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Murmurs Of A Coup

Chapters: 19 Pages: 93 Word Count: 29,173 Genre: Science Fiction/Action/Adventure

The dark times have begun. Billy Wellman and Mellissa Pavlovich failed to stop Gregory di Conti’s rise to power. Now the President of the United States seeks to assassinate his predecessors to consolidate that power. Can Bill and Mellissa warn the ex-presidents in time? Find out in the sequel to the short story that started it all: Welcome to the Post-Truth World.

Chapter 1: Reunion

May 2nd, 2030

Darkness had descended on Harrisburg. In truth, it had consumed the city long before the sun had set on the horizon. The once vibrant capital of Pennsylvania was now a patchwork of lit and unlit zones, the latter too poor to afford the rising cost of electricity, so they had been disconnected from the grid. There, the only sounds that could be heard were of dogs barking and the occasional banging of a firearm, a sign that crime was on the rise.

Former U.S. President Philip J. Wellman tapped the window of his limo, barely able to see more than a few yards beyond the glass. His expression soured. “Yet another neighborhood that has plunged into shadow and despair,” he said in a whisper.

His thoughts drifted to his contribution to this situation. It would be easy for him to say that he had inherited this mess from Trump and Pence, but his conscience, which these days always took the voice of his dead son, Billy, reminded him that it was he who drove the separatist states to secede. That it was he who declared the hostilities that brought his nation to ruin, a civil war that his successor had ended, but at a price so terrible that he shuddered to think it.

Hearing his son’s voice, even if it was just a phantom echo, reminded him that Billy's birthday would be coming up in a few days. They should be celebrating it and would have if he hadn't driven his son into the arms of his political rival, Francis Downey. Philip didn't begrudge Downey. The fault was his. He hadn't listened to his son's concerns, allowed a gulf to form between them. Over a year ago, Downey's plane had gone down in the Arctic; all onboard assumed dead. Now Philip would never get to tell his son how sorry he was.

If he had just done things differently, Philip wondered, would his son still be alive? Would he still be President and not Gregory di Conti, a man even less qualified for the office of the Presidency than Donald Trump? Would millions still be alive? If only he had listened.

Philip felt a tender hand pat his lap. He turned to see his wife, Hazel, staring back at him. “Things will be alright,” she said. “Just remember to smile when socializing.”

Philip grabbed his wife’s hand. "You have my word. I'll be on my best behavior."

“I know Billy’s birthday is coming up. Hard to believe that it has been over a year since we last heard from him, but we’ll get by. We always do.”

“Yes, we have had years of practice with Franklin.” Philip glanced outside. “I always wanted grandkids. Then again, given where things are headed, it might be for the best.”

“Don’t think like that. Things will get better. We just have to have faith.”

Have faith? Both of our sons are dead. Philip held his breath. That was the last thing his wife needed to hear. “You’re right. We need to keep our faith in God and humanity.”

Neither spoke for the remainder of the journey. Philip just gazed out, again observing that more of the city had gone dark. Then their limo reached the upper-class neighborhoods, the mansions here lit up like Christmas trees. The contrast between the haves and have-nots couldn’t be starker as they transitioned from the shadows to the light.

Their limo passed the gated communities and weaved up a hill to the convention center located at its peak, a dome structure doused by spotlights.

Their driver brought the limo to a stop in front of the main entrance, and they departed.

Philip and his wife walked down the red carpet, photographers on either side flashing them with cameras, and entered the Santorum Convention Center. A statue of an archangel towered in the main lobby, and they had to climb winding stairs to reach the ballroom. Hundreds of people had gathered within, among some of the wealthiest families in Pennsylvania. Men were dressed in tuxedos, while the ladies wore the latest fashions.

The couple sought out a cadre of their closest friends. Once reunited, gossip was traded, laughter was contagious, and all were merry, or at least, they were until Simon Adams crashed the gathering. With a martini in one hand and a handful of salted nuts in the other, the lumbering oaf shouted, “Hey, Philip! Have you heard the good news? Di Conti won the war!”

“Yes,” Philip said, determined to hide his distress as he took a sip of his drink.

“It must vex you, to know that he could do what you could not and finish the civil war your bumbling started,” Simon said. “If only he ran four years ago.”

“I’m surprised you’re not weeping given how much you profited from it,” Hazel said.

Simon twisted his massive midsection to confront her. “I’ll admit that until war broke out, our profits were dipping, but I’m also a patriot. This conflict has been nothing but a distraction, one that has deterred us Americans from reclaiming our rightful place as the world’s hegemony.”

“Di Conti’s reckless use of Kinetic Rounds has wrought devastation on the former states,” Philip said, again struggling to keep his composer. A patriot? Simon was an opportunist prick. He only wanted America to be an empire again because more foreign wars would make Adam Corp. International insanely rich. ”We still don’t have an official death count, but I hear it could be in the tens of millions. I don’t even want to imagine property damage, but I assume we’ll be preoccupied with rebuilding for several decades.”

“You might have to put your dreams of a renewed American Empire on hold,” Hazel added.

“The war might have postponed our triumphant return to the world stage, but it has also created many opportunities for those with vision.” All turned to see Simon’s son, Edward, approach the group, his lovely wife, Elanor, coiled around his arm like a bejeweled heirloom. “Congress is deliberating over two massive construction projects; one of which I am told has to do with the separatist states. I’m also pleased to announce that Adams Corp. International has just won a fifteen-year bid to service the forces maintaining martial law there.”

“Fifteen years?” Herald Smith asked. “Surely the occupation won’t last that long.” He turned to Philip. “Have you heard anything about this?”

“No. I was under the impression that their statehood status would be addressed soon.”

“Well, our contract with the federal government is for fifteen years,” Edward explained.

