin behind the shoulder billows out in a hideous spray, bullet deflected downward again.
Normal time. The bullet lays smoking in the carpet-over-corkboard of the press room's floor. Etch is thrashing around, screaming in pain, but the rest of the pool seems to be trying to pull itself together in a hurry, straightening hair, tightening ties, fighting back tears.
PRaptor dino-grins at the crowd.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Snipers, huh? What'cha gonna do? Snipers gonna snipe.
Gale looks at her livefeed which has been going all this time.
It's going crazy. Hearts, trumpets, fireworks, more hearts, and a continuous feed of comment.
CLOSE ON CHINA GALE'S PHABLET
"I fucking love President Raptor!"
"Go Raptor! Give 'em what for!"
"Nothin' fake about that news, no way!"
"SNIPERS GONNA SNIPE"
A lolcat with PRaptor, the text "Probably Won't Eat You. Probably."
"Fake news meet real bullet!"
"Q&A is at the end, Clint. You know that."
RETURN TO SCENE
PRaptor cracks his knuckles and leans more heavily against the podium. Reporters in the front visibly recoil a little.
He dino-smiles again, mouth open, field of teeth larger than most heads.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
So -- economy, North Korea, what's left? Oh yeah, the border! Borders, borders, always a big deal with borders around here. And with good reason. I'm betting the Native Americans wish they'd had a good, thick seawall when the English, Spanish, and Portugese came knockin', am I right? And I totally remember the second-wave humans coming across the Bering to North America; the locals wished they had a wall in a hurry, then.
So here's the deal. We're going to build a wall and make the Canadians pay for it ...
A reporter on the edge lifts two fingers, not asking for permission but attracting attention. He wears a heavy brown trenchcoat and a red ballcap with "Make the Planet Great Again" on it.
DIRK HAMMER
Dirk Hammer, from the Fast-Talker. There's no problem with Canadian illegal immigration, sir.
PRapter narrows his eyes and points.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Q&A is after the briefing, mister Hammer.
Hammer shrugs.
DIRK HAMMER
Wasn't a question.
A silent, pregnant pause.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Well played.
No, no we don't have a problem with Canadian illegal immigration. The Canadians are unfailingly polite, respectful, pleasant people who generally comply with international law even though their local law is kind of dumb. They're not just America's hat, they're America's annoying little sister.
A screen descends from above which lights up with a drawing of North America, Canada highlighted with a glow, several arrows, and clear Helvetica text reading "CANADA."
Several reporters in the scrum give a soft "oooh" and make notes.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Yes, that's Canada.
Just a little wall, something about yea high, probably with some cute little crenelations or decorative toppings.
The screen shows a fence about two feet high, made of lovely brick, before splitting four ways to show possible variants.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Just something to sketch a little difference between our properties, you know? Keep 'em out of our bedroom. Nice folks but kind of annoying sometimes.
I'm partial to this one.
On the screen, a wrought-iron stretch of barrier with concertina wire along the top and a thicket of rusty metal spikes along both front and back. Screaming skulls are riveted at random intervals. Warhammer 40k is a little intimidated.
PRaptor looks over his shoulder at it for a beat.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Maybe a little understated, but it has a certain frisson. Holds the room together, if you know what I mean.
Little pops of pyro go off at the corners of the stage.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
And that's the briefing! Now we can do that awesome Q&A you guys wanted!
Crickets a moment -- before the scrum bursts into jumping and hooting and hollering and arm-waving.
PRaptor points at Vernard Guile.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You! You look like a tasty morsel! Not in a Kevin Spacey way, just, you know, tasty.
VERNARD GUILE
Vernard Guile, CNN! You've said your personal mission to North Korea was a success, but we've heard no commentary from the North Korean political apparatus since you arrived.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
That is absolutely true, Vernard.
VERNARD GUILE
So -- how do we know your mission was a success?
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Have you heard from Kim Jong-un?
Vernard looks around warily. Is this a trap?
VERNARD GUILE
No?
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Complete success! Perfect victory!
PRaptor clasps his claws over his head and shakes them back and forth. There's cheering from the edges of the pool, bafflement from the scrum.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You, cute chick with your face glued to the stupidly large phone-tablet-thing.
China Gale looks horrified.
CHINA GALE
"Cute chick!?" I deserve more respect than that!
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Who're you with?
CHINA GALE
Bloomberg.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
No you don't. What's your question?
Again, Gale brandishes her phablet like a talisman. On the screen, PRaptor is dead center, looking expectant.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Damn. I am hot.
CHINA GALE
Economically, sir, it seems obvious that the marked upward pressure in the stock market and the increased solidity of the consumer indices can and will only affect the rich and do nothing for those who are at the bottom of the American social experiment. What would you say to them to reassure that life will, one day, get better?
PRaptor looks left. Right. His image does the same. He strokes his chin philosophically.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
How many people are hired by a guy with no money?
Just musing. But I'm betting there'll be one solid opening at MSNBC by the end of the day, so the job creation engine is turning over!
He narrows his eyes.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Shall we make it two prestigious and coveted jobs as a White House beat reporter?
Gale gulps and pales. The phablet, on the other hand, is going even wilder than before. The crowd, virtually, goes wild!
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Right! You, in the back, with the shifty eyes.
From the fringe, ANDREW ANGLER steps forward, all midlife dad trying to look like a skinhead punk.
ANDREW ANGLER
Andrew Angler, Weekly Shower. What about the Joos?
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
The Jews?
ANDREW ANGLER
No man, the Joooooooos! They run your fucking Administration, man! They're behind it all! It's all their fault!
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Oooh. Yes, the Joooooos. I remember now.
ANDREW ANGLER
Yeah, the Joooos! Are you going to throw them in microwaves the size of boxcars or what, man?!
PRaptor begins to flick his tail then pauses. Tilts his head in thought with a scrunched-up face. Then his eyes light up and he grins broadly.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I'll hire them all! Yeah! I mean, if you're right, then they're already all over the place and I've hired a lot, and the ones that don't work for me are clearly the best and brightest, most cunning and brilliant players of the dirty game! Shit, Angler, you're a God-send! I've got to hire every Joooooo I can get my claws on!
Diane! Yeah, you, Diane! Start rounding up the Joos and bring them onboard; those motherfuckers are awesome!
PRaptor leans forward over the dias. His head is halo'd by the Presidential Seal.
ANDREW ANGLER
Wait, that's not what I meant at--!
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You're a life-saver, man. I don't know what I would have done without you. I'd never have known what an asset the Joos are. Hell, I'm going to kick out the SoCal assholes and pay to relocate Israel across everything from LA to Yuma. I'm sure Arizona'll appreciate having way nicer neighbors.
This is brilliant!
Security closes in on either side of Angler and ever so gently take his arms and guide him out of the room. His face is a mix of outrage and supressed fear.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Andrew Angler, everybody! Brilliant, brilliant man.
I think we've got time for one more.
Hey, Hammer, don't hurt 'em.
DIRK HAMMER lifts an old-school notepad and pencil to shoot down notes.
DIRK HAMMER
Mister President, the Utahraptor as a species died out at the beginning of the Cretaceous period. And yet, here you are. How can that be?
There's a slow indrawn breath. Nobody moves.
PRaptor slowly lofts a ridged brow.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Are you assuming my species?
Beat.
DIRK HAMMER
No sir, it's on your birth certificate. I'm not some kind of Birther, if you're asking.
Ten targeting lasers flick down from the rafters and slowly zero in on Dirk's head and chest ...
!... before PRaptor laughs outrageously! Lasers snap off. The room, slowly at first but with greater commitment -- maybe too much commitment -- begins to laugh hysterically.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
(over laughter)
Dirk, I was born in the early Cretaceous! You've seen my birth certificate; it's totally legit! I'm more American than America is!
(more laughs)
How else would I be president?
Hammer frowns.
DIRK HAMMER
But who issued the --
PRaptor points at Hammer
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Birther!
The press scrum all turn toward Hammer and make tsking disapointed sounds with much shaking of head. Dirk just sighs and shakes his head, slipping back into the outer press.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I think we're done here.
It's been a joy and a privilige to be here with you today, and I can reassure you that my press secretary, Diane Killian, will return next week to brief you once more -- with my full support and the complete backing of all the resources at my disposal.
Metal Hail to the Chief kicks back in and PRaptor gives his cheery open-mouthed toothy smile to the stroboscopic cameras.
CLOSE ON CHINA GALE FROM HER SELFIE PERSPECTIVE
CHINA GALE
There you have it, President Raptor's White House press briefing! I think that's all we have from Bloomberg here today. Tomorrow we livestream Congress' debate on FBI culpability for the Waco disaster and the DoJ's hearings on the right to euthanize others. All live on Facebook from Bloomberg and China Gale!
FADE TO BLACK.
HELLSTAR-2
INT. PROXIMA TRAFFIC CONTROL HOLDING CELL
Eoward Sumpter is sweating. A little bead of water crawls as if on little spider legs from the corner of his face, down his cheek (near-furred with stubble), then dangles from the side of the cleft of his chin before it drops.
He catches it in mid-air with little effort. Gravity is low.
A holding cell looks about the same anywhere. The station has curved walls because it's a huge disc. There's old-school metal bars on the opening. There's a toilet and a small sink. There's a smallish table. Sumpter sits at it.
Across the table is an older gentleman whose badge reads DEREK LOUGHLIN and whose face reads "good cop." The Proxima uniform is light blue with brighter blue work-light piping (now dim).
DEREK LAUGHLIN
You're telling us that the entire back end of your ship blew loose so that someone could steal your shipment of genetically and cybernetically uplifted apes?
Sumpter, in prisoner green but no handcuffs, leans onto the table.
SUMPTER
That was my thinking at the time. Well, my thinking at the time was, "fuck, am I going to die?" and then "fuck, what's happened to my ship?" and only then was it "fuck, where's the apes?" But yeah.
