Dire Means (39 page)

It was the first time Mark had been alone outside the Nest since he had fled to it. As he watched the obtainment on the laptop, he realized that it would no doubt contain a virtual buffet of evidence against the Trail Bladers. If they remained in the vestibule for another sixty seconds, he could surely take the laptop and make a run for the elevators. But he hadn’t seen any stairs on this floor and it would be unfathomable that the Trail Bladers would leave a stairwell unlocked from either the outside or the inside. Aside from that hindrance, the Trial Bladers had apparently made him a fugitive in a crime spree that had the world’s attention, so where could he run?

On the laptop, he saw Serge bend down to get into a cart, but then bolt for the door. Raphael grabbed for Serge’s arm, but missed. The other male Trail Blader succeeded, grabbing Serge’s shirt, but it tore. Serge shoved the Trail Blader to the floor. Another fired a Taser, but missed him. He kicked the door of the vestibule and burst into the room where Mark sat. Mark jumped. Serge ran by, shoving Mark’s table to the side. He accelerated to the far end of the vacant floor, Morana, Raphael and a male Trail Blader in pursuit. Nanette and the remaining Trail Blader stayed behind to guard Denise.

Serge slammed into a door that he thought was a stairwell and bounced back because it was locked. His only option was the freight elevator.

Morana, who was leading the chase, held up her hand for the other Trail Bladers to slow. They knew that their quarry was cornered. Serge lunged for the freight elevator buttons and pounded them first with his fingertips and then the butt of his hand. The doors did not open.

“Raphael,” Morana said. Raphael raised a Taser to Serge who begged him not to fire.

“We need to you enter the cart willingly,” Morana said.

Serge turned to them, his hands held up in total surrender. His chest heaved under his torn shirt that hung to one knee.

Raphael gagged him quickly and put him into a nearby cart. He slammed the lid shut and wheeled him into the freight elevator.

Mark watched the end of the pursuit, feeling helpless to stop the Trail Bladers. They revered him, yet he was terrified by them. He went back to the displaced table and adjusted the laptop screen. On it, he saw Denise, trembling, her face buried in her hands.

When the other Trail Bladers re-entered the vestibule, they approached Denise, whose eyes were wide and she held up her trembling hand. With the door still open, Mark heard the conversation.

“What do you people want?” she said.

Morana turned to her and said, “We want you to enter our cart willingly.”

“Okay, I will. Please don’t electrocute me. I’ll do whatever you want.”

She climbed in. When Raphael brought the ball gag out for her, Denise opened her mouth wide without resistance.

The Trail Bladers exited the vestibule, wheeling their newest set of fodder. It had taken two minutes, despite Serge’s escape attempt. When the vestibule door opened, Mark stood from the table, suddenly uneasy at the prospect of the fodder seeing him. If he succeeded in thwarting the Trail Bladers’ spree, these fodder would no doubt remember every detail of what they saw during their emotional trauma—including his face.

They wheeled Denise by and Mark was certain she could not see him from within the closed cart. They rolled her cart onto the waiting freight elevator beside her lover’s, leaving room only for two Trail Bladers to ride down.

Morana leaned in and gave instructions to the Trail Bladers and then stepped back to wait with Mark. They watched the elevator doors close over its new meal of fresh fodder. Raphael went back to the vestibule to clean up.

“Are you okay?” Morana asked.

“Yes,” Mark said.

He felt the drain of adrenaline as the excitement of the obtainment ebbed. Then he felt sick about what he had witnessed, and more sick at a feeling of complicity.

A minute later, the freight elevator opened again and they rode down to the dock. The carts were tucked and secured in the bed of the truck and Raphael sat beside one, his arm resting on it. Morana and Mark climbed in and sat beside him.

“I’m thinking the obtainment rattled you. Your face is haggard,” Morana said, her head rocking back and forth as the truck pulled from the loading dock.

“A bit. I’ll be fine. Give me a minute.”

“You should be glad—that obtainment was clean—especially for two at once. Sometimes they fight more and—it’s sad until…” Morana paused, searching for a word.

“Until what?”

“Until you remember their choice to become fodder. Until you remember that they are so-called human beings who have lost all compassion and turn a blind eye to suffering.”

Morana pulled a bottle of water from under her seat and offered it to Mark. He shook his head. Enjoying a drink felt wrong in the presence of two living humans who would never drink again. Morana twisted the top open with a napkin and took a long swig. “Remembering what fodder does raises the act of obtainment to a level of privileged service,” she said, as she wiped her mouth on the napkin.

“Of course. No doubt about that,” Mark said, trying to sound convinced.

When the truck descended into the Trail Bladers bunker, Pop was waiting for them, standing on the floor of the Nest’s garage with two of his staff. He smiled as the truck’s wheels touched down onto the floor.

When they exited the truck he said, “Welcome home. Join me in my office, Mark.” He then turned and headed to the foyer without addressing Morana or Raphael. Mark hurried to keep up. He looked back at Morana who had a concerned look on her face.

Raphael raised a hydraulic lift on the rear of the truck to unload the carts that contained the newest fodder—a set.

As Pop passed Mark’s mural, he pointed at the photograph and said, “I like that guy. I’m a fan of that guy.”

“Thank you,” Mark said.

“I was talking about me,” Pop said.

Mark offered a feeble laugh at Pop’s attempt at humor.

“I like you almost as much, Mark.”

The biometrically-secured doors of the Nest responded so smoothly to Pop’s touch on their consoles that it was as if they were walking though a series of motion sensing automatic doors. When they entered Pop’s office, he pointed at Mark’s regular chair and Mark sat.

Pop touched his computer mouse and stared at his black screen, waiting for it to illuminate. It flashed on and Pop clicked his mouse while still standing. Mark wished he could see what Pop was doing on the screen, but from his seat, he couldn’t.