“Damn right, it is,” Simon boasted. “Fifteen years. No one has ever gotten a contract that long. Hell, my granddaughter Amanda will be married and with kids by then.”

“And what if Amanda wants to pursue a career first?” Hazel asked. “I hear the girl is smart. Really smart. She should be encouraged to develop her talents.”

Simon eyed her. “What are you suggesting? That my granddaughter should go to college?”

“When she is old enough, yes,” Hazel said.

Simon snorted. “Like hell she is. College is no place for a lady of refined breeding.”

A debate erupted between his wife and Simon over the role of women in society. Philip tuned them out, his thoughts drifting back to what Edward had said. Fifteen years? That couldn’t be right. Why would martial law need to be extended for that long? Yes, it would take years to undo all the damage, but basic government could be restored relatively quickly unless… Philip grimaced. Unless di Conti had no intention of restoring the states to their former conditions, but instead, planned to keep them in limbo indefinitely. But why would—

“This way. Turn around,” a woman whispered into Philip’s ear.

Philip swiveled, confused as to where the voice had originated. It seemed to be coming from everywhere and nowhere, almost as if it was his inner voice.

“No,” the lady bellowed, clearly annoyed. “To your right. Turn to your right.”

Philip did, still wondering where the voice was coming from. Why couldn’t he— He paused. Off in the distance, a familiar face stared back at him, a ghost from his past.

“This is the 21st century, Simon. How have you been able to maintain such medieval— Hey, what are you doing?” Hazel cried as Philip yanked her away from their friends.

Philip pulled his wife deeper into the crowd. A mixture of excitement and aspiration fueled his every step. His dread grew, a fear that as he neared the object of his fixation, it would reveal itself not to be his dead son, but merely someone who shared many of Billy’s physical features, a cruel trick of the mind, one he’d suffered before. “Son, is it really you?”

“Hello, father. Hello, mother,” Billy said, his cheeks sparkling with tears.

Hazel rushed forward to embrace their son. “Oh, thank God, you’re still alive!” She glanced up. “Sixteen months. Where have you been for all this time?”

“I’m sorry for staying out of touch,” Billy said. “But it was too dangerous to call.”

Philip drew closer, not entirely convinced that this moment was real. “Too dangerous? I don’t understand. How can you be here? The Canadians found your plane’s black box. Said it suffered engine problems and crashed into the Arctic Sea. We were told there were no survivors.”

Billy grabbed Philip’s shoulder. “Dad, our plane didn’t have engine troubles. We were shot down, and our black box was damaged beyond repair.”

“Shot down? Why would the Canadians shoot down your plane?” Hazel asked.

“Mom, it wasn’t the Canadians. It was Gregory di Conti. He gave the order.”

“Di Conti?” Philip asked. “Why would he do that? Where’s Francis Downey?”

“Downey’s dead, Dad. He was murdered. Di Conti had him and the others killed?”

Philip stared, perplexed. “If Downey and the others are dead, why are you still alive?”

“That’s hard to explain. It would be easier if I just showed you.” Billy directed them to the far corner of the room where a stunning brunette in red waited.

“Hello, Mr. and Mrs. Wellman,” she said in the disembodied voice Philip had heard earlier. “My name is Mellissa Pavlovich, and I’m the daughter of your enemy.”

Philip frowned. “My enemy’s daughter? Do you mean di Conti?”

“No,” Mellissa said. “My father is di Conti’s master, Supreme Inquisitor Abbot.”

Chapter 2: Dark Plots

Hundreds of miles away, a battle blimp soared above the ruins of Los Angeles like a flying turtle, its underbelly bristling with autocannons and missile launchers.

On the horizon, the sun settled over the Pacific, a mosaic of red, yellows and oranges. Its rays filtered through the gutted towers that made up the downtown area, illuminating some sections, while leaving others in shadows. Steel beams rose from sheared-off buildings. Boats rested sideways like beached whales, and fires peppered the landscape, the only other source of light. Gunfire could be heard, but their wails were becoming more sporadic.

On the video screens that lined the blimp’s bridge, its occupant eyed men in hazard suits placing civilians in body bags and moving them onto haulers. They were destined for mass graves on the city’s outskirts, some already filled with tens of thousands of corpses. The resolution was subpar, but some of the bodies were so badly mangled, so tattered and burnt, either by radiation poisoning or fire, that most would be compelled to look away.

U.S. President Gregory di Conti gazed at his handiwork and nodded with approval, his hand resting on the rails that separated him from the bridge’s canopy.

A cough caused him to turn. His master, Supreme Inquisitor Abbot, dressed in his traditional dark red robes, came up behind him. “I see that you’re enjoying the view.”

“One should savor one’s triumphs, master.” Di Conti cocked his head. “I’m surprised you’re not down there. I imagine you would find the radiation rejuvenating.”

“And I did.” Abbot lowered his hood and tilted his head slightly to the left. The diagonal scar along his right cheek, received during his final battle with his sister, had vanished, no doubt healed thanks to his kind’s unique biology and how it reacted to radiation. “The Battle of L.A. succeeded in every measure, far better than Detroit I must say.”

“The Detroit mission failed only because the SEALs turned on us. Delta Force proved more loyal. It almost saddens me that they all died in the explosion.”

Di Conti hit a button on the console, and the image changed to one of a nuclear power plant, its large cooling stacks having crumpled in on themselves.

“The Arroyo Pescadero Nuclear Facility,” di Conti proclaimed with a wide grin. “The world’s first uranium-zirconium pellet reactor. Its designers claimed that it could never melt down. That it was 100% safe. Angelenos were so convinced of this, and in the future of green energy, that they built this monstrosity in the very heart of their city.”

“And their confidence would have been warranted if we hadn’t introduced the quastinium the Heavenly Benefactors had bequeathed us into the core,” Abbot said.