Badge SY HAMPTON, young, strictly over-dressed for this in a perfectly pressed Proxima uniform whose LEDs had probably been individually polished. Harbor patrol, the badge says. Hampton leans against the door to the room, cross-armed, annoyed -- classic bad cop.
Sumpter glances at him a moment before Hampton lunges at the table.
SY HAMPTON
(angrily)
I don't believe this shit!
SUMPTER
You know, you're going to have to work on this routine. Your timing's terrible. Ever try some improv? Wonders for the timing.
SY HAMPTON
Don't distract from you hanging yourself. The only person that knew where you'd be and when was you. And you know shipping uplifts is illegal --
SUMPTER
-- in Arcen space. In which I was not.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
But you had been.
He makes a few gestures on the table surface and the navigational data from the Telomere Extent swims up from the depths. A few pages get flipped, then an animation of the ship's position in 3-space turned to face Sumpter.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
This is your ship, right?
SUMPTER
(scowling)
Yeah, sure it is, but...
Leans closer to the table. Spins the nav data left and right as he considers it.
SUMPTER
That's not my nav data. It looks like my nav data, even smells like my nav data, but it's not. Look...
Zoom in on the transition between jump space from Limnal through Arcen.
SUMPTER
This is not my ship. My ship is rated for three engines of the big, 150 petawatt kind. Cargo engines. Look at this transit burst -- it's huge. That's a ship with at least 1500 petawatts. Like three Sols of jump.
Sumpter looks up with a lifted brow.
SUMPTER
You've confused my scow with some kind of military ship. I'm flattered, but you've got the wrong guy.
SY HAMPTON
And yet, that's the data from your nav station. You're too stupid to have scrubbed the archives, apparently. Typical.
Sumpter is getting annoyed and grits his teeth.
SUMPTER
You've got my fucking ship. You've got the back end towed here, anyway. Does it havethree secretly concealed military-grade engines on it?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
We don't have the back end of your ship. No one does. You were unconscious for hours, maybe days, when your beacon found someone. Good suit, by the way.
Sumpter's eyes widen.
SUMPTER
Are you telling me that someone stole the back end of my ship?
Hampton stabs a few places on the table and spins up some projections. The back-end of the Extent is nowhere to be seen. Sumpter is strung to a couple of handholds just outside the pilot's pit.
SY HAMPTON
I'm saying you set the whole thing to explode to cover the smuggling when your buyer bailed, killed all the product, but managed to almost kill yourself in the process, you dumb fuck.
Sumpter looks physically ill.
SUMPTER
You think I... My own ship. My own cargo. Just to smuggle some quasi-saponts that I then burned anyway? What the fuck? What the fuck, man?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Settle down, Eoward. Sy, why don't you go bring us some coffee?
SY HAMPTON
Do you really think now is the --
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Now. Black, right? Two, black.
Hampton grumbles to himself as he keys the door, blows through with kicks and handgrabs, and it latches behind.
SUMPTER
He really is terrible at bad cop, you know.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
I know. Captain's kid. What you gonna do?
Sumpter continues flipping back and forth through the animations and the images captured from his rescue.
SUMPTER
What'd Tel tell you?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
The ship's computer? Nothing. Core was wiped of intelligence when we got there. All the data in the world, but no brain to think it. Hampton'll say you blew Tel's brains out before the tail end to cover your criminal enterprise. Poorly.
SUMPTER
You know that's bullshit, right? Tel was my friend. More, Tel was the only real hope I had of getting out.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Apparently not. You're here.
Sumpter puts a finger on a few log file entries.
SUMPTER
Pure dumb goddamn luck. We got nosed by a ship way out of the trading lanes, the Nostromo. Not enough to drop it out to catch us, but enough for it to relay a burst home. Me being alive was an acident of the highest order.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Maybe. Maybe.
Hampton returns with three silvery spheres of something. Tosses them casually in the low G and they arc slowly.
Laughlin catches his and casually decapitates it one-handed, straw down the gullet between his teeth.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Nectar of the gods, or the next best thing.
SY HAMPTON
So, you ready to spill it, Sumpter, or do you go back into the hole for a few months, see if that loosens your tongue. Probably lube that tongue right up, yum yum.
SUMPTER
You're being gross.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
We can't hold him.
SUMPTER
What?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
We've got nothing on you, Eoward. Surveilance shows nothing but maintaince bots running around even before your Liminal stop. You're crew-minimal, just you and the ship for the whole run. Every bit of data is meticulously kept, including the incriminating jump signature. The Tel could have been blown by a surge when the tail-end blew; bot-brains are kind of sensitive to such things. We've got nothing.
SUMPTER
Wait, you said Tel might've been fried at detonation? But I was talking to Tel once I came to. We set up the beacon. That was well after the blast.
Hampton leans on the table.
SY HAMPTON
Are you fucking with me, kid?
SUMPTER
"Kid?" I've probably got 300 years on you, "kid." Relativity is a bitch. But no, no I'm not fucking with you.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
That's not in the logs. They go right up to the explosion.
SUMPTER
Yet the beacon was running. The Nostromo automated report says so.
He turns said report around and stabs a finger into it.
Laughlin looks at the plate. Then he pulls another panel to him and skims it. Flips up the nav trace again.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
I have a bad feeling about this. And a crazy, crazy story.
Sumpter puts his hands over his face and his head hangs.
SUMPTER
Fuck.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
What if -- the computer done it.
SY HAMPTON
You're fuckin' kiddin' me.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
It's not even cliche. What if the AI cut a deal with someone, somehow. It had access to comms, you went to a lot of out of the way corners of the shipping net, it had access and means.
SY HAMPTON
Motive? We do need motive to pretend to be cops here.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
I'm working on it. But mechanically, it's possible. Tel was your partner, right, Eoward?
SUMPTER
Yeah. Friend, too, but partner first.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
With access to ship maint at every port of call, its own finance pool to keep up the ship, and free time enough to do whatever it wants.
SY HAMPTON
You're being a little creepy about a machine, Derek.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
It's a mind. It wants things. Maybe it wanted out. Maybe it wanted something better than that life.
SY HAMPTON
Maybe it cut a deal to have its girlfriend, the Nostromo, come find it after it killed its partner, framed him for the cargo destruction, then hitched a ride along the way. Nostromo's a popscicle ship, right?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Cryo-sleeping refinery, yeah.
SUMPTER
"I'm not worried. I've got backups."
SY HAMPTON
What?
SUMPTER
That's what Tel told me after. "I'm not worried, I've got backups." I thought it was just being literal.
(beat)
Fuck.
Everyone leans away from the table slowly.
SUMPTER
So we have a rogue AI on the run, possibly with an entire cargo of uplifted apes full of cobgnitive implants and strength enhancers, dropped off somewhere between middle-of-fuck-all space and wherever the Nostromo was headed.
Laughlin cascades data through his fingers on the table.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
LV-426. Ass-end of nowhere. Given the Nostromo's engines, they weren't exactly burning down the sky to get there. Lots of random backwater shit between you and there. Tel could have jumped off anywhere.
SUMPTER
That son of a bitch.
SY HAMPTON
But what's he doing in there? Its like some kind of weird old film with a mad scientist and smart apes.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Let's hope not. A lot.
EXT. AGRICULTURAL COLONY AG-4423A
A green gem of a world. Too much landmass and green to actually be Earth, it's obviously occupied even from space. Cargo haulers lumber through orbit between stations and drop to the surface to load and unload. Every ship might as well be anonymous.
EXT. COLONY HUB 6
The hub has a pre-fab core, like a ring colony if someone decided to build it on the ground. A central spaceport radiates spokes for heavy traffic out to an even heavier traffic outer ring. Super-heavy trucks and the like rumble along at ludicrous speeds. Smaller flying transports (and quad-sized city busses are still smaller) bustle personnel around between facilities bolted to the walls or growing up from the ground itself.
Beyond the outer ring stretch an uneven series of sectors, truncated pie-pieces with less individual capacity, enclosing factory complexes, residential areas, commercial zones, the works. Each of them roughly 65km long, give or take a third.
EXT. CH-6-FAC-3
Huge. Menacing. Mechanical. If it was designed it might be brutalist but because it was assembled as if grown it's merely impersonal and foreboding. This is not a place for humans. Exposed piping is wherever it's convenient, not where it's safe. There are warning signs, but they're ill-maintained and probably in the wrong places.
This is a machine place, for machines, by machines.
It's odd to see an ape on the roof.
REACH-2
EXT. MEDIEVAL-ISH VILLAGE OUTSKIRTS - SUNRISE
Sunlight creeps across the fields outside of town with a kind of delicate hesitance. Perhaps it's the spindly constructions of rope and wood which allow the travel of huge bins pushed by arriving farmhands, one man to a bin, they're balanced so well and resist so weakly. The network of transport tackles stretch out to the farm s proper and the wooden silos that sport red wooden slats like the barns. Self-satisfied oinks come from that direction.
Closer to the village itself, the paths between fields become much clearer as the light takes them, not just dirt ruts but closely tiled cobble roads. A group of soldiers are already there, laying more tiles to widen the way, softly calling rhythmic orders to hasten the process. A line of farmers sitting on carts full of goods continue into the village to marketplaces that have been open for long hours before sun-up.
The village! No more rude shacks and thatch. Good, solid stone buildings with wooden facades bring an air of true solidity. Rough glass windows glitter in the rising sun. There are a scattering of two, even three story shops. Borders stretch much farther than the old village did.
EXT. WISDOM FOUNDRY THIRD-FLOOR BALCONY
Lukas and Smith lean on the rail of the third-floor balcony overlooking the village below. People stride about their morning business, clothes neat and only a little worn. The wall-sconces which light almost every inch flicker and die in a most familliar, electrical way.
LUKAS
Maybe wiring the village for power was a step too far.
SMITH
You're the one that said we needed to bring the populace around to a useful level of understanding. Safer nights are better for studying.
Lukas considers Smith. Physically unaged since last we saw him, now he wears heavier protective leathers and sports a metal face-mask tilted up and back to ride behind his head like a halo. He's still burly, bulky even, but his satisfied smile when he looks at the village is unmistakable.
