CHAPTER 1 - EPILOGUE

 

TIERRA PODRIDA, M PREFECTURE, THE UNION

TUESDAY, JULY 6, 2010

 

Billy Lopez staggered out of Saint Basil's Cathedral and Nightclub partially seared and on the verge of death, his mouth stained with the blood of Clint Masters. He desperately wanted to head back inside and make one last attempt at dragging Clint out to safety, but it was not to be. His escape from the converted warehouse ushered in a gust of oxygen that quickly upgraded the inferno within to raging. The blazing heat forced Billy to make a feeble retreat into the desert. Whatever final knowledge the grizzled pornographer could have imparted to Billy was lost in the fire.

Doctor Timothy was trapped, lying face up amongst the piles of antiquated consumer goods that surrounded Saint Basil's. Given their uncomfortable history, Billy could have been forgiven for allowing his sexual assailant to bake, writhing in the scorching desert sun, forever trapped by the very apparatus designed to allow mobility.

Billy took the moral high road for purely selfish reasons. He had lost both arms and buckets of blood along with them. Doctor Timothy was to only person in the Prefecture with any hope of helping Billy live to see another day. Plus, in Billy's experience, leaving anyone to die at the hands of M Prefecture's harsh elements was one hell of a mistake. He had learned that one the hard way. With the last of his strength, Billy doubled over at the waist and bit down hard on Doctor Timothy's nose. He toppled over backwards; Doctor Timothy stumbled upright. Billy watched flames lick off of the top of Saint Basil's blue and white spiraled onion dome as he faded to unconsciousness.

 

Billy spent three days in the vault of Tierra Podrida Savings and Loan, lost in the fantastical dreams brought about by his induced coma. He awoke with a start, jolting up from his cot grimly determined. If his subconscious had imparted anything through its hazy broadcast of non-sequiturs and quarter-baked ideas it was that Billy had to start setting things right.

He would start small. He would make the trek back to the charred nightclub. He would give Clint a proper burial. He would reclaim his lost arms. But first, he would have to get out of the gleaming steel bank vault. Billy suppressed concerns of what may have happened while he was under, swallowed his pride and expressed his gratitude to Doctor Timothy for dragging him back and patching him up. It was time to get started.

At first, Billy insisted on going alone, counter to Doctor Timothy's wishes. This was Billy's mess to clean. He was less insistent following his embarrassing armless struggle to free himself from his cot and the spell of dizzy vomiting that followed. Doctor Timothy was far from the ideal escort, but Billy was in no shape to travel alone and he had no one else to turn to.

 

Billy's determination gave way to confusion and despair once he and Doctor Timothy set foot into the blackened brick husk of a building. Clint's body was nowhere to be found. Neither were Billy's severed arms. The remnants of the Black Pope's body still lay where he had fallen, but sticky brown pools of blood on the broken light-up dance floor served as the only evidence that either Clint or Billy had ever set foot in Saint Basil's.

Rather than conceding utter defeat, Doctor Timothy decided to rebuild Billy using the materials available. Billy was skeptical, and vocally so. Reliving the fight and the fire would surely be unpleasant and the prospect of having two reminders permanently affixed to his shoulders didn't sit well with him. But, it was preferable to the alternative of life without arms. Eventually Billy had to give in; it was the only sensible course of action. His submission to surgery came with the decision to try and ignore the poetic justice inherent in what Doctor Timothy was going to have to do to mend him.

 

It had been four days since the operation and Billy's rehabilitation was nearly complete. This was testament to Doctor Timothy's surgical skill, not to Billy's commitment to becoming a complete, fully functional man again. Billy wasn't happy with his new arms. But, if you asked him, he would begrudgingly admit that he was grateful to have them. He just wished they weren't so black. Black enough already from the melanin, blacker still from the fire. As far as he could tell, with his new ultra-high contrast skin, Billy would be an outcast anywhere in the U.S.A.

The lilting, Australian-accented assurances that it was 'far better to have four limbs and the ability to control them flawlessly' than it was to 'fit into a cracked and crumbling mess of a society' were repeated ad nauseam throughout the rehabilitation in an attempt to lift Billy's spirits. Billy couldn't argue against his surgeon's advice, or at least, by the second day of his recovery he couldn't be bothered to try any longer. Doctor Timothy's talk of Billy being 'as handsome as ever before, maybe even more so' was still wholly repugnant, no matter how many times he heard it.