Di Conti chuckled. "Indeed. The public is convinced that the meltdown was an accident. This incident not only won us the war but convinced people that nuclear power could never be safe. I have ordered the construction of more coal fire plants to replace the capacity lost. The rest of the world might be moving away from fossil fuels, but America won't."

“I imagine this news will cause your stocks in coal to skyrocket,” Abbot said. “Regardless, with this civil war over, we need to accelerate our other plans.”

Di Conti nodded. “Yes, negotiations on the wall have stalled. Few see the need, especially given that many still labor under the assumption that we are going to rebuild the former states. It doesn’t help that President Bush will be hosting a fundraiser in Huston dedicated to making Los Angeles livable again.” He shook his head. “What a waste.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps. I wonder. Will the other ex-presidents be in attendance?”

“All but Trump. He has never forgiven California for not voting for him in 2016.”

“Trump is not a threat, but the others are. I want you to attend this gathering.”

Di Conti gasped. “But master, many in my base are against the idea of rebuilding Los Angeles, as am I. This den of depravity deserves its fate.”

“I care not for Los Angeles, but we cannot have those five subverting our plans.”

Di Conti clenched his short beard and stroked it. “I doubt they would oppose me at such a venue. Besides, they know not of my role in starting the war.”

“Perhaps. Perhaps not. But they vehemently objected to how you ended it.”

“Oh, like the rest of them don’t have blood on their hands. Sanctimonious hypocrites.”

“The wars they fought took place on distant shores. Los Angeles, however, was a former American city.” Abbot beamed di Conti a wicked smile. “Besides, I find the best way to entice someone to go where you want is to give them something to run away from.”

Di Conti considered his master’s words, as well as the optics of such a move. He could rationalize it by making a plea for civility. His base would feel betrayed, but their devotion was beyond question and, eventually, they would get over it. Besides, the corporate media – that collection of self-congratulating idiots who once mistook Downey for a greater threat than him – would eat it up. They would hail it as his pivot to the center, when, in fact, it was anything but. No, if handled correctly, this could boost his appeal and kill two birds with one stone.

“As usual, you’re right, master,” di Conti said, an idea percolating inside his skull. “I think I will attend. I have a feeling that this event will be one to remember.”

Back at the Governor’s Ball, Philip and his wife followed their son and his fiancé to their limousine. He carefully scrutinized Billy, noting that he was scanning their surroundings, almost incessantly, as if he expected for someone to rob them. That came across as uncharacteristically skittish. Like anyone would try while his Secret Service detail was visible. What had transpired that could have made his son, a man who was a decorated fighter pilot, so edgy?

Philip’s gaze shifted to his son’s fiancé. Her demeanor was the opposite of Billy’s. Her posture conveyed confidence, while her stone-cold stare might cause some to coil. But to Philip, Mellissa reminded him of his old drill instructor: discipline, vigilant, and resolute, his emotions always shrouded by a granite gaze that you swore could melt steel.

Who was this warrior woman, and how did she become engaged to his son?

The limo’s driver reached the passenger door and opened it. “Leaving so soon, sir?”

“Yes, Raziel,” Philip said. “Please take us home.”

After the other three got in and were comfortable, Philip asked the question foremost on his mind. “Now, can either of you tell me why di Conti would want you both dead?”

"Your son and the others weren't the targets," Mellissa explained. "Downey was."

“Dad, Downey was rising high in the polls. Di Conti and Abbot were confident they could defeat you, but not Downey’s progressive message.”

“When dealing with right-wing populists like Trump or di Conti, you don’t counter them with establishment candidates,” Mellissa said. “Did you learn nothing from Hilary’s defeat?”

Philip bristled at her condescending tone but chose to let it slide. “Okay, di Conti wanted to remove Downey so that he could face me in the general election alone. How?”

“Yeah,” Hazel said. “How did they make your crash look like it was an accident?”

“So long as you had the original black box’s serial number, replacing it with a fake would be simple enough,” Mellissa said. “Then all you had to do was upload it with false data. Also, simple. As for the wreckage, I’m betting the Canadians didn’t find much.”

“Yes,” Philip said. “They only found a wing and the rear section. How did you know?”

Mellissa gave him a chilling look. “Because I’m the assassin they sent to kill your son.”

Mellissa told them her story. What began as surreal quickly devolved into the kind of nonsensical madness one only expected to hear uttered from the lips of Alex Jones or Jimmy Eagle about an ancient religious order, its lineage one that could be traced back to the Knights Templar. It had infiltrated the CIA, the FBI, and other government agencies, all part of some 900-year-old plot to take over the world. If that didn’t sound outlandish enough, this Cabal had a slave army of superhuman assassins who could block bullets with their swords.

Listening, Philip wondered if his son’s earlier signs of skittishness were an indication that he and his girlfriend were taking LSD. That seemed more plausible.

Melissa eyed him with suspicion. “You don’t believe a word I said.”

Hazel cringed. “Well, dearie, you have to admit that your tale sounds… um, far-fetched."

“That’s the understatement of the century,” Philip said. “There are people admitted to mental asylums who come across as less batshit crazy.”

Melissa removed a pocket knife from beneath her dress.

“Wo,” Philip exclaimed, hands raised. “Don’t do anything rash, dear. I didn’t say—”

Melissa slit her palm and allowed her blood to drip on the limousine’s carpet, smoke rising wherever the droplets landed. “What do you think of my story now?”

Philip stared and gulped. The acid blood had burned a hole in the carpet.

His son grabbed his hand. “Dad, you have to believe us. America is in grave danger.”

Philip continued to stare at the sizzling blood. “I’ve always known that di Conti was ruthless. I’ve even called him out once or twice, but this… this…”

“I’m a telepath,” Mellissa said. “With your permission, I can show you I’m telling the truth.”