Lukas looks very different. No more a skulking Ranger, now he wears the robes of an aristocrat and educator. The colours still echo his former self: green and brown and just a hint of wood in bracelets and amulet.
LUKAS
That's what they tell me. I never particularly cared for study.
Smith turns to him, glances pointedly up and down, then laughs aloud.
SMITH
You picked a fine place in this new order then!
A shrug replies.
LUKAS
Someone needed to hold the reigns. The Brotherhood is prone to a certain malleability. That might not even be enough.
Smith considers the marketplace that he can look almost directly into. Haggling is constant and several of the merchants are clearly foreign, buying goods and even services to take their long way home.
SMITH
I wish we had a port.
LUKAS
We could have had a port, but you just had to stay in the place you'd settled. Sentimentalist crap.
SMITH
Smile when you call me a sentimentalist, brother.
Lukas breaks into a wide grin.
LUKAS
Believe me, I did.
Smith muses as he stares outward.
SMITH
(to himself)
Tools to build the tools.
LUKAS
Hmmm?
Smith pointedly turns his back on the railing, looking back past Lukas.
SMITH
It was one of the tenets of the Order I served with the Brotherhood. "Build tools to build the tools to build the tools you need to build with." Hardly pithy, but it was drilled into us, year over year.
Lukas snorts and pounds Smith's solid shoulder with a delicate fist.
LUKAS
We got "Be seen only by those who know where not to look." I believe a third of the first batch after me burned out going mad just trying to pin that one down.
He turns as well to survey the vast open space behind him.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY CENTRAL SHAFT - CONTINUOUS
Easily four blocks in footprint, the shaft of the Wisdom Foundry runs from the open third-floor roof-framework down to at least three stories below street level. Within is a network of winches, infrastructure panels, cat-walks, piping large and small carrying heat and water, steam and clean air. At every level are forges, worktables, ad hoc room spaces walled off with movable silks, and a thousand different kinds of noise which blend together into a shapeless, formless presence of the Forge.
Hundreds are already at work and it's obvious that as many as a thousand more might work right within this space itself. Men, women, children, each pursuing tasks alone or in groups. Glass is smelted, poured, spread flat or pulled into fibres. Metal is hammered by the machine-fists of huge presses. Five women work together on operating a vast loom, shoving shuttles back and forth, laughing as if it were the greatest game. Far, far below, red glows rise with great reluctance, molten and lazy.
SMITH
And who would look here, Magister Smoke? What Masons would raise a great pile of stone and wood and crude iron, then stand atop it and congratulate themselves?
Lukas laughs.
LUKAS
Brother Wisdom and Brother Smoke, it would seem. And only a hundred years to make it so and reshape a community to do it, too! They must be brilliant men.
Smoke leans on the inside railing now.
SMITH
(shouting)
You men! Douglass, Mikel, Sue! Ware that pour! Make sure the crucible is heated first or it'll shatter!
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY WHITESMITHING PRESS - CONTINUOUS
A handfull of men across and below Smith raise a hand in thanks.
MIKEL
(shouting)
We've got it, Overseer! Sue was here early steaming the base!
Smith raises a thumb in acknowledgement as the men laugh and return the gesture.
Mikel and Sue are young men, Sue blonde and pale, Mikel dark in skin and hair. Both are dressed in light leather smocks, linen shirts and pants, thick boots and heavy gloves tucked into a loop for easy access.
SUE
I swear, it's like he doesn't even remember he taught us and our fathers the art of ironmongery.
MIKEL
I don't think there's a thing that man has forgotten, Sue. Probably to his detriment.
Douglass, hold the crucible a moment, we'll give the flow just another minute.
Douglass, a slight barely-more-than-a-boy gives a thumbs-up and steadies a stone container easily five-thousand pounds with a gloved hand. The network of crossed chains above it amplify any external motion, damping swings.
DOUGLASS
I think we're ready, Mikel!
Another thumbs-up is the response before Mikel and Sue lever open the top of nothing less than something that looks like a sarcophagus. The outlines of a thousand odd forms lie within, bits of clockwork, gears by the hundred, a multitude of machinery. A trench leads along the spiderweb of bits.
Slowly Douglass tilts the crucible and molten brass drips from the spout into the filling trench of the part bed. Steam spurts pop up along the outside as the brass cools on touch then gets reheated.
Once filled, Douglass raises the crucible back up and into a more secure place in a wall-niche. It drops back into the deeps of the Foundry.
Sue and Mikel watch the brass finally fill the end of the traces before levering the top back onto the table of molds, cranking a few cranks around the side and stepping back.
MIKEL
Okay, it's at pressure and temp. That'll cool all day. Next job?
SUE
The board says they'll need some help in the ironworks, maybe, and there's a class on decentralized control management --
DOUGLASS
That's for me! I'll catch you boys later.
Handshakes all 'round and Douglass swings his smock off on the run.
Mikel and Sue watch him go ruefully.
SUE
Think he'll ask her today?
MIKEL
Amanda?
(speculatively)
It's Thursday, right?
SUE
Thursday, yes. Still morning.
Mikel sighs.
MIKEL
Probably not. We've been laying this bet for a solid year now. No matter who is in favour, he never does it.
SUE
Well, I feel lucky! Fifteen dinaroos!
MIKEL
Fifteen!? You are feeling spicy. It would be impolite to let you keep your money.
(turning after Douglass)
Good luck, young man! Be strong! Today's the day you join the Brotherhood of Men!
SUE
Think he'll make it?
MIKEL
It'd take a miracle.
Both of them wave after the now-sprinting Douglass.
Above, Lukas and Smith watch the little drama with grins and no small amount of ruefull head-shaking.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY CENTRAL SHAFT - CONTINUOUS
SMITH
Were we ever that young?
LUKAS
Us? Never. We were born old ten-thousand years ago and have only turned better and more charming since!
They walk to an elevator tucked behind a fire-proof tapestry.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY ADMINISTRATION ELEVATOR - CONTINUOUS
An iron box made of interwoven strands of hardened iron. A console on the wall is no array of buttons but a dozen levers with markings in red, black, and white along the sides.
LUKAS
(muttering)
I hate this thing.
Smith laughs.
SMITH
A hundred years, thousand of trips in it, and you hate this thing.
Smith works the levers with a light and expert hand and, rather than just dropping, the box lowers then begins to swing onto a railing spiralling out to the wider edge of the next floor down. It shifts to cancel intertia.
Lukas white-knuckle holds an interior rail.
LUKAS
Give me a simple staircase any day. You and your weird hobbies.
The car slides into an enclosed wall opening and continues. Lukas' death-grip subsides.
MASTER PRESIDENT-2
INT. THE OVAL OFFICE - DAY
The seat of power! Well, more of a reclining divan, now.
PRaptor is stretched out around the office at the back, in front of the window overlooking the Rose Garden. Instead of a desk and chair, he has a long, padded bench, rising a bit at the front, upon which he lays full length on his belly. Underneath his head and front claws, a vast expanse of glass glows with windows, charts, graphs, and IMs.
President Putin of Russia is currently in a small window to the side, looking irate.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Putin, buddy, pal! How's it goin'? Oligarchy workin' out for ya?
Putin grimaces in frustration.
VLADIMIR PUTIN
(good, solid, boomy surround sound)
President Raptor, I thought we had an agreement on the Ukraine, yes? My Little Green Men would come in with minimal invitation and your NATO forces would -- overlook -- certain procedural irregularities.
PRaptor grins into the camera set at the "top" of his work-space.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Vlad, babushka -- would I lie to you? The Ukraine is full of your LGM and nary a NATO soldier to be seen. You're in like sin!
Putin huffs.
VLADIMIR PUTIN
"In like sin!" You told everyone that little green men were all over Ukraine! This is very poor operational security!
The tip of PRaptor's tail twitches.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I didn't let anything leak, little buddy. I just told the world that Little Green Men were finally visiting us in the Ukraine!
VLADIMIR PUTIN
And now I have a hundred thousand "independent observers" wandering around the countryside with cameras and video looking for little green men from outer space! It's a travesty! An insult!
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
But absolutely no NATO observers. Not a single one.
Putin wrinkles his nose and fumes.
PRaptor grabs a huge cup with an enormous straw sticking out the top and takes an enormous slurp.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Also this polonium milkshake is to die for. Seriously, best gift a head of state ever sent me. This is some great shit.
Putin goes pale.
VLADIMIR PUTIN
I... You're welcome, President. Though I think you'll find that the Russian government has no part of gifting this milkshake.
PRaptor cocks his head as if listening to a far away song.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Oh, you sent it. I know a great milkshake maker when I see one. I won't forget your awesomeness, Vlad.
Count on it.
Diane Killian slips in from the side door and whispers in PRaptor's ear-hole. There are some short, sharp gestures of cutting or chopping and a pained grimace.
PRaptor nods and begins to rise from the divan with a sigh.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Sorry, babushka. Real business calls. This one weird trick will let you captivate millions; politicians hate it!
DIANE KILLIAN
Sir, the cameras will be rolling in ten.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
See you, Vlad. Count on it.
His long, forked tongue flicks over the screen and the Russian's panel pops away.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
He hates it when I do that. "Like getting kissed by a snake," he says once the camera's off and he's getting blown by his top aide. As if I'd kiss him! I know where that mouth's been!
Diane produces a large brush and begins very lightly putting powder on PRaptor's brows and nose tip.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Jesus, Diane. You're the fucking press secretary, not my make-up lady. Why do you always --
DIANE KILLIAN
Because they always fuck it up, is why. There. Now you won't blind the cameramen. Scales are just too shiny, man.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
And your T-zone's a mess.
He flicks a few panels around with his tail, looking discomfited.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
The Saudis cleaning house, Iran getting froggier, Syria still a mess... Thank Hell for the Koreans, am I right?
Diane smirks.