Pop reclined and put his hands behind his head. “You’ve seen a small piece of our process today. I’m now going to tell you how we will realize a world where kindness to others is the safest way to live. Thanks to what we have accomplished so far, observance of the golden rule is changing from an honorable rarity to practical, common sense. We’re almost there, passing our waypoints ahead of schedule with better than expected results—so far.”

Pop used a remote to lower his movie screen and to change the display to television. The screen showed Ocean Avenue, where homeless people had gathered in a line along the street. Drivers slowed their cars to reach out the window and drop money into cups. Some of the cups were full and dirty hands pressed the bills down to make more room.

Pop muted the television. “How excited are you about our mission, Mark?” he asked. He swiveled in his chair and smoothed down his beard as he waited for Mark’s reply.

Mark shifted in his seat, feeling the importance of his answer. “I think your goal is admirable,” Mark finally answered.

“But you disapprove of my means?”

“I’ve never heard of such a method to improve the world,” Mark answered.

“‘Improve the world’, I like that. But you still didn’t answer my question and I can see that you don’t want to. Fine. When we succeed in reaching my goal of catalyzing social nirvana, eradicating poverty, your opinion of my means will change.”

“I showed up on the building with you because I didn’t want you to die. I believe killing is wrong—no matter what the reason.” Mark swallowed—nervously.

Pop showed little reaction as he considered Mark’s statement. “Were you trespassing when you rescued me?”

Mark laughed. “I suppose, technically—”

“You can call it a technicality if you wish, my friend. It was trespassing nonetheless. In order to perform an act for which you felt morally justified, you violated a law designed to protect the building’s owner. You felt that the result justified an illegal action—you violated the building owner’s rights. Do you condone violence, Mark?”

“No,” Mark shifted in his chair and crossed his arms.

Pop’s smile grew smug and he tapped his finger against his lips. “Have you ever had surgery?” he asked.

“Yes, I had my appendix removed when I was young…”

“Was it voluntary?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Have you considered the violence of surgery?”

Mark didn’t want to answer. Pop was painting him into a corner.

“Was your surgery legal?” Pop continued.

“Yes.”

“Have you any idea what sort of sentence
you
would get for slitting someone’s stomach wide open with a knife?”

“No, I can’t say that I do.”

“Consider a surgeon with a scalpel.” Pop picked up an envelope opener from his desk. He closed his eyes as he waved it in the air. Its blade caught some of the light from the overhead lamp and flashed on the wall.

“Surgery is probably the most violent act we can inflict upon one another, yet we pay educated people absurd amounts of money to slit us wide open—knowing that we’ll suffer physical scarring, emotional trauma, financial hardship, and, for some, death. Why do we willfully allow this cruelty?”

Mark nodded, resenting having to agree.

Pop answered for him. “Because we hope the benefit of surgery will exceed the cost of its violence. Tell me the difference between a scalpel-wielding surgeon and a knife-wielding thug.”

“Surgery is voluntary,” Mark said.

“Not always,” Pop rebutted, raising his finger. “Parents decide for children. Family members decide for the comatose. Terminal illness leaves the victim with virtually no choice. So what justifies the surgeon’s violence, Mark? Do tell.” Pop leaned forward and his expression intensified. “
Intent
and
results
are the difference, Mark. They make a surgeon heroic and criminalize a knife thug. One earns a handsome income from stabbing, and the other, incarceration.”

“Is this how you justify your terrorism, by intent and results?” Mark said.

“My intent, in this situation, is an elimination of unnecessary suffering that has never before been achieved. Positive results are showing already. So, yes, my means are justified by my results, just as a surgery candidate justifies disfigurement, disembowelment, and mental and physical agony on the chance he can stretch his own life—even if only for months, weeks or days.”

Pop squinted at Mark, studying him. “You used the word terrorism. Terrorism is too reckless—too clumsy to describe our means. Terrorism results in public paralysis, which is terribly counterproductive if you want the public to take action.” Pop pointed up to the screen. “In our movies, we provide an antidote to any fear generated by our mission. Any citizen can heed the message and avoid a visit to our resort. Those who don’t—those without a conscience deserve to live in terror.”

“But you are terrifying some people who don’t deserve it,” Mark said. “Many of the people who are terrified today are not fodder.”

“Mark, do you know what a drip torch is?” Pop asked.

Mark shrugged.

“It’s an ironic little device carried by firefighters. It drips a fuel mixture of burning diesel and gasoline. You see them most often used in wildfires that have grown out of control. On the edge of such blazes, we see firefighters walking single file with their drip torches, committing what amounts to forgivable arson as they ignite dry brush in the path of the flames. People all over the country root for these firefighters. They are so skillful, precise and knowledgeable about their destructive ignitions—destroying a little to save a lot.” Pop looked up at the ceiling, a satisfied smile spread on his face. “Do you believe backfires are effective, Mark?”

“Of course.”

“Then you’ll agree that there are situations where controlled destruction on a limited scale is justifiable if it prevents destruction on a much broader scale?”

“I’d like to believe you,” Mark lied. “But you are oversimplifying an issue that involves human lives.”

“Finally! I
knew
you would come around—you just said you
want
to believe! Atta boy, Mark. Did your surgery cure your appendicitis?”

“Yes.”

“Seems pretty simple to me,” Pop said. He pressed a button to un-mute the TV and a reporter said, “… The family is putting up a half-million dollar reward for the return of Missy Tarbret. Back to you in the studio.”

“Miss Missy is busy,” Pop said as he stood. “I remember her clip. She threw water and spit on one of our actors whom she mistook for one of our homeless brethren.” He shook his finger at the TV. “I’m certain she now considers her act a terrible waste of water.”