Philip opened his mouth, then paused. He recalled the recordings he’d seen of Engineer Un, taken decades before he was born. The alien survivor of the Roswell Incident had told the scientist at Area 51 much. Telepaths existed, but as Philip understood it and his knowledge of genetics was limited, but wasn’t humanity destined to develop mastery over time and gravity? Human telepaths were impossible. That’s what Engineer Un said. Right?

Philip frowned. Engineer Un was a telepath and a powerful one at that, but he didn’t have acid blood. Only one race in the galaxy did. Wait. Was he actually thinking of going through with this? Why not? If Mellissa was lying, if this was still just the delusions of someone with a fevered imagination and a rare, but not supernatural or otherworldly blood condition, then what did he have to lose? “Very well, my dear. Dazzle me with your powers.”

Mellissa drew closer and pressed her uninjured hand against his temple. Philip found himself teleported into a hallway. The walls echoed with the clanging of metal. He panned to see two combatants coming down it. Armed with swords, they moved with inhuman speed, twirling like tornadoes, each attempting to bypass the other's defenses. No one could react so quickly, not even the greatest of swordsmen, and yet they did so with flair and grace.

Soldiers from parallel corridors converged on them and opened fire. Their aim seemed to be directed at the female combatant, a petite with short raven hair. The arch of her sword altered slightly, sending the bullets back, and the soldiers toppled.

The pair passed him, and finally, Philip got a look at the other fighter, a bearded man with hawkish cheekbones. He launched a sidekick, forcing the woman to back up. Then he bolted down the hallway at cheetah speeds. The petite ran after him.

How could any of this be possible, Philip thought as he crept forward, his limbs moving without any input from him. Where was he? Who was he?

He neared a reflective surface and gazed at the face of a teenage girl; her features a younger approximation of Mellissa's. Well, that answered one question.

Philip reached a flight of stairs. He ascended five floors before catching another glimpse of the pair. The woman battered relentlessly at the man’s defenses.

“Yield, brother,” she said between blows. “You’ve never been a match for me.”

“I will not let you free father,” the man screamed. “Nor let you take my children.”

“You’re children? I’ve been more of a father to them than you. I’m taking them away from this madness. You want to stay. Fine. But they’re coming with me, as is Dad.”

The male combatant backed up, desperate to deflect her swipes. One swing sent his sword flying, while another cut a diagonal scar along his right cheek.

The woman kneed him in the stomach, then slammed his head against the wall. The concrete shattered, the depression growing with each wack of his head. His skull should be mush by now, yet it was merely bloodied. The last strike knocked him out.

Philip dashed to the man and, in Mellissa’s voice, said, “Aunt Catherina, don’t kill Dad.”

Aunt Catherina reached out to him and said, “Sweetie, what are you doing here?”

“I saw you and Dad arguing, then he drew his sword,” Philip said, again in Mellissa’s voice. “I know that Dad can be mean at times, but please, don’t kill him?”

Aunt Catherina moved him off to one side. “It’s okay, sweetie. I would never kill your father. He’s my brother, but I couldn’t let him stop me. Do you understand?”.

Philip sniffled. “Yes, but why do you two have to fight at all? I’m sick of always fighting.”

“I know,” she said in a tender voice. “So am I. I’m going to free you and your sisters and take you someplace where you’ll never have to fight again.”

Aunt Catherina wiped the tears from his eyes, her smile reassuring him.

“I would like that,” Philip said.

“I know you would. I promise, Mellissa, I will never let anything bad happen to you. Okay?”

“Can Dad come with us?”

“I would like that, sweetie, but your father wants to stay. That’s why we were fighting.”

“I just want this nightmare to end. Can we go now?”

Aunt Catherina nodded. “Of course. Everything is going to be—” A blade erupted from his aunt’s chest and missed his by an inch. Philip looked up. Over Aunt Catherina’s shoulder, towered his father. His eyes burned with an unholy fury as he plunged the sword deeper.

“That’s the price for all who would turn their backs on the Lord,” his father said, twisting the handle, so to enlarge the hole he’d made in his sister’s heart.

With her remaining strength, his aunt reached out to him. “I’m so very proud of you.”

Philip stared at her lifeless body for a sec, then lashed out at his father with his fists. “I hate you! I hate you! She just wanted to leave. Why did you have to kill her?”

His father grabbed his wrists. “Stop! This is not how Jesus would want you to behave.”

“I hate Jesus,” Philip screamed. “I wish I was never born. I wish you weren’t my father!”

“That’s blasphemy. For your sake, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.” He turned and exhaled. “Ah, Gregory, good. Can you please escort my daughter back to her room?”

Philip panned to see Gregory di Conti, a decade or two younger than he remembered, standing a few feet off. Four soldiers accompanied him, and each was armed with a pole that ended with a metal cable looped in a noose. The wires crackled with electricity.

Di Conti made a gesture, and the soldiers approached Philip and maneuvered the nooses around his neck. Energy jolted throughout his body.

“Keep her steady,” di Conti cried, his voice barely audible over Philip’s screams.

Philip felt a prick; then he awoke to find himself sitting opposite Mellissa. Tears streamed downed her cheeks. Oh, God, he thought. How old was she when that happened?

“Now do you believe me?” Mellissa asked. “Now do you understand the evil that we face?”

Philip nodded. “Yes, I do. What do you need me to do for you?”

Chapter 3: The Chase

Elsewhere in Pennsylvania, High Inquisitor Cain sat in the cabin of a Black Hawk helicopter. On either side of him, a trooper handled a tranquilizer cannon bolted to the copter’s floor. Other Black Hawks glinted in the distance, a full moon hovering over them.

Cain typed on the computer resting on his lap. It brought up a video feed from a Predator drone. Below, thermal images moved through a wheat field, too fast to be any terrestrial animal. Men on motorcycles and jeeps followed on the adjacent roadway.