Doctor Timothy's cot was in the corner of the vault closest to the operating table and the glass-front boxes that once held people's valuables, but had been converted to hold their body parts. Billy had shoved his cot from directly beside Doctor Timothy's into the opposite corner as soon as he had the energy to stand. He was further from the pails of toilet powder and wedged between an oil drum labeled UNSORTED ORGANS and the rickety bookshelf full of 'LaRue's Longing' romance novels that Billy blamed for rotting part of Doctor Timothy's brain. These concessions were well worth the peace of mind.

 

Billy hadn't measured, but he was pretty sure his new biceps were almost as large as his thighs, or maybe just a little bit larger. They were big enough to necessitate removing the sleeves of his prized pink western shirt and adding slits through the shoulders. Billy was pleased to see that the embroidered chest panel depicting a chase on horseback made it through shirt surgery, but he kept that information to himself. Even as unfinished pieces of surgical art, Billy could tell that these new arms were incredibly powerful. His strength hadn't just returned, it had multiplied. But, to what end? Billy still had to run his way to the border if he was to leave M, and by his uneducated estimate he would have to run at top speed to make it there before the desert did him in. How badly would these bulky new arms slow him down? It was almost time to find out.

Sitting in silence in his corner, Billy played with the Halo device Doctor Timothy had nicked off what was left of Life 29, tossing it back and forth from one oversized black hand to the other. He had been doing this for days, trying to teach his new synapses to get along with the old. The pings and clangs that resonated when the device hit the tiled floor were now a memory, relegated to days past. His new fingers had yet to betray him that day and he'd been tossing the shiny golden ring back and forth for hours. As his success rate climbed, so did his self-confidence. He gripped the Halo tight in triumph after one last toss. 'I'm fixed.'

He wasn't just fixed. He was hungry, really hungry. The sustenance gel pouches stamped 'FOR DISTRIBUTION AND CONSUMPTION IN M PREFECTURE ONLY' were every bit as disgusting as he had been warned, but not in the way he had been led to assume. It wasn't the taste that turned Billy off; they weren't exactly appetizing, but they tasted no worse than B pouches. It was the strange, hot sensation in his stomach that lingered long after he ate that kept Billy from sucking back any more gel than he felt he had to. He wondered how Norm and Ry managed to catch those tasty lizards and cursed himself for failing to ask.

Billy looked the Halo over for what seemed like the hundredth time, idly poking at the inset metallic buttons. Had he cared to learn of the latent abilities held within the seemingly inoperative device, he might not have treated it as an idle plaything. Billy held no interest in the mysterious technology itself; it was the words of the homicidal Holy Man who once wore the Halo that concerned him. If what he said about his father was true... Well, there was no way to verify his story now, not with the Holy Man dead and Billy stuck within the bank vault. One thing was clear; Billy's questionable lineage left him a marked man.

If the first ambush was any indication, there would be no warning before the second. The time for action was now; even if Billy wasn't exactly sure what form that action would have to take. Plan or no plan, it was time to move. Aside from 60% of his skin, there was no reason for Billy to stay in M. Not anymore.

 

Doctor Timothy had been immersed in God-knows-what on the safety deposit box side of the vault, finally taking a break from doting upon Billy. This was his chance. 50 feet and a heavy steel door were all that separated Billy from freedom. There would be no farewell speech. He strode for the door, wearing everything he owned, eager to start anew. Again.

**BZZZZT** **BZZZZT** **BZZZZZZTT** The buzz of the intercom stopped Billy in his tracks.

"Oh good. He's here." Doctor Timothy spun to face Billy, large, battered suitcase in hand. "Get the intercom, would you?"

'Christ... what now?' Billy's recent experience with strangers had been uniformly unfortunate. But, no matter who or what was waiting on the other side of the huge vault door, they couldn't do any worse than taking his life. Billy knew that in M, life wasn't worth a whole lot. "Yeah, sure." Billy walked over to the panel next to the vault door and smothered the small red button underneath his black sausage of a finger. "Hello?"

