"c101" - читать интересную книгу автора (Burt Andrew - Noontide Night)

3:00 P.M., Tuesday, January 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"Where's my wife!" Morgan pounded on sub-commander Knaggs' desk. "Goddamnit, tell me right now or I'll rip your fucking head off." A grunt moved in to restrain him. Knaggs waived him back. "She's perfectly safe, Hyland. Our guests have simply been relocated to more suitable accommodations." "Where!" Knaggs wagged his finger. "Tut tut tut! As soon as you've completed your contracted work for us, we'll reunite you." "Contracted work?" "Disseminating our manifesto onto the winds of Internet," he said. "The Internet," Morgan mumbled. Why was it that people who didn't even know it was called "the Internet" think they had business using it? "What's that?" "Nothing. Look, I can't post it until there's an Internet to post it to. It may take—" Morgan thought better of telling him the truth, that it would be months before the net was close to anything like it had been. Realization somehow crept into Morgan's brain that he'd be far better off lying about it, saying he'd posted it. These morons didn't know anything about it. "Yes? It may take... how long?" "Hours. It may take hours." Was that too feeble a lie? Should he have said days? "Many hours." "Then we wait. You'll try again tomorrow." Knaggs motioned his captors to remove him. The guards roughly pushed him out the office door, then walked away. He was free to go as he pleased? They'd said so, but, he couldn't imagine that. Of course, they had his wife and baby as hostages. How clever of them. He tried shmoozing the babiest-faced grunt he could find to discover where the hostages were. Baby-face turned his head and refused to acknowledge his question. A sergeant type strode over. "What's the problem here?" Before the grunt could answer, Morgan blurted out, "I was asking him where I'm supposed to go. They took my wife, and I'm supposed to join her." "No you're not," the sergeant said. "You're free to go." "Go where? Where am I supposed to sleep?" "Go home, you idiot. Go home." Morgan went to the police. Phones were ringing constantly in the police department; most rang until the caller gave up. Morgan chose to wait in the line. Which didn't move. He shuffled forward only because people gave up with looks of disgust. The rest scooted forward mindlessly. This interminable line waiting had already been dubbed "doing the Y2K shuffle." A few bitching sessions flared up, but as quickly quieted down. Nobody had the energy for this. Most seemed shellshocked, just shaking their heads, in awe of what disaster the world had crashed down on its own heads. Morgan had little else to do. He dreadfully missed Desiree. He was never much of a reader. He wished he'd brought a book. He wished he had that radio. At least as the Strong's prisoner he'd become somewhat accustomed to not moving much. A policewoman walked by briskly. "Excuse me!" Morgan shouted to stop her. "Do you have an 'emergency' line?" She winked. "You're in it, mate." "Couldn't you have people fill out a form, then handle us in priority order at least?" "What do you think you do when you get to the front?" She strode off. After hours enduring the whining of the others in line, Morgan reached the counter. The same female officer sat there. "Ah, finally made it here, I see. Here's your incident form." She handed him a large sheet of paper filled to the margins with many tiny checkboxes. Morgan's eyes widened. "You're kidding." "Hey, love, I thought a form was your idea." "But I— I mean— Look, I just want to find out what you're doing about the Nation of the Strong having kidnapped my wife as a hostage and—" "Nothing. We're doing nothing. The government reached an agreement with them because we're spread thinner than a patty of butter on a thousand loaves of bread. If that's all you're here about, then don't bother with the form. We can't help you." "Surely you're going to surround them, call in the swat team, surely you'll—" "Oh, in a few months, no doubt about it. We can't let communist sicko bastards take over like that. But," she shrugged, and handed the form to the next in line, "nothing we can do now." "Communists?" "Whatever they are. Next!" Her lack of concern and knowledge of the subject left Morgan speechless. He closed his hung-open mouth and left. The guard at the hospital refused him admittance. Not until you've posted our manifesto to the net, the guard had said. Sub-commander's orders. Morgan tried every door to the hospital and received the same reply, in more or less gruff terms. Morgan fumed. Wasn't he supposed to be their prisoner? Didn't they at least want him back as a hostage? Of course, they didn't really need him. They had plenty of hostages. Including his wife and child. They wanted their stupid file posted, and they'd definitely found a way to motivate him, he granted them that. And presumably they were even using him as an example, to the authorities, of See, we're letting people come and go as they please (at least go), we're not a threat, don't attack us. Morgan watched for hours from the car, hoping to follow one of their "troop transports" to where the hostages were. If they weren't somewhere else in the hospital... But no cars left, and at midnight Morgan left, irritable the whole drive back that he was doing what the Strong had said to do—going home. Matty had already left for her shift when he arrived. He made himself a quick cheese sandwich on stale bread, and went to bed feeling hollow. The next morning he returned to the hospital. The guard told him to wait by the car, the same as they'd ferried him to the school in yesterday. The same goons ferried him again. He anxiously fiddled with the system. He couldn't find a single system to connect to this time, not even the text-only machine he'd found before. Well, not that it mattered. The goons weren't watching him. He wasted some time until he couldn't stand it, then announced "aha!" They shuttled him back to the hospital, where they said they'd convey his success to the sub-commander, and for him to come back tomorrow. When he returned the next morning they allowed him up to the sub-commander's office. The sub-commander smiled. "So, you've successfully published our manifesto on Internet, I understand?" Morgan nodded. The sub-commander motioned to two goons with a nod. They seized his arms. At another nod, one punched Morgan in the gut. "Never, ever lie to the Nation of the Strong, Mr. Hyland."