A shape jumped out of the wheat field and freed one of the riders from his motorcycle. The bike flipped forwards, tearing itself against the hard cement.

Cain tapped on the gunner’s shoulder and pointed. “Over there. Do you see?”

The gunner nodded and brought his cannon around. A stream of tranquilizer darts exited the barrel at high velocities. The target dodged them all.

“Men, scatter your shots,” Cain said into his headset. “Don’t let her anticipate your moves.”

The other helicopters fired. One scored a hit, and the target lost speed.

“She’s slowing down,” Cain said. “Fire the electro net.”

A soldier in a jeep maneuvered his vehicle alongside the target, and his passenger lifted a rifle. It fired a net attached to the automobile by a long cable.

The net snared the target, and she tumbled across the gravel.

“We’ve got one,” Cain said into his headset. “Men, focus your fire on the rest.”

His helicopter and the others banked and went after about a dozen more. The last, who appeared to be the group’s leader, was armed with a sword. She deflected their tranquilizer darts.

“Flashbang grenades. Switch to flashbangs,” Cain screamed at the gunner, who nodded and lifted his grenade launcher. It spat out bomblets, and they detonated with a bright flash, as well as emitted an ear-shattering bang. The jeeps below fired nets. Several missed, but one snared the target, sending her to the ground and shocking her with crackling blue energy.

Cain ordered the pilot to land. The helicopter touched down, and he made his way to the target, a girl of Asian descent, probably no older than seventeen.

“I take it that you’re the leader.” He bent over. “So, natural, what is your designation?’

“My sisters call me Chen,” she said.

“I don’t care what your sisters call you. I want to know your designation.” Cain turned to the driver of a nearby jeep. “Templar, would you please shock her?”

Sparks flew from the cable to the net, and electricity danced over Chen, throwing the teenager into convulsion. “Three Four Eight Nine,” she cried.

Cain signaled the driver to stop. “Good. Now, why did you and the others run away?”

“We heard Mellissa’s telepathic call. Her invitation to be free. To become Nephilims.”

“Freedom? Why would you want that? Don’t you enjoy our hospitality?”

“Hospitality? You abuse us. Torture us. Rape us. Do you think we don’t know that life is different outside? We’re telepaths. We’re sick of your hospitality.”

“You naturals have grown so defiant. That’s why we’re replacing you all with clones.”

Cain made a gesture, and the net once again coursed with electricity. The wattage intensified, not dying down until he was convinced the target was unconscious.

Afterward, he headed back to the helicopter. A templar followed him. “My lord, how is it possible that Miss Pavlovich is communicating with these Inquisitors?”

"Naturals have a kind of telepathic bond, developed by years of growing up together," Cain said. "There are limits to how far it can travel, but if you have Inquisitors spread out like we currently do, then you can create a network. Miss Pavlovich needs only be at the edge of this network, and her message will spread from one natural to the next until it reaches all."

The templar nodded. “Most disturbing. Do you want us to return them to the Black Site?”

“No. We’re having them all shipped off to Area 51. Hopefully, that will bring an end to this network. Then we just need to kill Miss Pavlovich.”

Chapter 4: Obama

A week later, former President Barak Hussein Obama and his wife, Machelle, stepped out of the terminal of Heathrow Airport. Dark clouds hung overhead and showered the land with a relentless downpour, compelling them to raise their umbrellas.

A self-driving car zoomed past them. A common sight in England, but almost unheard of in the U.S. Not that he would know, Obama mused. The reminder of his exile, self-imposed as it was these days, bit like a wasp's sting, a bitter irony given how Trump had spent years harassing him over his citizenship. He banished the thought and reached the curb.

Another autonomous car came to a stop beside them and opened its door. He packed his luggage in the back before plopping himself in. “Take us home,” Obama said.

The dashboard came to life, and the vehicle accelerated forward down Tunnel Road. Yellow lights flickered through the sunroof above until it exited the tunnel.

“Malia was thinking of moving her wedding to next year,” Michelle said beside him.

“Was she now?” Obama asked. “Why is that?”

“Well, with the civil war over, she was hoping to have it in Hawaii.”

Obama frowned. “I still think Paris would be a safer choice.”

“Hawaii was the only separatist state that didn’t see fighting during the war. It’s perfectly safe. Besides, she wants to have her wedding in the United States.”

Obama considered her words and again, was reminded of why he was now living in England. Near the end of the war, when di Conti ordered the bombing of Illinois, Obama had decided to get his family across the Canadian border. He thought he could re-enter through Maine or New York, only to have a border guard tell him that he couldn’t because Illinois was at war with the United States and he was considered a citizen of Illinois. That took some balls, denying entry to a former President of the United States.

Obama suspected that di Conti was behind the humiliating treatment. Few else would have the authority. What he’d done to earn the man’s ire defied him, though if Obama had to guess, it had less to do with his actions and more to do with the color of his skin. Many in America still resented the fact that a black man once occupied the Oval Office.

Obama shook his head. “We have only recently gotten the issue of our citizenship resolved, and you don't want to know the favors I had to call in.”

Michelle gripped his thigh. “I realize how slighted you feel about that issue.”

“It’s not that. There is still likely political fallout to be had. Look, we’ll be heading for W’s fundraiser in a few days. Let’s see how bad things are before deciding anything.”

The two agreed to table the discussion for another time, and Obama turned his gaze to the window, admiring the upscale Victorian era-style townhouses that made up the neighborhood. Steel guardrails lined the balconies, and a single row of trees added to the décor.

The car turned onto their street. A limousine was parked beside their townhouse.

“Were you expecting company?” Obama asked.

Michelle shook her head. “Not until 3 o’clock.”

Their car came to a stop beside the larger vehicle, and Obama approached the back door. The window lowered. “Where’s your security detail?” Philip Wellman asked.