The reply came after a long pause. "Lopez? That you?" The gravelly growl was instantly familiar and, strangely enough, the most uplifting thing Billy had heard in some time. Billy smushed his finger back against the button.

"Oh my God! Yeah, yeah, it's me!" Billy chirped in his excitement, quickly shifting tones as he let up off the intercom and turned to Doctor Timothy. "Do you plan on telling me just what the hell is going on here?"

"Sweet, simple Billy. You weren't planning on leaving without me, were you? When I said I would forever be by your side, I meant it quite sincerely. After all, you cannot hope to survive in this cruel world with your feeble wits acting as your only guide. You spoke volumes while you were under, mumbling a plan you could never hope to achieve alone. You wish to kill your father and I wish nothing more than to help you do so. It will be ever so romantic."

'What? No! NO! ...Kill my father?' Billy considered the brief time he shared with Doctor Timothy to have been far too long already. He did not relish the prospect of spending another hour together, let alone forever. And his father? Billy got to wondering what his coma dreams knew that he didn't.

**BZZZZZZZZZT**

"Lopez? You OK in there?" The growl held what sounded like a twinge of concern.

"Yeah, sort of. Hold on." Billy didn't want anything to stand between him and the man who would be his only guaranteed ticket out of the Prefecture, even if that ticket did come attached to a living load of baggage that made his skin crawl. Billy spun the wheeled lock on the door and shoved, the pneumatic hinge started slowly cracking the door wide.

"Thanks. Told myself I'd never come back here, y'know? Man, I hate everything about this place. No offense, Doc." The visitor growled as the door crept open. "But, hey, I'm not dumb enough to refuse a taxi job that pays in Ashanti Orthodox gear. Dr. Timothy, how'd you even get your hands on..." The visitor cut himself short as the vault door swung wide enough to reveal its contents, his surgically altered face showing as much of a confused expression as it possibly could. "Jesus Lopez, what the hell happened to your arms? And who the hell is that?"

"C'mon in, Garbage Bag. It's a long story."

 

CHAPTER 2 - ETERNALLY FREE TAIWAN & THE UNITED PREFECTURES OF AMERICA

 

TAIPEI, ETERNALLY FREE TAIWAN

TUESDAY, JULY 4, 1933

 

The name 'Eternally Free Taiwan' was misleading. It wasn't eternal. Entropic forces acted upon it as they would act upon any civilization. It wasn't free, either. Dissenters were silenced, and their 'silence' was made public spectacle. Most of all, it wasn't Taiwan. That is to say, it wasn't only Taiwan.

Under the rule of Zhang Yao-Fong, self-appointed President for Life, the small island nation had mushroomed into a pan-global network of dependent territories, each loyal to the Eternally Free Taiwanese flag. Eternally Free Taiwan had been the world's greatest colonial power for decades.

Despite his far flung influence, Zhang preferred to remain close to home. He made certain that the capital city of Taipei grew around him rapidly as his empire flourished. Modern infrastructure sprouted like weeds in amongst the ancient temples and pagodas, choking out the traditional architecture in the name of progress. Thick ribbons of asphalt criss-crossed the northern half of the isle of Taiwan, linking swaths of sleek, sky-high steel construction. The booming growth made Taipei a magnet for immigration; the area's population having grown 500 fold since Zhang forcefully took control of the country in 1871.

No symbol of this growth was as obscenely decadent as Zhang's Presidential Palace. The dominant figure in the panoramic Taipei skyline, the Palace was a milky green colossus, completely covered in thin sheets of translucent jade. As the tallest building in the world by an incredibly wide margin, the Palace dwarfed the forest of surrounding skyscrapers and was visible from any point on the island. Zhang lovingly referred to his impossibly proportioned abode as the Erect Dragon. Mass executions following the Erect Dragon's grand unveiling quickly taught the populace that pointing and snickering would not be tolerated.

 

Mr. Wong, Zhang's longstanding Minister of Foreign Affairs, was slowly rolling towards the Erect Dragon. The squat, balding, 45 year old sat in silence in the backseat of his luxurious Taiwauto EX Class, a scowl etched across his pinched features. The time for shrill screaming had passed and he'd already given his driver an earful.

'Taking the Northstar Expressway? At this hour? Jesus Christ...'

