Xanthophobia
Do not scoff the crazy ones.
Their madness lasts longer than ours.
That is all the difference.
Two days out of Jersey, and the engine was vibrating
unhealthily. George frowned, checking the readings several times, in the vain
hope they would somehow change for the better. He punched up a map and
considered options.
Pursuers wouldn't pick up his trail for hours,
normally, but the engine was putting out dissonance at an accelerating rate.
Running some numbers, the engine probably wouldn't go critical for at least an
hour. Probably.
He checked the map again. The countermeasures Fixer
Gordon had set up would hold for days, so long as he avoided arcologies. And
stealth shielding severely limited his speed. He traced out an arc on the map,
then considered the thick red patch cutting through it.
Ten minutes later, after adjusting his silhouette and
obtaining landing permission, he set the oblong craft a few miles outside of
the Erie DMZ.
"How you doin, bud?"
Sam favored him with a bright smile, twin ruddy points
highlighting his otherwise pale, slick features.
"I love you, George. The King is waiting."
George smiled tightly. "Thas just great, Sam. Thas
just great."
"You can give me the chip back, George. George, give
me the chip. It... I'll be fine, really. I just need the chip."
"I told you. I told you in Scranton. I destroyed the
chip. It's gone. No Xanth, no chip, it's gone!"
Sam smiled, giving him a sly look. "Oh, don't be
silly... you have it. I know. Don't have to lie, George. Don't have to hide
it, George. You want the chip, that's ok. We can share. The King is for
everyone, don't you see?"
George turned away, momentarily weak with anger. He
just had to maintain control. Just had to hold himself together. Sam would get
better. Sam just needed some... well. Sam needed psychostructuring, needed to
be made whole.
"Little brother, you can rule by my side, when the
King comes! I don't mind. I trust you, George."
--
George remembered how it used to be. Sam and George,
protectors of Green Hill Arcology off the coast of Maryland. A big shining
mountain in the sea. Life was kind. A public enforcer could walk down the
thoroughfare with a policeman, discussing sports. Legals and illegals could
interact freely, trade almost freely. Everything was perfect. Perfect until
the Cults.
"Are you sure you don't need a hand with that, sir?"
George looked up, smiled faintly to the young woman
with the slung rifle. She had a fresh look to her, looking at most 16. She had
that unaltered look, so unlike the doll-like perfection of arcology women.
Eyes were bright and attentive, lips chapped and lacking even a memory of a
smile.
"Know anythin bout domain tech?" George asked
with a slight grin. She walked
carefully over, peeked into the opened blunt nose of the craft.
"Not hyperengines, no, sir."
"Well.."
At that point the screaming started. George looked up,
swearing. The girl had moved behind him, rifle at the ready. "Ah, don
worry... thas jus my... my brother."
She watched him enter the craft, then waited. There
were sounds of an argument, an argument that got louder and louder. There were
some shots, and then the door irised open. A naked man ran out, screaming,
pistol in hand. He turned toward her and then stopped.
Sam smiled, eyes lidded. He nodded his head slowly.
Cadmila let her rifle droop, eyes wide. She dropped to
a knee. "My liege..."
Sam nodded impatiently, stroking himself. "Yes yes,
get up. My brother needs tending to."
"Yes, my liege."
--
George woke up. He was always waking up. Waking up in
strange, foggy places. Strange, foggy places.
Then the pain registered.
"Relax, son. It's only a flesh wound."
The deep voice chuckled. George groaned in response,
and faded back into warm, sweaty darkness.
--
George sipped some broth. The old man, Dr. Locke, sat
nearby.
"You know he's crazy," George said softly, glancing
over.
Dr. Locke smiled slightly, eyes glittering. "Of
course. But aren't we all, in this age? He thinks himself a king. Or a lord,
at any rate."
George shook his head, wincing slightly. The bullet
had pierced his right shoulder. He was surprised by just how little it took to
bring the pain back.
"He's jus... eh. You know, a chip-addict. Jus crazy.
Why is everyone trea'in him like... like they are?"
The man leaned in, lines mapping in gray and red many
unfathomed years. "Have you read the King in Yellow?"
George blinked. "The ... wha? Is that the Xanth thing?"
It was the doctor's turn to look puzzled. "Xanth?"
"Xanth. Yellow. A chip-realidy goin round. Only...
only is not."
"What do you mean?"
"I checked it out... ran through tests. Everyone says
tha Xanth is a realidy filder. People star seein the worl diffrently. Only is
infectious, stars wridin inna the brain. Is progressive, removing the program
doen stop the infection, jus slows it down."
George leaned back, suddenly weakened by his intensity.
He shifted, trying to somehow relieve pressure on his shoulder. The doctor
waited.
"So. So I took my brother's chip, and some others I ...
well, found. So. So I ran them through tests. Checked out the programmin."
George frowned, left hand gripping and relaxing over
and over.
"Nothin. Jus ... stories. Poems and stories. King in
Yellow, some graphics, thas it! There's nothin there. His chip, the other
chips, nothin there to reprogram. I've seen those chips... program chips, I
mean. They have all sorts of complex signatures."
George shook his head, ignoring the sharp pains. "I
can... there's nothin there. I took the chip, I smashed it. He seemed better.
Then... then he ran round, screamin about this or that, with somethin drawn on
his foehead. Tellin me he had foun the chip again."
George winced and leaned back.
The doctor smiled slightly, and drew something from
his bag. "I think this will help, son."
George looked at the thin book, cover black, with a
sinuous design on the cover. He hadn't seen a book except in virtual. He
looked up to see the doctor walking for the door. The doctor turned, slightly,
and smiled. "Don't worry, everything will be clear."
--
The doctor took a deep drag from his cigarette, smiling at the far off flashes
of the DMZ.
"Treaty breakdown. Such a shame."
He took another drag, glancing back at the hospital, contemplating the King's
kindness.
The doctor dropped the cigarette, crushing it under his shoe.