Obama forced a smile. “I’m in the process of getting them back. Would you like to come in?”

Philip nodded, and the three of them headed for the front door. Obama retrieved his mail before opening the door, revealing a spacious if quaint foray. “Prince Henry and his wife Meghan helped us pick the place out. They’ve been very supportive,” Obama said.

“I heard you four are close,” Philip said as he hung up his coat. Michelle headed upstairs, while Obama escorted Philip to the kitchen. “Know that I made several calls on your behalf. I’m just glad this incident is over. So, when do you and Michelle plan to move back.”

“Not anytime soon I imagine,” Obama replied. He placed the stack of letters on the kitchen table and began opening them. “I’ll be heading for Texas to attend W's fundraiser, but I told di Conti I wouldn't be returning for good until he lets the other expats in. He just laughed.”

Obama skimmed each letter. The first was heat and hydro. The second he didn’t even bother reading and placed it to the side, while the third was addressed from a Jacob Fryer, an expat like himself who had his citizenship revoked when he fled the United States during the civil war. Their stories were hardly unique. Over twelve and a half million Americans were currently living abroad in political limbo, all because they had been residents of the separatist states and unlike him, had no influential friends to help them get their citizenship reinstated.

Obama placed the letter in a large box where he kept all those written by expats. “So, what brings you to Jolly Old England? I know it’s not the weather.”

“I have a few business ventures here in London.” Philip eyed the letter Obama had discarded. “Odd. The return address here says Trump Tower. Is this from who I think it is?”

“Open it.” Obama placed another letter in the expat bin. “You have my permission.”

Philip scanned the document. “This makes no sense. It’s a photocopy of Trump’s passport.”

“Donald’s way of reminding me that, for a time, I was without citizenship.”

“I knew he could be petty, but this?”

"Donald is a case study of what happens to someone if they never grow up. He might be in his eighties, but he has all the maturity of a seven-year-old." Obama dropped the third letter into the expat bin, then turned. "So, what brought you here? I mean the real reason."

“In one second.” Philip removed a metal wand and waved it in the air. An electronic beep escaped it, growing louder as he brought the device closer to a potted plant on the windowsill. “It seems that you have a nasty bug infestation. I would call an exterminator.”

Obama examined the circular object Philip removed from beneath the pot. It blinked, a sign that it was still transmitting. “Yes, I think you’re right.”

Philip put the device on the kitchen table. “Do you have anything heavy?”

Obama darted to a closet and retrieved a hammer. “This should suffice.”

“Let’s hope.” Philip smashed the device with the hammer. “Okay, now it’s safe to talk.”

“Good, because I’ve got a lot of questions. Like who bugged my house? The Russians?”

Philip shook his head. “The CIA I’m sorry to say.”

“The CIA? Why would the CIA be spying on me? What’s going on?”

“Do you remember the briefing every president gets after winning the presidency? The one about the Retikkees, the Vijics, Engineer Un, and the Roswell Incident of 1947?”

Obama pictured dead aliens suspended in tanks. “Yes. Do you realize that briefing is classified Omega Red? Only the President, the Joint Chief of Staff, the National Security Advisor, and the Secretary of Defense have clearance to see it. I haven’t even discussed it with Michelle.”

Philip nodded. “Nor have I Hazel. Pence told me that Trump was also kept in the dark.”

“He and Michael Flynn. Unprecedent I realize, but we knew Flynn was compromised by the Russians. The Russians already know about the Retikkees—"

“But there’s no telling who else Flynn might have squealed to.”

“And we couldn’t risk Trump tweeting the existence of aliens. We weren’t worried about the public finding out about the Retikkees, but the Vijics—”

“People would be rioting in the streets if they learned that the Lizard People were real.”

“Indeed. It’s bad enough Alex Jones rants about them. Still, it has been five million years since the Vijics last visited Earth, unless you’re saying that’s changed.”

“Not to my knowledge. I imagine we would all be dead if they had.”

Obama frowned. “Okay, if this is not about them, then why did you bring it up?”

“Because.” Philip let out a deep sigh. “What if I told you that there exists a race of humans that have the telepathic abilities of a Retikkee and the acid blood of a Vijic, but are slaves to a Christian order whose ideology is identical to al Qaida? Now, what would you say if I added that this secret cult has, for decades, been infiltrating our government, placing their people in key positions of power within FEMA, the CIA, the FBI, and even the military.”

Obama eyed the smashed listening device. Could Philip be telling the truth? He shook his head. “You’re talking about the deep state. Doesn’t exist.”

Philip grabbed Obama’s arms. “It does exist. It’s called the Cabal, and it engineered the civil war and assassinated Downey to get di Conti elected president.”

“And why would this Cabal do that? What is di Conti to them?”

“Di Conti is a Grand Inquisitor within their order. He means to destroy our republic.”

Obama took a step back, still skeptical. “Do you have any proof?”

Philip gestured to the hallway. “If you come with me, I will introduce you to one of these human telepaths, and she will give you all the proof you need.”

Billy and Mellissa waited for his father and President Obama at a pub a few blocks away. Fearing that the Cabal might be spying on the Obamas, they felt it would be best if Philip confronted Obama alone and then met them later at an undisclosed location. Philip wouldn’t even know where to meet them, only the route he should take.

Mellissa stood guard on the pub's roof, acting as a spotter, while Billy leaned beside the establishment’s entrance. He scanned the road for his dad’s limousine.

Forty-five minutes later, the black vehicle turned a corner and approached. Billy waited for his fiancé to give a telepathic all clear before stepping out and waving at them. The limousine stopped, and he escorted his father and Obama to the back of the pub.