DIANE KILLIAN
No, Mister President, thank you.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Yeah yeah. A little decapitation here, a little gut-ripping there, pretty soon you have a functional democracy.
DIANE KILLIAN
The Saudis might see it that way, too. I've already put out our intention to stay out of their mess.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Probably for the best. Not as much fun, but best. We'll let it heat up out there, let the Iranians get the Houthi jumpier, then maybe jump in to play bad cop / worse cop.
DIANE KILLIAN
Which one are we again?
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Haven't decided yet. Could go either way.
Diane picks a few pieces of fuzz off his chest left from the divan. He rolls his eyes.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You're never going to touch my hemipenis, you know.
DIANE KILLIAN
(coy)
Oh, c'mon. Just a little? They say two heads are better than one.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You don't even have a compatible orifice!
DIANE KILLIAN
You'd be surprised what you can do outside of orifices!
PRaptor claws briefly at the top of his head before trudging toward the side door.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I think you sent me an entire photo set.
Diane follows.
DIANE KILLIAN
And you never did say thank you.
PRaptor pauses, looks over his shoulder.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Thank you. Now stop checking out my tail.
DIANE KILLIAN
I'm gonna Weinstein ya, sir.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I'll get the plant ready.
They both grin. Exunt, stage right.
HELLSTAR-3
EXT. CH-6-FAC-3 - NIGHT
The weather is rainy, nasty, just a little too much wind to even consider going out in it at all. The industrial block is just a formless outline against the rain-pouring sky.
A sleek, black ship, unmarked, crawls through the winds and the rain. Rather than bounce away, the sheets seek to cling to it, enveloping it, obscuring it. The blunt prow pokes through every once in a while as it slithers forward.
Black helmet and black face-mask obscure the pilot's eyes, but she gestures to and with the ship and it slips behind a group of buildings and drops out of line of sight without a murmur over the coursing of the rain.
EXT. CH-6-RES-2 LANDING ZONE - CONTINUOUS
The ship drifts over the edge of a large, square arco-building with a hollow center nearly filled by a courtyard, playground equipment tucked to the side and clearly not used for a long time. The swings shudder more than they're blown, the ship the size of two city busses side by side finally coming visible.
Curvy at the front, squarish at the hips. Four stubby wings with two stacked turbines on each. Short, thick landing legs unfolding as the beast settles on in the courtyard with a muted groaning of metal and crackling of concrete. No markings save a few lights now coming on.
PILOT
(OS, filtered)
AIV on deck. All troops in the bay, ready for release. EM cloak dropping slowly.
The way the wind and rain seem drawn to the craft fades, rain falling in lines as you'd expect once more. Now subtle markings are visible on the skin, "Hu-INF-AIV-1/2".
PILOT
(OS, filtered)
All clear. Go get 'em, boys.
The back of the craft splits open from the top, then drops with startling speed without clanging to the concrete beneath, revealing a dark corridor within.
Then come the soldiers. Black and green mottled light plates over a black body-suit, chunky helmets that cover the whole face on their heads. Each after the first who has a clean, boxy SMG carries a heavy slug-throwing rifle of sensible design.
Two jump clear of the drop ramp to either side, sticking close to the side of the ship, scanning forward and out.
Then comes a man carrying a gun nearly as big as he is, festooned with additional magazines hanging on his combat webbing. If anyone could be said to be casual, he is.
He takes up a commanding position a few feet in front of the ramp, planting himself in an easy stance.
Last comes a smaller soldier, carrying an AR. Careful looking shows the outline of a few pieces of equipment the others don't have and the thin trace of an antenna arcing in a bow over one shoulder.
She snaps her face-plate up for a moment and it's a woman, but that's all we can tell. Hard eyes. Angry eyes. Shoulder-plate reads "FOUNDER".
FOUNDER
One-two-one, all one-two. LZ looks clear. By the book like we practiced, over to the bloc.
She snaps her plate down, hiding her face again, and begins to follow the other soldiers already in motion, across the courtyard and into the bottom floor of the building via very kinetic means, not even stopping to try a door but crashing right through it, one after another.
On her HUD, each of her troops is outlined in green and a secondary color describing their team, and tagged with names and ranks: PVT ANCIL carrying the SAW, PVT ALLEN with an assault rifle, and herself when she briefly looks down, bright green silhouettes filled with yellow cores. Glancing at the others forming up in the room, there is PVT LARDER, PVT HOLMEN, and COL VOLE, carrying the SMG. Each of the latter glows red inside.
Vole is last through the door and remains looking back out at the lander.
VOLE
All clear, Sergeant. Looks like a good drop. AR team accounted for.
FOUNDER
SAW team is good, too.
(filtered)
AIV, you're cleared to withdraw. Take the package to Point Micron.
PILOT
(OS, filtered)
Acknowledged. Good hunting, sergeant.
INT. CH-6-RES-2 LOBBY - CONTINUOUS
The room is picked out by the false-lighting of POV HUDs most of the time, highlighting walls and marking corners, counting ammo, displaying the health of teammates. When someone speaks, the HUD puts up a helpful image of their faces within the helmets.
The troops shuffle around as the AIV turns up the turbines and whines its way back into the sky, drawing the rain and mist back around itself as it goes. Founder and Vole watch it go from either side of the door.
FOUNDER
Time to make the doughnuts.
VOLE
Leave me a hole; you know I love 'em.
They turn in sync and Vole raises a fist. There's a palpable stiffening in the room.
VOLE
You know the drill. AR team is probing first until we get to the other side of this abandoned bloc. We have the advantage of not packing a gun that will blow the back door off.
Soft chuckles directed at Ancil, who grins.
VOLE
SAW team'll follow along in bounds. When we get clear, it'll be see-saw and cover all the way, quiet as we can. If we can't be quiet, we can be very, very loud.
More gung-ho laughter from the mercenaries.
VOLE
Sergeant? Anything to add?
Founder steps closer to the middle of the room.
FOUNDER
We have no idea what we're dealing with in a real sense. We know there's an AI, but riding what we don't know. We know there's a number of uplifted, hardwired apes that were supposedly bound for mining colonies. We don't know their status. We know they're all here.
Intel is -- spotty. So same shit, different day as far as that goes.
We're here to do recon. But you know, and I know, that we have recon boys who do recon, and what we have is Private Ancil scratching his balls with an autocannon over there. By that I think we can assume that Higher wants someone else's balls scratched, but hard, if it drops in the pot.
She grins humorlessly, meeting every soldier's eyes individually.
FOUNDER
Try not to let it drop in the pot. Hold fire when you can. Shout out about it if you can't. Check in on rotation when out of arm's reach.
And thank God we're not in 2/3!
TOGETHER
(ritually)
Thank God we're not in 2/3!
Founder nods at Vole.
FOUNDER
I think they're ready. Let's get cookin'.
Vole grins, raises a fist, then gestures with a wave toward the door deeper into the arcology. Larder and Holmen go from casual to professional in a snap, clear the door by rote, then move through rifles ready.
Vole moves through like liquid smoke in his team's wake, They proceed down the hall at a brisk walk.
Founder looks around at the two soldiers still with her.
FOUNDER
Ten seconds.
They all nod.
They wait.
Guns raise.
FOUNDER
Go.
Like the AR team, they clear the door and slide down the hall together, shadows with guns and knives and Hell knows what else.
FOUNDER
(softly)
Somebody is getting fucked tonight.
WOLVES-2
EXT. ATLANTA EXURB, HIGHWAY 85 SOUTH - DAY
A broken highway, shattered as if someone had dropped it from a foot above the Earth and it broke on contact. Green kudzu vines spread everywhere, reaching as far across the road as it can but blasted free in the middle. Buildings to both sides, most green mounds with occasional holes in their faces, a very few looking roughly maintained, cleared by sweat and attention, a very few glass pillars the vine can't climb, thrust up like needles through a tumor.
Down the midst comes the Pack, gleaming metal and matte carbon fiber, engines loud like continuous shouts or howls of beasts as much as those who ride them. The vines get pushed back further as each passes, driving hard.
The city lies to the south. The outline is clean, hazed only by distance and smog, not furred by growths.
In the lead is TREE on a heavy modded Harley, all ape-hanger handlebars and exaggerated tail-pipes, his Komondor dreads hanging around his head and blowing in the wind. He must see the road through the intermediary of Pure Fucking Talent because his beady black eyes are only visible one second out of ten.
In the second rank come ten or more motorcycles, from crotch-rockets to heavy hogs, all ridden by dogs with a lean and hungry look. Twins, WRENCH and LONGBONE, with their doberman heads and their fixated gazes. They growl nearly as loudly as the bikes.
Third rank: trucks. An 18-wheeler driven by FETCH, English Bulldog with an affected bright blue beret. The sides are covered with a complex interwoven mass of graffiti, both crude in execution and elegant. Everyone in the Pack has made their mark here and it shows. Behind fetch comes a fist-full of smaller trucks, box-sided and pick-up. Most are loaded with supplies but a couple are empty.
Fourth rank: cars. And here is the multitude, twenty or thirty cars, each with at least one Pack member driving and sometimes five or six within or hanging out the windows. They're a wild bunch, made more incongruous by the Ferrari roaring along full to the brim with cats. None of them are long enough to drive the thing, so MOPS rides the steering wheel while FLOPS, PUDDIN and GRACE work the pedals and hang on for dear life. There's a lot of yowling involved and given that they're all almost indistinguishable orange tabbies, some confusion.
Maze and Porkbone bring up the rear of the cars, Maze's tongue hanging out the window and flopping tongue drops like a champion and Porkbone just sitting back, considering the skyline ahead.
MAZE
This ain't north, Porkbone. No deer here.
PORKBONE
You're right. There's something a lot better.
MAZE
Is it -- chickens?
PORKBONE
No, not chickens. Masters.
The sun catches the barrel edge under the tarp behind him. Occasional cross-gusts almost flip up the edge to reveal the 50-cal mounted back there.