The bottleneck eased somewhat and Wong's driver was able to maneuver off of the expressway. This offramp wasn't anywhere near the Presidential Palace, but at least they were making headway. It was 8:13 and Wong was 43 minutes overdue. His ulcer had been eating away at itself for the last 45. Zhang Yao-Fong was widely regarded as the World's Most Powerful Man, and Wong was terrified of getting on his bad side.

 

In the southwest corner of the Erect Dragon's penthouse suite, the World's Most Powerful Man was slumped atop his lacquered mahogany toilet. Silk, floral print pajama pants bunched around his ankles. Thin tubes snaked out of his nostrils and trailed down over his sunken cheeks and wrinkled neck, disappearing into his half buttoned pajama shirt. His bald, spotted head lolled off to the left, snoring quietly. With each soft inhale, a surge of vibrant blue liquid coursed through the tubes into Zhang's nose.

**KNOCK KNOCK**

The distant rap on the exterior bathroom door snapped Zhang back into the world of the waking. "Come in, Mr. Wong" he intoned, his rumbling baritone still maintaining an impeccable air of command even at his advanced age of 88.

Zhang opted to hold important meetings in his bathroom, preferably as he was engaged in a scatological act. He had accidentally stumbled upon this system early in his presidency while he was racked with a bout of food poisoning. During that maelstrom of uncomfortable purging, Zhang was able to broker the purchase of every Bauxite mine in Vietnam. For a period afterwards, he had considered this method of holding conferences to be something of a lucky charm, not to mention an excellent manner of flaunting his state of the art indoor plumbing. But, that was over 40 years ago. Now, his pipework was no longer a bragging right, the Bauxite had long since been stripped from the Earth and his eccentricity had simply become habit.

This habit was all too familiar for Minister Wong; he had been acting as Zhang's Foreign Affairs Minister since the early '20s. He had made his way through the high arched, black marble corridor that led to the bathroom's gargantuan inner sanctum hundreds of times. 25 foot high, ornately inlaid, precious stone mosaics depicting a youthful Zhang decapitating mythical beasts and sexually servicing buxom concubines lined the walls of the hallway. Wong walked past them purposefully, keeping his eyes trained on the floor.

He kneeled at Zhang's feet in silence and softly kissed his bare knees. Right, left, then right again, all without daring to make eye contact. This show of respect was uncommon for an official as high ranking as Wong, but Wong knew better than to anger the President, and he had already left him on the toilet for nearly an hour. Wong spoke in a hushed, reverent tone.

"My deepest apologies sir. My fool Arab driver is to be blamed. Though, I must be the one who to bear the brunt of your punishment, for I did not take it upon myself to train him in the appropri-"

"Arab?" Zhang interrupted, his eyes suddenly sparkling. "Most interesting. For the love of Taiwan, look at me Wong! Better. Now, tell me, is this driver of yours a dark skinned Arab, or is he fair?"

"Rather dark skinned, I suppose." Wong replied, eager to shift the conversation in any direction away from his tardiness. "Moroccan I believe."

"Moroccan? Entirely inconsequential. Trivial. That information is almost insulting, Wong! But dark skinned... Fascinating." A sly smile cracked across Zhang's staid visage. "Do you know of the Chantone Conjecture, Mr. Wong? It is quite the cutting edge theory, why, I only learned of it days ago myself."

"No. No sir, I'm afraid I do not."

"No. Of course not. My apologies Wong, at times I forget that you are not a man of science." This was a lie, and intentionally condescending. Zhang knew that Wong had a passing interest in the latest developments in the world of science. A passing interest was as much as the scientific community would ever allow him to have. The scientific symposiums Zhang frequented were restricted to the elite of the ruling class, and the topics discussed were generally limited to innovative methods of controlling those beneath them. It was not information to be disseminated amongst commoners, but from time to time, Zhang was forced to relay some of this knowledge to Wong. It was a compromise that suited them both. Zhang had no desire to dirty his hands by getting personally involved in the day to day minutiae of civilian pacification and Wong was a sniveling bootlick with lofty, entirely unattainable, goals of one day rising to power himself. Wong always made for an eager pupil when it came time for Zhang to discuss science.