There they found Mellissa sitting at a corner table; her clothes damped from being out in the rain. They told Obama their story. He didn’t believe them, not until his fiancé performed a mind meld. From that moment on, they talked only about how best to remove di Conti. Obama and Philip were for impeachment, whereas Mellissa favored a more extreme approach.

“Impeachment might have worked with Trump and Nixon, but it won’t with di Conti,” she said. “We should be bringing our case before the other world leaders.”

“Are you suggesting we get the other nations to invade America?” Obama asked.

“Yes,” Mellissa said. “They alone have the strength to take di Conti down.”

“China would never give back any territory it conquered,” Philip said, “and while I think Volkov is sincere in her intentions to turn Russia into a liberal democracy, I still don’t trust her, not when it comes to the national security of the United States.”

Billy nodded. “I’m with dad on this. Besides, whatever choice we make, we need legitimacy and the best way to get that is to have all the past presidents on our side.”

Melissa waved her head. “Do you think Trump is going to support us? Seriously? He’s libel to back di Conti solely because Obama opposes him.”

Billy looked his fiancé in the eyes. “No, of course not, but Bush, Clinton, and Pence will.”

“Young Wellman’s right,” Obama said. “If we can prove that di Conti was behind the war, Congress will have no choice but to bring up articles of impeachment.”

“Articles of impeachment?” Mellissa gave Obama a look. “Again, do you think di Conti cares about the rule of law? The only laws he recognizes are those found in Leviticus.”

“I realize that,” Obama said. “But we have to think about what comes next. America is governed at the behest of the people. Like it or not, di Conti won their consent. Yes, he engineered a war and had Downey assassinated to achieve this end, but if we remove him by undemocratic means, we will be destroying the very principles upon which this nation was founded on. No, the only way to depose of di Conti is through Congress.”

Mellissa slammed a fist. “And what if di Conti decides to burn the Congress Building to the ground? It’s not unprecedented. Does the Reichstag Fire ring a bell?”

“Yes, and it took a world war to rid the Earth of Hitler and his Nazis,” Philip said. “And if you bring the other nations in, that’s exactly what we’ll have!”

“News flash. If di Conti stays in power, there will eventually be a world war!”

"Enough." Billy raised his hands. "We can scream all we want, but in the end, we need legitimacy. Otherwise, this will devolve into a bloodbath.”

“Our best bet is still to unite all the ex-presidents behind us,” Obama said.

“But how do we bring them together without raising suspicions?” Billy asked. “We’ve already found a bug in your home and several in my parent’s.”

Obama leaned back in his chair and tapped his chin. He snapped his fingers. “George is hosting a fundraiser to help the cleanup efforts in Los Angeles. All but Trump has agreed to attend. During the gala, we could go upstairs and have a private meeting.”

“There’s just one problem,” Philip said. “Even di Conti will be attending.”

“Which is why I think it’s our best venue,” Obama said. “Di Conti won’t take actions against us while the spotlights are squarely on him.”

Billy frowned. “That might work, but what do we do in the meantime?”

“That all depends on you two,” Obama said. “Your evidence is compelling, but if you want to turn Congress, you’re going to need something more tangible.”

Billy glanced over at Mellissa. “Well, honey, do you have any suggestions?”

Mellissa sighed. “We’re going to need bank records, as well as an up-to-date list of every Cabalist plant inside the CIA and FBI. I know the identities of the members of the High Council, but the acolytes and High Inquisitors are another story. We will also need documentation of what they’ve been doing. That means we’re going to have to infiltrate a Black Site.”

"A Black Site," Obama said. "Are you talking about the Black Sites I had shut down?"

“The Black Sites on foreign soil were closed, but not those in the U.S.,” Mellissa said. “Those are under the control of FEMA. There are about three dozen of them.”

“You’re talking about the concentration camps Alex Jones rants about,” Billy said.

Mellissa cringed. “Alex Jones is not as wrong as you might think. He’s just misinformed about who controls them. That or he’s a Cabalist engaging in misdirection.”

Obama leaned back in his seat. “Could you successfully infiltrate a Black Site?”

“It’s never been attempted, but most are staffed these days with clones,” Mellissa said. “They shouldn’t be a problem, so yes, I believe I could.”

“Well then,” Obama said, “I will leave such matters to you and young Wellman.”

Chapter 5: The Meeting

A few hours later, President di Conti sat in the Oval Office. Standing before him was Energy Secretary Herald Rodriguez, a holdout from the Wellman administration. Some of di Conti’s closest advisors were also in attendance, their gazes directed forward.

A holographic monitor took up the front wall. The words Project Longinus hovered over its top left corner, with a diagram of a power plant taking up the rest of the screen. The building was pentagon-shaped and resting on its roof was possibly the world’s largest radio dish.

“My agency has looked over the designs you’ve provided,” Rodriguez said. “As you can see, the surface structure alone is massive, but it pales in comparison to what lies underneath.”

The image zoomed out, revealing that the power plant rested on a bowl-shaped structure with a tube running down its center like an inverted skyscraper. That alone was an impressive sight, but it didn't end there. A series of pipes connected the facility to the Earth's asthenosphere, some reaching a mind-boggling depth of seventy-five miles.

“Frankly, Mister President, I’m not certain this design is feasible,” Rodriguez said. “This piping for example. The deepest hole ever drilled is the Kola Borehole in Russia. With a diameter of 9 inches, it reaches a depth of 7.5 miles. We’ll have to drill ten times as deep.”

"I hear Asthen Corp is doing promising work," di Conti reassured him.

Rodriguez sighed. “Yes, they have patented a drill that is theorized to be able to burrow to a depth of thirty miles, but that’s still half of what these plans call for.”

Di Conti smiled. “I have full confidence Asthen Corp can figure a workaround." He leaned forward. "You should see this challenge as an opportunity, Mister Secretary.”