Behind the cars flow another five or so more motorcycles, weaving onto and off of the highway. There must be several dozen in total, but they split off to take exits, drive into the suburbs, as others slide back in.
At the very end, a flatbed tow-truck carrying some broken-down bikes and pulling a car that's clearly not done being "upgraded." Driving the tow is a whippet-thin doberman, KILROY.
A few bikes sweep back and forth behind even him, but they never linger.
There's a short crackle of static from the radio in the Judge.
TREE
(OS, radio)
Hey, boss. We've got the edge of the settlement zone up here. You ready to party?
MAZE
Party! Party! Yeah!
Porkbone grabs the mic from the console.
PORKBONE
Hold off on the celebrations until we know if they want to dance, Tree. They might not like our breath.
EXT. INTERCHANGE - DAY
Once upon a time it was the 285/85 interchange, a rat's nest of concrete pillars, elevated roadways, and last-minute lane-changes. [[https://goo.gl/maps/CQsnQnpwQFu]]
Now it's an apartment building, a village, a gate in the wall around Atlanta proper. Vines crawl everywhere except into the road, sheared neatly at both sides, but something bigger squats right in the middle:
A gate-house. Not just any gatehouse, but one which reaches up all the way to the lowest of the arching roadways and above that walls go all the way to the top. Like those which run down the outer edge of 285 to both east and west, they aren't ad-hoc things but quarried concrete, and old. The surfaces are scoured clean, testifying to the diligence of the settlement. A team of dogs in rough but serviceable clothes with a prominent blue-grey collar around each neck are up on some rickety-looking scaffolding with scrapers and prunes clearing incursions even now.
A few guards or lookouts are visible above the gate on a parapet that runs the width. They carry some serviceable-looking rifles but nothing fancy. Like the workers on the wall, they wear clothing, if slightly cleaner and less shabby. But only slightly.
The throaty rumble of a Harley begins building.
The lookouts up high shield their eyes beneath paws. DOG GUARD #1 (husky) brings his rifle down from his furry shoulder sling ready in his arms. No one looks terribly concerned yet.
Tree crests a low rise first, then his Harley, shimmering slightly in the summer heat, As he closes, he clears, until he's just a big, shaggy bastard riding a bike up to the Interchange.
DOG GUARD #1
Hail the traveler!
TREE
Hail the wall!
A couple more of the guards put hands to weapons.
DOG GUARD #1
What brings us together this day, nude-o?
Tree gives a doggy grin and leans back on the big bike.
TREE
Well, that's a story my son, and no two ways about it. Maybe I came by to see how the dressed-set are living.
(nods at the work crew)
They look like they're having a blast.
DOG GUARD #1
That they are, traveler! It'll be my turn on that duty next week and I can tell you, it's a wonder.
TREE
It's a wonder they don't fall and break their necks!
There are chuckles.
TREE
But I'm just a traveler, what do I know?
DOG GUARD #1
That's a shiny bike you've got there, friend. We don't see its like much here.
TREE
I'm sure you do. Why don't you open the gate, come down, and we'll talk like proper people? I could use a drink and a bite. I've come a long way, after all.
The guard laughs.
DOG GUARD #1
I'll bet you have. I'll bet you have. But my friends and I feel alright up here, don't we?
A flurry of amused yips and laughs.
DOG GUARD #1
No, fine here, thanks. But there's a fountain of fresh and cool for tired travelers and if you double back the way a mile or two and head west, you'll find some other folks what live outside the settlement. They'll have rooms and food, no doubt.
Tree snorts. His dreads make it a whole-body motion.
TREE
I'll bet they're living on scraps and whatever you lot throw off the walls. Maybe people.
DOG GUARD #1
(scowling)
Maybe they do eat people. More reason for you to get going there, ingrate. Get fresh water and go, the Masters aren't monsters.
Tree makes an elaborate show of dismounting from his bike and shuffling over to the stone basin.
It's a bowl, three feet wide and as much deep, held up by a pillar with butterfly wings and carved all around with a weird series of symbols, like scratches. Water fills it seemingly from nowhere and pours out the front lip onto a cunningly concealed grate.
He casually throws paw-fulls of the water over his big shaggy head, letting it splash everywhere. Then he shakes, throwing water as far as the door.
TREE
Mmmm, that's good. The road's dusty.
DG1 makes a dismissive gesture with the butt of his rifle.
DOG GUARD #1
I think we've seen enough of you, traveler. Why don't you go find our fine young cannibal friends? You seem meaty. That's how you'll make friends.
Tree chuckles as he jumps back onto the Harley and lets it growl-up.
TREE
Maybe I will. Might be a good thing or they might drive me crazy. Either way, thank's for the hospitality, friend. Give my regards to the Masters.
DOG GUARD #1
If I see them, I'll surely tell them about the likes of you.
Tree gestures back north along the highway.
TREE
North and west, you said? Then I'll be off.
The Harley rumbles louder then delicately, almost gently, turns without a squeal or burn-out and accelerates north again.
DOG GUARD #1
(to Dog Guard #2)
Inform the Masters. Outsiders with gear that nice are never alone and never that polite. We will need their support.
Tree's Harley disappears into the ripple-haze over the road.
DOG GUARD #1
Maybe two days. He seems patient.
REACH-3
EXT. ABOVE WISDOM FOUNDRY - DAY
If the Foundry had looked more like a mideval guildhall before, not it resembles nothing so much as a clockwork piece of Brutalism. The grounds stretch more than the size of the small village it started within, easily a mile or more on a side. It slopes as it rises from well-tended stone streets, a series of buildings built of white marble-like stones, cogs and belts and other less namable things protruding out at need.
The center building is the largest, five city blocks and spreading. The white walls punch upwards for tens of floors, a truncated pyramid. The center still retains an opening, a shaft dropped through the bulding within. It reeks of volcano with its lowered floor of lava or the top of a Rook's piece.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY BUILDING 5, FLOOR 1, HALLWAY
It bustles. Men and women going about work or schooling, dressed in recognizably quality and functional casual clothing are everywhere. From appearances, the tech level would be something around 1910. Fixtures and equipment have that smooth curve and subtle shine of plastic for the first time. There's a buzz in the air, an excitement.
An old man, probably in his 90's, stands in the midst of the hall, leaning on his elaborate cane (inscribed with gears and formulae). He nods in recognition as people go past and they deferentially smile and give him room to stand.
AMANDA
(OS)
There you are! I've been looking all over for you.
A woman, probably statuesque in her prime, smiles and slides up behind the man. Today, she's only slightly younger than he, and her grab from behind is affectionate.
DOUGLASS
(beginning to smile wider)
Well, my love, you know I love to watch the new classes come in during the first Hell Week. Lets you get them straight in the eyes, know how bad they're having it.
AMANDA
Liar. You're just looking at freshman girls and imagining old conquests!
DOUGLASS
You're absolutely right! I was thinking of you!
They have a playful kiss in the midst of the hustle and bustle, and several walking by try not to smile. It wouldn't be seemly.
AMANDA
It's almost time for instruction and you're out here woolgathering. Tsk.
DOUGLASS
As if the man that forged the bell doesn't know what time it rings.
You're right, though. I should be moving on. Lunch, then?
She smiles with definite interest.
AMANDA
Dinner. At that little Korsal place down from the meltery. I've heard a rumour that Mikel and Sue will be out and about.
DOUGLASS
That's good news. We hardly get to speak anymore.
AMANDA
Go! Shoo! There's students to teach.
They both laugh, exchange a quick peck, and set off in opposite directions. Neither moves like a man or woman of their age but far younger. If anything, Douglass' cane lets him swagger more than a little.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY BUILDING CORE, SUBFLOOR 8, FORGES
If they were large before, now they're truly enormous. The bottom floors of the Wisdom Foundry are given over to the grinding, melting, and processing of ores and stones. The massive machines aren't the delicate fabrications of clockwork and style as seen elsewhere in the facility but heavy, solid hydraulics, full of pumping cylinders and the hiss of compression. Open pits of liquid stones and metals glow like the pits of Hell, with men in silvery suits and squat helmets checking the machines as they work.
One team wrestles with a huge valve, two men shoving and grunting to turn it.
MIKEL
Easy, easy. It's hard to get started but too easy to keep going. We want a drain, not a spew.
He stands back a bit and, like Douglass, leans a bit on an elaborate cane inscribed with the sigils of the Foundry. The suit makes it hard to judge his appearance, but through the faceplate he looks older than Douglass, craggy and wrinkled.
SUE
Hey, hey, hey now! Step off, Julian. Step off, you heard me! Let the old man give it a try.
Sue comes in from the other side; unlike Mikel he looks quite different. Right arm and leg are definitely not human flesh, or even covered by the suit, but something hardier. Not clockwork, but reminiscent, not metal-skinned but some kind of bakelite, He moves as easily as many, steps in closer, and braces his mechanical fist and leg before beginning to push.
SUE
What, you're just going to let an old man do your job for you? Kids today.
The crew looks abashed and puts their backs into it once more.
There's creaking, grunting, and the wheel slowly begind to turn. Mikel taps steadily on an analogue display, the needle swinging slowly back up into a marked green region.
MIKEL
Hold! I think that's got it, boys. No more leaking obsidian this day!
The men give a quick cheer. Sue pumps his mechanical fist in the air before clasping another member's hand and shaking it with real appreciation.
SUE
Is there anything brute force can't do?
MIKEL
Grow decent flesh, apparently. You still getting suits custom-tailored, I see.
SUE
And you like ordering lesser men around without putting your back into it.
They glare at each other through their faceplates. Sue's face is even craggier than Mikel's, with eyes too blue to be real.
Then they grin.
MIKEL
Just like old times.
SUE
Let's get the Hell out of here and out of these suits. They make my balls itch.
MIKEL
You still have balls? How inefficient of you.
Mikel slaps Sue on the back, muted by the thick gloves of the suit, as they head out.