"Simply put," Zhang continued, "the Chantone Conjecture, postulated by the illustrious Professor Chan, states that a man's innate, scientifically quantifiable attributes - vigor, covetousness, ineptitude, moral fiber, et cetera, et cetera - all share a direct correlation to the amount of melanin contained within his skin."

"Fascinating sir!" Wong over-enthused.

"Yes. Yes it certainly is. And, if true, this would clearly explain why your dark skinned Arab driver, likely a 'B', was unable to complete a task as simple as navigating our tranquil, modern thoroughfares in a timely manner. Moroccan or not, if his skin color fell in the 'F' range, he would most certainly have the necessary dexterity and reasoning ability to deliver you to my home without making me wait with my pants around my ankles!" With that, Zhang lifted himself off of his perch, and hovered over his toilet seat. "Abrade me, Mr. Wong."

"Of course sir!" Wong sprung to his feet and scurried over to Zhang's opulent golden medicine chest, returning with a handful of sandy granules. "F range, sir?" Wong asked as he vigorously rubbed the treatment into the nether region of Zhang's posterior.

"The chosen range. That's quite enough Wong. You are free to rinse off." Zhang waited for Wong to manually brush away the soiled powder before standing upright and cinching the cord of his pajama pants around his waist.

"Yes sir."

"As I was saying," Zhang continued as Wong rinsed his hands in the giant clamshell wash basin. "Human skin tones have been measured and divided into 13 Chantone ranges; from the darkest 'A' range to the lightest 'M' range. The 'F' range is the range of skin tones into which you, I and most of our fellow countrymen fall. Clearly the superior Chantone."

"Yes sir. I would have to agree sir."

Zhang walked to the western facing window. He beckoned for Wong to join him at his side. Wong dutifully sidled up and the two gazed down upon the bustling grid far below.

"With the clear superiority of the 'F' range established, it is troubling to me that I said it is the range into which most of our countrymen fall, and not all of our countrymen. Men of your driver's... 'ilk' may have provided the mindless toil that built Eternally Free Taiwan into the envy of the world, but, is it wise to allow them to continue to live among us? Can we afford to let those with less than ideal Chantones sully our National reputation?"

"Well, you, I..." stammered the Minister. He had no intention of disagreeing with the President for Life. But, he also didn't want to blindly agree with a line of thought that would result in the deportation, or worse, of his nubile, lily-white, Prussian trophy wife. "That is a difficult question sir."

"Is it? I suppose it could be, for some. But, difficult questions require difficult answers, do they not? Here is an easier question for you, Wong. What has become of the land the United States ceded to us?"

 

Officially speaking, the large parcel of land that straddled the Colorado River was a gift from the United States of America to Eternally Free Taiwan. The details of the seemingly unwarranted land offering were never made public record. This omission was not by chance. The truth behind how Zhang won the land from President Carnegie at a recent symposium would raise a host of questions. Zhang could not afford to allow those questions to be asked.

It had been Carnegie's first symposium and he was cocky; eager to prove he belonged amongst the cadre of the highest rollers. Zhang was more than willing to put the brash upstart in his place. The pair retreated to a quiet room during a period of inactivity between lectures.

Carnegie went first; it was his gun and his idea. Zhang was a powerful man, yes, rich in resources, but was he rich in spirit? This would be the test. A wager was set. 250,000 square miles of land were to be ceded to the winner's nation. The loser would receive a state funeral.

Carnegie loaded a single cartridge into the cylinder, spun it and clicked it back into place. Hammer cocked back, he slowly raised the muzzle to his temple. Eyes closed. Deep breath.

**CLICK**

Following a deep, exhilarated exhale, Carnegie smugly passed the revolver to Zhang.

Zhang calmly raised the muzzle to his temple. Eyes wide, focused on Carnegie. Breathing normally, blue liquid surging into his nostrils.

**CLICK** **CLICK** **CLICK** **CLICK** **BANG**

The wisps of smoke cleared. Zhang peeled the flattened metal slug from his temple and dropped it in Carnegie's lap.

With that, Zhang won himself a segment of the North American continent. More importantly, he had put a young ruler in his place. It was both the first time and the last time that the United States of America would challenge Eternally Free Taiwan in any manner.