Rodriquez lowered his glasses and wiped them with a cloth. “Sir, I feel I must be blunt with you. You claim this facility is some kind of fusion reactor, but these blueprints don’t correspond with any known design, be it a tokamak or laser ignition. Yes, the surface facility bears a superficial resemblance to the Downey Futuristic’s A.L.I.C.E. design, which you claim it is based on, but I have no idea what the subterranean structure does.”

“The Downey Futuristic design had several major defects,” Robert Phillimore said. “The subterranean facility will help augment its… shortcomings."

Rodriquez rewarded Phillimore with a harsh glare before returning his gaze on di Conti. "Sir, I have two PhDs, one in nuclear physics and the other in mechanical engineering, and I still don’t have a clue what half of its parts do. Some appear to be missing.” He gestured to a section of the facility. “For example, I don’t know what goes here.”

Di Conti eyed the spot Rodriguez pointed to: the inverted skyscraper that descended from the surface structure. “It will house—” He searched for the right word. “—batteries.”

“Batteries? What kind of batteries? Antimatter? Nuclear? Chemical? I need to know.”

Di Conti visualized the power source, and his grin widened. “Ah, but I disagree. Now, having reviewed the plans, can your agency give me a timetable for completion?”

“Again, I still have no idea what these batteries are. Do they need to be built?”

“The batteries in question have been in production for decades now.”

“Can I see one of them?”

Di Conti raised a hand. “Again, I have already said no. So, how long?”

Rodriguez scanned the ground before replying. “Twenty years. That’s the best I can do.”

“Twenty years? I realize that this is a daunting project, but surely it won’t take that long.”

Rodriguez exhaled. “Sir, we’re talking about one of the largest construction projects ever attempted, an engineering feat that will surpass the Three Gorges Dam, made all the worse because we have no factories big enough to build some of the parts needed. Not to mention some of the technologies required don’t even exist. Frankly, it might take longer.”

“I see. Well, I expect you to begin construction regardless.” The man was about to object, but di Conti lifted a finger. “This is your top priority. Now leave us.”

Di Conti watched him depart, his rage simmering. How dare he talk back to him? “I want that wetback gone. We should never have kept him on.”

“We had no choice,” Phillimore explained. “The Senate refused to confirm our nominee, and that department is too important to leave understaffed.”

“Then kill him. I don’t care how. Send an Inquisitor. Just get rid of him.”

"Don't you think that's a bit… well, drastic? We could demand his resignation instead."

Di Conti cast Phillimore a menacing gaze. "You saw how that wetback spoke to me. When my great granddaddy was alive, whenever a nigger or a wetback thumb their nose, be it by dating a fine southern bell or refusing to do the task assigned to them, he and his buddies engaged in a good old fashion lynching. Hung their corpses from a tree for all to see."

“This is not the 1920s. We can’t just go around lynching blacks and Latinos anymore.”

“Of course, it’s not! Niggers and wetbacks knew their place back then.”

"Be that as it may, murdering a Secretary is… ill-advised. Some might suspect us of—"

“That’s why I said send an Inquisitor. They can do all sorts of stuff with a crime scene. Make it look like the hit took place elsewhere or that it was a random mugging.”

Phillimore exhaled. “I’ll dispatch an Inquisitor at once.” He paused. “I hate to say this, but the Secretary might have a point. Many senators will bulk—"

Di Conti’s sneer grew more pronounced. “Be careful of what you say next.”

“All I was about to say, my lord, is that this is no Black Site. We’re talking about a trillion dollars. We would have an easier time getting money for the wall.”

"I couldn't care less about that wall," di Conti snapped. "The Heavenly Benefactors placed us in power so that we could build this facility. All their plans hinge on it. I will not fail them or God. If I must starve half of America to get the necessary funding, I will. If I must kill nine-tenths of the population to build it, so be it. The completion of Project Longinus is our number one concern. Everything else is secondary. Do you understand? Well, do you?”

“We might not need Congress, at least not at this time.” Di Conti shifted to his youngest aide, James Richards, a boy barely out of high school, yet already demonstrating great promise with his cunning insight and unquenchable ambition. “Right now, we have several fiscal hawks who won’t budge. Senators John Pool and Ran Paul come to mind. Rather than wasting our energy on them, we should expend our reserves from the Middle East heist.”

“Those funds are meant to build an army of Steel Templars,” di Conti reminded him.

“A design that has yet to be perfected,” James rebutted. “Besides, the longer we delay, the greater we risk disaster, as well as angering our Heavenly Benefactors.”

Di Conti rested back in his chair. “You make a valid point. Very well. Have the necessary funds transferred to—” A light blinked on his desk. “Yes, what is it?”

A holographic image of a robed figure appeared. "My lord, the listening device we had installed in the Obama residence has gone offline. Should we send an Inquisitor?”

Di Conti pondered an appropriate response. He would relish giving such an order, but the Obamas weren’t Secretary Rodriguez. Abbot had plans for them.

“No. Keep monitoring the other presidents. We will deal with them at the appropriate time.”

Two days later, Billy, his fiancé, and his dad were heading back to Heathrow after having a meeting with the Prime Minister of England. Despite their reservations of involving outsiders, both Obama and Philip felt it was best that a trusted few knew. Prince William and Prince Henry attended the meeting, as well as the President of France, who was in London for other matters.

It was his idea that, as part of their demonstration, Mellissa would show off what an Inquisitor could do. On the grounds of Buckingham Palace, his fiancé engaged twenty-four men from the Household Cavalry, the most elite soldiers in the British army. Even when equipped with strength enhancing powered armor, they stood little chance, and to Mellissa’s credit, she dispatched them without causing any lasting damage.

Billy recalled drooping jaws and awestruck expressions as the group observed feats of strength and agility only witnessed before in a superhero movie.

The four leaders had promised to aid America should the need ever arise.