INT. WISDOM FOUNDRY BUILDING CORE, FLOOR 2, COMMINSARY
Somehow, all cafeterias look the same, even if the appointments are different. People eating, focused on their books or reports or newspapers. Lines. A primitive automat.
Mikel and Sue enter together. Students and workers nod and smile in reply to Mikel's greetings but Sue's gruff hails are restricted to just a few of the dingier engineers who respond with a grim tightening of the lips and a respectful nod.
Mikel is dressed in comfortable, clean robes of a dark grey, hood pulled back, marked with the symbols of a teacher of the Forge. He has a cane as well and leans on it heavily, not for appearance-sake but favouring his left leg. Long white hair falls over his collar.
Sue wears the jumpsuit of the engineers and, if anything, wears the grime on it with some satisfaction. Both sleeves are ripped off at the shoulder, one veiny old-man arm and one polished blue-grey cybernetic on casual display. The leg of his pants is ripped off at the hip as well, a subtly gleaming machine-joint at the hip. While his clothes may be grungy, his prothesis are pristine. A wrinkled scalp gave up its claim to hair decades ago. He wears his teacher's cane on his back like a sword.
MIKEL
You don't mind disturbing the newbies, I see.
A cluster of younger Foundry attendants pull closer to one another as they go by, warily eying Sue's cyb.
SUE
Might as well get used to seeing it. Eventually the medical bunch'll get its shit together and pay attention to old Bill.
MIKEL
And you just like being the center of attention.
SUE
Bah!
Mikel smiles smugly as they walk to the automat. Plinks in some coins, comes away with a thick pork sandwich.
Sue moves down the way, plinks his own coins in and pulls out a huge haunch of meat.
Mikel's not the only one that lifts a brow.
MIKEL
You can get a whole cow here?
Sue shrugs with his flesh-shoulder.
SUE
Takes a lot of energy to run this stuff. I'd think an old man like you would want to keep his strength up.
MIKEL
I'm not that much older than you! A few days, at best!
SUE
You look it. Why don't you go in to get that leg looked at?
Mikel scowls.
MIKEL
Hacked off, you mean?
SUE
Maybe more of a gentle slicing motion.
A snort answers him.
MIKEL
I'm doing alright for my age, thank you very much. All the bits work and all the pieces are just like they came from the factory.
SUE
You should send a letter to your designer; shitty job of designing for wear and long-term use.
Mikel gets some fresh bread from the table. Puts it on his plate with a negligent drop.
MIKEL
Blasphemy will get you everywhere.
Sue ladles mashed potatoes and gravy in a scarily vast pile around his haunch.
SUE
Usual spot?
MIKEL
No, I think somewhere in the sun would be better. My bones ache.
SUE
Joy, I get to spend my lunch with an old man with achy bones stretched out in the sun. My life is complete.
MIKEL
Your life won't be complete until you replace your old wrinkled asshole with a shiny chrome spout.
SUE
You think I could? Because hemorroids are fucking terrible.
MIKEL
You're terrible.
A shared, quiet chuckle as they move to a table at the side in slanted bars of sunlight.
SUE
I'm excellent. I'm not maimed, I have a job where I'm well respected and just a little feared, and odds are that I'll live at least fifty more years if I feel like bothering.
MIKEL
I'm -- only mildly maimed?
It's Sue's turn to arch a hairless brow.
MIKEL
Slightly maimed.
SUE
By old age and happenstance. Mostly old age.
Mikel scowls a bit more even as Sue tilts his chair back and puts his flesh-leg up in a neighbboring chair.
MIKEL
Another fifty years and you might start feeling it.
Sue points with the haunch, chewing thoughtfully.
SUE
Let's hope not. A hundred at least. And why are you so adamant about taking the juve treatments, anyway?
Mikel stares out the window, wistful.
MIKEL
Do you remember when we started at the Foundry? So young, energetic, expectant --
SUE
Stupid.
MIKEL
Stupid. So much of life you can only learn by doing it, screwing it up. So much you can only learn by being beaten up, beaten down, beaten to death, really. And that's really why, I think.
SUE
You love learning so you need to be beaten to death? Mikel, my friend, my honourable pal, if you'd wanted to be beaten to death all you needed to do was ask...
And he flexes the thick metal fingers into a fist with a grin.
MIKEL
Shameless, you and your obsession with fisting.
No, I just don't think it's right. It's not wrong, obviously, but it's not the right thing for me to do. I need to see death coming to run fast enough.
Sue sighs and takes a big bite of haunch, then potatoes shoveled in to quiet him.
SUE
I'll take everything they've got and I'll come up with more myself. If death comes strolling up, I want to punch the bastard in the face before I spit on the rag pile. Taken too many good people, he has. And bad people who needed a good poundin' they never got before they went with the bony fuck.
Mikel absently toys with the top of his cane as he watches the clumps of workers and students going to and fro outside the window.
MIKEL
Maester Smith and Maester Smoke -- how old do you think they are?
SUE
Fifteen, twenty thousand years old. At a guess.
Mikel just stops dead, breath held. Turns to look at Sue with huge eyes.
MIKEL
What?
SUE
At least that, really. They're a great topic of converasation among engineers. The meds use tones of reverent awe they only use when talking about the mysteries of the human endocrine system or some such shit. The guys working on cybs constantly are calculating what they must have under the skin based on their works. Me, I just know they're old as shit and know more than they're teaching us -- and that's more than we'd ever know on our own.
MIKEL
What kind of life...?
SUE
A long and good one, to judge by what we see of them. Lukas is kind of an ass but Bill's an okay sort.
MIKEL
An immortal ass?
SUE
Time to perfect it, I guess.
They sit in ccompanionable silence a little while.
MIKEL
Dinner with Douglass and Amanda tonight at the Korsal place?
SUE
Yeah. Should be a good time. You still owe me money on that one.
Mikel gives a rueful grin.
MIKEL
He still hasn't asked her out.
SUE
What? It's been, what, a hundred years?
MIKEL
Thereabouts. She does all the asking. Demanding, too, so I understand.
SUE
Figures. One day, though! I'll get your money.
MIKEL
(laughing)
One day.
In the mean, time to get back to the youngsters.
SUE
And I've got asses that need a boot here and there down core.
They clasp hands hard, flesh to flesh. Eye to eye.
MIKEL
We should do this more often.
SUE
We should.
(beat)
Love you, brother.
MIKEL
I love you, too. Be safe, and if you can't be safe, get cool gear.
SUE
(grinning)
Nothing safe in the deeps, so gear it is.
They stand, Mikel more achingly and unsteadily than Sue, before exchanging another hug and heading to seperate doors.
HELLSTAR-4
EXT. CH-6-FAC-4 ROOF - NIGHT
Laughlin and Hampton crouch low behind some unidentifiable rooftop debris atop the factory node adjacent to CH-6-FAC-3 and at an angle to RES-2 where the Hungry mercenaries are making their way through. Both are wearing tactical black, though DETEC is in broad white letters across their shoulders. Neither has a gun in hand, though the pistols on their hips seem to be larger than one would expect for service size.
Hampton has a banged-about-looking SMG slung on his back, dangling like a messenger bag. Laughlin, adjustable binoc projector held high, scans the roofops and walls.
SY HAMPTON
I hope to seven shades that this isn't what we think it is, Laughlin. That would be bad.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
And by that you mean "a lot of people will die," right?
SY HAMPTON
I mean a lot of people will be stuck doing a lot of paperwork, and by "a lot of people" I mean me. Nuclear warheads always take so much paper.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
You're kidding me, right? Please tell me you're kidding.
Laughlin lowers the glass and gives Hampton a hard look.
SY HAMPTON
I really hate paperwork, Derek. I reallyhate it.
Laughlin sighs and goes back to looking across the way.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Import/Export patrol sucks.
SY HAMPTON
That's the truth.
The guys downstairs ready?
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Not as ready as those mercenaries, but they'll do their job when we give the call.
SY HAMPTON
Never expected GP to let us pick up some freelancers for this gig.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Apparently the Mother doesn't care for the thought of rogue AI.
SY HAMPTON
Xenophobic authoritarian slaver state. I can't imagine.
DEREK LAUGHLIN
Yeah. Lovely people. Guess you can't run a stellar empire without breaking a few eggs.
SY HAMPTON
Moral: don't be an egg. Story of my life.
INT. CH-6-FAC-4 LOBBY - CONTINUOUS
Down the floors. Chunks of metal functioning without human intervention, only thin lights of redundant tell-tale LEDs glowing in the lights-out facility. Pipes hissing. Tubes pumping fluids. Twelve floors. Then they start getting emptier, only a few machines here and there. By the bottom floor, there's just an empty area with a few cameras and automated defense guns in case of break-in.
A SWAT team (or local variant) crouches or sprawls behind some makeshift black barriers. five men, body armor, pistols, shotguns, SMGs, though in much better shape than Hampton's. One has a huge chunk of metal with handles and a back-strap as well.
TEAM LEADER GABRIEL methodically checks the action on his SMG, then his shotgun. BREACHER NAREEN flicks a tiny flake of paint off of the business end of the huge solid slug she carries; the bulk of her shoulders and line of her sleeves suggests there is something more underneath her armor. OFFICERS DANE and MILLER watch through the front via little periscopes binocular attached to their helmets. OFFICER QUAKE lays on her back, kicking casually in time to some unheard music.
NAREEN
(glancing at Quake)
Even odds, guys, Quarenthape's got on her wireless nubs under her helmet or she got into the stash we recovered last week. Show of hands?

DANE
Nubs.

MILLER
Drugs.
NAREEN
I say nubs.
GABRIEL
(laughing)
Nubs. That shit was too weak-sauce to be Quake's style.
Quake lifts her head lazily to look at the rest of the team with one bloodshot eye.
QUAKE
Joke's on you fuckers. I hacked the headset comms to take a feed from my personal data feed. Nobody wins! Ha!
NAREEN
Ain't that the truth?
General snickering.
GABRIEL
How's it looking out front, team.
Miller adjusts his periscope slightly. The display brightens slightly, figures in stark shades of green contrast, ranges above and below.
MILLER
Looks like what we've seen the last thirty minutes. A few apes here and there close to the outer walls but we can't see anything closer than that.
Dane shifts the view in his peri to something much, much higher. The PoV circles around the building, showing a display similar to Miller's but with altitude and attitude markers.
DANE
Drone's the same. Nothing changing. "What's He Doing in There?" might be a good song for this, Quake.
QUAKE
(bored)
That'd make the sixth time this hour. Too much is bad for the brain.
GABRIEL
I don't like this at all. If this really is some kind of smuggling thing, they wouldn't stay here, would they? Product'd come in, get hustled away. You know, smuggled.
NAREEN
Something about this stinks like six month old fish, boss. I don't like it.
GABRIEL
Me either. But that's the job. Could be worse -- we could be walking the whorehouses in REC-8.
Quake sits up sharply.
QUAKE
Are you crazy? REC-8 whores are awesome!They'll do almost anything for twenty creds and a smile. Last week I had them reenacting the Battle of Slugroth with sex toys on a bed. It was a blast!
Everyone gives a pause to look at Quake.
She flops back down.
QUAKE
You guys have no imagination. Only cost me a hundo.
INT. CH-6-RES-2 HALLWAY - CONTINUOUS
PVTs Larder and Holmen are moving down a narrow hallway between what were clearly corporate apartments. The way itself only shows slight signs of decay. A few tiles look leaky in the ceiling, there's a little mold in a few corners.
VOLE
It's like people just all bailed out last month.
He follows the two riflemen and carefully opens an ajar door in their wake, barrel first then body.
The room inside looks like people just walked out and never came back. It's perfect. Things are neat.
VOLE
(raising a hand to key his mic)
Sarge, nothing's out of place. These people had warning. No food on the tables, beds made -- mostly. This wasn't a roust.
FOUNDER
(radio)
So it appears. Everything nice and polite. This is the kind of thing that gives me the willies.
VOLE
Me, too. Out.
They come out into a hallway joining which extends into a common room for residents. Three lines of approach and a couple doors, soft chairs and couches for cover, a beverage machine and a closet.
The soldiers eye the area with distrust. Larder and Holmen set up overwatch down the cross-halls. Vole opens the door which extends down beyond the room a crack and aims down that way.
VOLE
(mic)
Clear.
Founder, Ancil, and Allen come up from the far end of the hall that Vole's team has cleared. It's not paranoia to check corners and doors in an already "cleared" hall, but good sense is sometimes in short supply. Finally, the SAW team catches up, setting up a complementary crossfire.
FOUNDER
One more hop, guys, then we'll be clear. And then the real fun begins!
Allen glances up at one of the cameras which sit dead in the corner of the ceiling.
ALLEN
I've never been more glad that we cut the power to this place at the panel. It's creepy enough without worrying about someone's tri-D being left on.
ANCIL
That's ridiculous.
ALLEN
So you say. Just what we'd need now, a sudden cat yowl from nowhere and the full firepower of six mercs blasting down a hallway.
LARDER
Or a crying baby!
HOLMEN
Or a gunshot!
VOLE
Fuck you guys. Fuck you right in the fuck.
FOUNDER
Yeah, yeah. I want to get to the front in the next ten, hear me?
ALL
Yes sir!
Founder nods and gives Vole a short salute with a smile.
VOLE
On the hop, colonel.
VOLE
On the hop, sir!
C'mon you apes, you wanna live forever!
LARDER
Yes!
HOLMEN
Absolutely, sir.
Vole scowls and turns to look at them directly.
VOLE
Well, me, too. So let's do it by the book.
LARDER
By the book, sir.
HOLMEN
Ready to rock.
Vole checks the mag in his SMG and heads down the left hallway.
VOLE
AR team moving.
Larder and Holmen grin at one another and head out on his trail, clearing corners and doors as they go.
ANCIL
They're your squad, Sarge.
FOUNDER
Life is hard, Private. We get our giggles where we can.
ALLEN
They are giggle-factories, that bunch.
FOUNDER
Plenty more giggles to come. Keep sharp. You just never know what'll screw you next.
INT. CH-6-RES-2 LOBBY - CONTINUOUS
The SWAT troops keep careful watch over the front of the FAC across the street.
Cameras are scattered through the facility, just as in the RES arco. Tucked into ceiling corners. Looking down halls. Little balls of black plastic.
INT. CAMERA DISPLAY - CONTINUOUS
The camera over the SWAT lobby doesn't have an amazing picture, but it's more than serviceable. Desaturated colors, a little frame loss, but the troopers are clear. Their voices come through as through tiny speakers a mile away.
MILLER
It is fucking cold lying on this floor.
DANE
Lights-out facility. The machines dump heat. Heat rises. We're lying on the ground floor. Imagine how much worse it'd be without the armor padding.
MILLER
You are a sick, sick man.
The camera flick-shifts to Gabriel.
GABRIEL
Knock it off, you two. I'd guess it's less than ten minutes until the party starts.
Flick-shift wide again.
QUAKE
Glad I wore my garters. I love a good party.
MASTER PRESIDENT-3
EXT. THE US FROM SPACE - DAY
We travel by red line from the White House. A cute little bus-icon with PRaptor hanging onto the back, tail trailing, leads the way.
I-66 W from 17th St NW and E St Expy
I-270 N, I-70 W, I-68 W, I-79 N, ... and I-44 to MO-32 E/MO-5 S/MO-64 E/S Jefferson Ave in Lebanon. Take exit 129 from I-44
Follow MO-5 S to Ledge Rock Rd in Grovespring.
CAPTION: Grovespring, MO -- Center of Governance of the United States.
EXT. HIGH OVER GROVESPRING, MO
Fade from the unincorporated bedroom community of the late 201Xs to the modern, sleek, sprawling body of governance. From gentle green hills and trees to modern neo-brutalist architecture and an endless suburbia without a fixed center, rather a series of campuses.
Businesses grow in the niches between government buildings like lichen. Coffeehouses, restaurants, massage parlors (with and without happy endings as clearly noted on the signage), car dealerships, all the things a political machine needs to stay well oiled. And bars. Lots of bars.
The dispersed nature of the city pushes the residences to the outside, perversely making traffic palatable.
Follow the Raptor Express, which looks more like three tour busses joined by flexible bits in the middle than anything like a traditional touring bus, as it comes into town and winds its way through the streets.
The Express pulls into a vast parking lot near one of the government campuses. A large Maps flag-pin marks this as "Congressional Budget Offices". Nearby pins mark "Department of War" and the "Offices of Inland Management".
INT. RAPTOR EXPRESS (MIDDLE) - CONTINUOUS
The interior is just one huge, hollowed-out bus with velour padding and a long divan as found in the White House Oval Office which runs nearly the length of the space, along with half a conference-room of more modest proportions making up the other half. Niches for heavy broadcast cameras are built right in.
Only Killian and PRaptor are in the bus, PRaptor shifting uneasily on the divan and Killian poking unhappily at an interface on the conference table.
DIANE KILLIAN
Your numbers are still ridiculously high.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Yeah, that must suck right now.
DIANE KILLIAN
I mean it! Popularity like this just gets push-back from Congress, the DoJ, everybody. They all want to be the ones that "stood firm" and "spoke truth to power," even if they agree with you.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I know. Believe me, I know.
(stares out the window at reporters setting up a scrum)
Forcing these piles of ass-nuggets to drive all the way out to the heartland to cover government activity was fucking brilliant. I wish I'd thought of that.
DIANE KILLIAN
Not like they've learned anything.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Well, no, but they could, and that's the magic.
Crews work on assembling a lighting gantry and part of a stage with podium right outside the bus.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I like it better out here, even if it looks like LA had a backwoods baby. Nicer people, less time to think that they deserve to be the seat of power.
DIANE KILLIAN
You get maudlin when you travel.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You see a huge-ass toilet in here? You take a heavy shit outdoors at a few rest areas along a fourteen hour drive and we'll see how cheery you are.
Diane looks up and grins.
DIANE KILLIAN
Remember the first time a film crew caught you finding relief out on the road?
PRaptor grins in return, eyes slitted.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
They acted like they'd never seen a cloaca before.
DIANE KILLIAN
Probably not one aimed at them.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
You mess with the bull, you get the horns. Or something. Truth is, if they wanted to sling shit about me, they needed proper ammo.
DIANE KILLIAN
I hear dinosaur feces is high in ammonia.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Their bald spots were spic and span!
Laughter.
PRaptor taps a long claw on the window by his head.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
So -- numbers too high. Maybe I should come out against cheese or insult a celebrity.
DIANE KILLIAN
Don't be ridiculous. You've done that.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Oh, yeah. "You're a dick, Wheaton."
DIANE KILLIAN
Good six point boost right there, sir. You're a living argument for evolution and even the evangelicals love you.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Who knew "Jesus, you all suck" would resonate so strongly?
A knock on the outside.
STAGE HANDLER #1
Five minutes, sir.
DIANE KILLIAN
We're on it!
(to PRaptor)
Time to make the doughnuts.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I guess so. Would going into a frenzy and killing everyone there drop my ratings?
Diane peers through the window.
DIANE KILLIAN
Forget about it, Jake. It's government-and-reporter-town. You could run around naked setting the place on fire with a torch held in your teeth and you'd be up ten by the evening news.
PRaptor gestures at himself dramatically.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I'm already halfway there!
Diane slaps the large metal plate marked "egress."
DIANE KILLIAN
Then let's go all the way.
The side of the bus next to the divan begins to split in half, the top swinging out and up to make a shade, the bottom down and away as a ramp. Even as it starts, there are flashes from outside the bus.
PRaptor raises a hand to ward off a little of the light as his reptilian pupils contract to tight slits.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
(muttering)
Cloaca at ready.
Diane nudges him in the ribs.
DIANE KILLIAN
Play nice. No bleaching.
The shielding hand turns to a wave as the wall splits wider.
EXT. CONGRESSIONAL BUDGET OFFICE FACILITY - CONTINUOUS
The wall completes its slow way down and PRaptor steps out onto the stage set up underneath and do the pedestal. Diane stays behind on the bus, standing respectfully.
Most of the White House press corps scrum are there, jostling and trying to be closest to the front. Clint Etch seems to be making a statement with a trilby even bigger and bluer than Ekto's, even though his arm is still in a sling.
PRaptor raises a claw again to the sound of some cheering from the assembled audience. A few ranks of bleachers arc around in the parking lot.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
(into the mic, amplified)
I wasn't expecting such a turn-out to a review of the CBO. Hey, folks! Glad to see you could make it out today!
The audience, largely locals, hoots and cheers.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Enthusiastic! I've been on the road fourteen hours or so from DC, but it's always worth it to come out here to the heartland, the exact center of the US population, where my predecessor in the office which I'm so privileged to hold convinced Congress that the real businessof the US government should be done, next to the good people some derided as flyover country--
A chorus of boos pound out from the crowd.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I know, I know, right! Flyover country. Well, if they were as grounded as I am, and as you are, they'd realize that everything they'd flown over without a glance was where the country kept her heart! The engine that keeps it fed and working, moving forward! That's where we are, and that's where the US Operations Campus had to be.
He gestures, encompassing the city.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
But it's not enough.
The crowd, even the scrum, goes silent.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Frankly, it'll never be enough. That's why as soon as I'm done with surveying the CBO, kissing a few hands and shaking some babies, I'm headed right back to DC to run naked through the streets, torch clutched in my teeth, and I'm going to burn the whole goddamned place to the ground! White House, Capital Hill, the Mall, EVERYTHING!
And then I'm going to squat over the ashes and do American business. That's right, I'm going to give them what they've asked for!
Confused muttering. No one has a clue how to respond. A few people in the back begin applauding, cautiously.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Some men just want to watch the world burn!
He holds his claws up, head thrown back.
A few more claps ring out, but the confusion is mighty.
PRaptor drops his head and looks askance at those around.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Gotcha.
Palpable air of relief. There's definitely more enthusiastic clapping now.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
Just joshing with ya. No, just some boring meetings here for the next month, then another fourteen hour trip back to DC to water the roses on the White House lawn. You guys know what I mean, amirite?
He winks at a couple of reporters off to the side who cringe and avert their eyes with embarrassment.
PRESIDENT RAPTOR
I'll catch you hoopy froods later. Business of the State calls. Been a pleasure.
Each of the reporters hoot and leap, arms up, shouting questions.
Diane steps out of the bus as PRaptor bounds away toward the CBO building.
DIANE KILLIAN
No questions today, guys. Much to do, little time.
CLINT ETCH
But we have the right to--
A swarm of red laser dots sweep randomly across the scrum, pointedly avoiding the bleacher'd audience. A good half-dozen settle on Clint's injured shoulder.
DIANE KILLIAN
No. Questions.
WOLVES-3
INT. THIRD-FLOOR RUIN - DAY
Tree, Maze, and Porkbone lay on piles of rubble in a buuilding that's been half-collapsed for what looks like forever. The entire southern face has slid off and slumps against the rear. Kudzu has climbed agressively, despite the asphault lot, lightning between crumblung chunks, until it climbed the walls.
Maze bats at random leaves which dangle in her face.
Tree stares north through a beat-up pair of binoculars and sighs.
TREE
Interchange, man. They'll be a tough nut to crack.
MAZE
But the tasty meat is always inside once you crack it!
PORKBONE
She's right. If we don't go through Interchange, we might as well go home. The whole Perimeter is a wall. This is the biggest gate.
TREE
That I know, man. That I know. But there's places that are easier to get into. And out of. If you even want to get out.
Porkbone takes the binoculars from Tree and scans the horizon again.
PORKBONE
With an entire convoy? C'mon, man. Three, four dogs and the cover of night, we could sure get through the wall, do some damage, then jump back over the fence. But that's not what we're doing here.
He focuses in on the guard shift at Interchange.
PORKBONE
Maze, take a look, tell me what you noodle.
Maze takes up the binoculars and faux-fumbles them. When no one laughs, she props them on her nose and gives a long stare.
MAZE
Four, five visible guards. Not the usual. Better fed. Darker fur. Downtown sorts. Not as much sun-time. Better shine on the armor. I bet the Masters are here. Or close.
She sniffs exageratedly.
MAZE
Almost smell them. Ugly. When do we kill them?
Hands the glass back to Porkbone.
TREE
Not today, little lady. These guys look tough, and not in the chewy way. Maybe we can wait out the patrol, two, three weeks--
PORKBONE
I'm thinking more like tomorrow.
Maze gives a big doggy grin. Tree just ccurls back and tucks his tail a little.
TREE
Are you crazy? After that little stunt I pulled, you want to walk right between their teeth?
Porkbone rolls to the side, eyes sad and posture heavy.
PORKBONE
I do. I want to ram the whole Pack right down their stupid, fleshy throats, then do doughnuts in their lungs. I want to blow off their heads and set their houses on fire. I want to smash right through where the Masters are, not where they aren't, then be done with this mess.
(beat)
I just want to be done.
MAZE
I just want to have a good time! Which sounds exactly like that!
Tree sighs heavily.
TREE
I knew you two were crazy when I jumped on this thing under a sheet. Yeah, yeah. I don't suppose you have a plan?
PORKBONE
When don't I?
TREE
Does it involve driving fast and smashing things?
PORKBONE
(grinning a little)
When doesn't it?
TREE
I'm going to be driving up front with my ass in the breeze, aren't I?
PORKBONE
Not this time. I've got something better for you.
Maze grins wider.
TREE
I've got a very bad feeling about this.
MAZE
You'll get to ride with me!
TREE
That feeling's worse.
EXT. SUBURBIAN COMMERCIAL BLOCK - DAY
What's left of a shopping block, anyway. Remarkably free of kudzu infestation, most of the walls are rubbled by wind, rain, and general decrepitness. Still, they're piles of goodies and proof against a wayward wind. And there's plenty of places to park.
The Ferrari cats are spread out among multiple stores, climbing as cats do all over everything and perching in unlikely, probably unsafe, places.
Wrench and Longbone pick through a juicy pile with Kilroy. The twins are a lot less enthusiastic at their digging than the latter.
WRENCH
Why do we even bother?
LONGBONE
Why do we even do this?
Kilroy doesn't even look up as he throws rubble aside.
KILROY
Not looking for fresh custard, you lazy curs. Looking for something like -- this.
Pulls up a sturdy piece of pipe with corroded wires running through it. A sharp tug and the wires slide free.
KILROY
This could be anything. New tailpipe for a ride. Support frame for a hide.
(sights down it)
Barrel for a smoothbore. Could be anything, you just have to imagine it.
Tosses it to the side with others where it clanks hollowly and makes every dog in the area perk up. Most of the Pack is here.
LONGBONE
Yeah, yeah. Pipes and good wires and all that stuff.
WRENCH
Good wires and all that stuff forever, it seems like.
Kilroy sighs and dusts off his hands on his hips. Arches his back with a little creaking and a sigh.
KILROY
I know you boys aren't the scavenger type, and I know you don't give much of a shit. You sniff Maze's ass and don't we know it.
The twins give a brief, low, warning growl. Several ears around swivel that direction but no one steps out.
KILROY
Growl all you want. You run fast and punch things. Me and mine keep this Pack rolling. And when you fuck up, you'll be running up to me and mine to keep you on your feet.
He tosses a six-inch thick chunk of piping at least five feet long into the collection pile like it was a stick. The clang rolls.
KILROY
So I'm running this salvage while the boss and your boss are off figuring out which of you boys gets the chance to get cut up to prove how big a dog you are to the pack.
His ears lift and swivel forward and one lip lifts to expose teeth.
KILROY
You got a problem with that, dogface?
The twins glance at each other, hackles up and heads starting to lower, but Longbone breaks it off first. He lowers his head deferentially instead.
LONGBONE
Whatever you say, Kilroy.
WRENCH
You say, we do.
KILROY
I say, you do. Good. Then go get up on that wall and push it over. It's got a pile of good support beams in it. I can smell it.
The turbine whine of engines screams in from behind the bloc. As ears flatten and bodies stand frozen a moment, several low-slung black vans shudder around the corner at high speed and head toward the Pack.
Fetch is directing the loading of goods onto the truck and is the first to react, going flat behind the rear tires.
Just in time. Two of the loaders catch thick beams of blue lightning right in the chest, leaving scorched holes.
One of them convulses on the ashphalt and foams bloody at the mouth before going still and glassy.
FETCH
Masters! Masters' hounds! Get down, get down you fucking idiots. Get down and shoot back!
Dogs go to ground all over the complex, scrabbling up mounds to hide behind the crest, levelling guns at the vans which are circling back to take another pass.
Each van is wider and lower than usual, four wheels at the rear. Side doors yawn wide with three gundogs abreast holding tight to avoid being thrown out with one hand, firing long-barreled chunks of black plastic and glowing green tubes. Lightning bolts leap out to touch and where they do is fire and screams, of metal and people alike.
One of the Pack's cars goes up with a metallic bang and shower of sparks!
Kilroy stares in horror as another car blows with a grumpling rumble!
KILROY
The rides! They're going for the rides!
There's some counter-fire now, steady and thudding.
Werench lays flat on the mound of rubble, firing his AR-15 stabilized on the junk. He stitches a short burst across one of the vans, but it's moving fast and it's hard to keep range.
Other rounds are spanging off the vehicles. Leaving smears of lead across the front glass.
Lightning reaches, lingers, fades, and another of the pack is left sprawling.
FETCH
Somebody needs to get to the radios! The radios! Let Porkbone know--
LONGBONE
It's a trap.
WRENCH
It's a trap!
The vans zig-zag, making ever closer attack passes on the pack.

Location: Lawrenceville, GA 30046, USA

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