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Chapter 10.1

3:00 P.M., Tuesday, January 4, 2000
Manukau, New Zealand

"Where's my wife!" Morgan pounded on sub-commander Knaggs' desk. "Goddamnit, tell me right now or I'll rip your fucking head off." A grunt moved in to restrain him. Knaggs waived him back. "She's perfectly safe, Hyland. Our guests have simply been relocated to more suitable accommodations." "Where!" Knaggs wagged his finger. "Tut tut tut! As soon as you've completed your contracted work for us, we'll reunite you." "Contracted work?" "Disseminating our manifesto onto the winds of Internet," he said. "The Internet," Morgan mumbled. Why was it that people who didn't even know it was called "the Internet" think they had business using it? "What's that?" "Nothing. Look, I can't post it until there's an Internet to post it to. It may take—" Morgan thought better of telling him the truth, that it would be months before the net was close to anything like it had been. Realization somehow crept into Morgan's brain that he'd be far better off lying about it, saying he'd posted it. These morons didn't know anything about it. "Yes? It may take... how long?" "Hours. It may take hours." Was that too feeble a lie? Should he have said days? "Many hours." "Then we wait. You'll try again tomorrow." Knaggs motioned his captors to remove him. The guards roughly pushed him out the office door, then walked away. He was free to go as he pleased? They'd said so, but, he couldn't imagine that. Of course, they had his wife and baby as hostages. How clever of them. He tried shmoozing the babiest-faced grunt he could find to discover where the hostages were. Baby-face turned his head and refused to acknowledge his question. A sergeant type strode over. "What's the problem here?" Before the grunt could answer, Morgan blurted out, "I was asking him where I'm supposed to go. They took my wife, and I'm supposed to join her." "No you're not," the sergeant said. "You're free to go." "Go where? Where am I supposed to sleep?" "Go home, you idiot. Go home." Morgan went to the police. Phones were ringing constantly in the police department; most rang until the caller gave up. Morgan chose to wait in the line. Which didn't move. He shuffled forward only because people gave up with looks of disgust. The rest scooted forward mindlessly. This interminable line waiting had already been dubbed "doing the Y2K shuffle." A few bitching sessions flared up, but as quickly quieted down. Nobody had the energy for this. Most seemed shellshocked, just shaking their heads, in awe of what disaster the world had crashed down on its own heads. Morgan had little else to do. He dreadfully missed Desiree. He was never much of a reader. He wished he'd brought a book. He wished he had that radio. At least as the Strong's prisoner he'd become somewhat accustomed to not moving much. A policewoman walked by briskly. "Excuse me!" Morgan shouted to stop her. "Do you have an 'emergency' line?" She winked. "You're in it, mate." "Couldn't you have people fill out a form, then handle us in priority order at least?" "What do you think you do when you get to the front?" She strode off. After hours enduring the whining of the others in line, Morgan reached the counter. The same female officer sat there. "Ah, finally made it here, I see. Here's your incident form." She handed him a large sheet of paper filled to the margins with many tiny checkboxes. Morgan's eyes widened. "You're kidding." "Hey, love, I thought a form was your idea." "But I— I mean— Look, I just want to find out what you're doing about the Nation of the Strong having kidnapped my wife as a hostage and—" "Nothing. We're doing nothing. The government reached an agreement with them because we're spread thinner than a patty of butter on a thousand loaves of bread. If that's all you're here about, then don't bother with the form. We can't help you." "Surely you're going to surround them, call in the swat team, surely you'll—" "Oh, in a few months, no doubt about it. We can't let communist sicko bastards take over like that. But," she shrugged, and handed the form to the next in line, "nothing we can do now." "Communists?" "Whatever they are. Next!" Her lack of concern and knowledge of the subject left Morgan speechless. He closed his hung-open mouth and left. The guard at the hospital refused him admittance. Not until you've posted our manifesto to the net, the guard had said. Sub-commander's orders. Morgan tried every door to the hospital and received the same reply, in more or less gruff terms. Morgan fumed. Wasn't he supposed to be their prisoner? Didn't they at least want him back as a hostage? Of course, they didn't really need him. They had plenty of hostages. Including his wife and child. They wanted their stupid file posted, and they'd definitely found a way to motivate him, he granted them that. And presumably they were even using him as an example, to the authorities, of See, we're letting people come and go as they please (at least go), we're not a threat, don't attack us. Morgan watched for hours from the car, hoping to follow one of their "troop transports" to where the hostages were. If they weren't somewhere else in the hospital... But no cars left, and at midnight Morgan left, irritable the whole drive back that he was doing what the Strong had said to do—going home. Matty had already left for her shift when he arrived. He made himself a quick cheese sandwich on stale bread, and went to bed feeling hollow. The next morning he returned to the hospital. The guard told him to wait by the car, the same as they'd ferried him to the school in yesterday. The same goons ferried him again. He anxiously fiddled with the system. He couldn't find a single system to connect to this time, not even the text-only machine he'd found before. Well, not that it mattered. The goons weren't watching him. He wasted some time until he couldn't stand it, then announced "aha!" They shuttled him back to the hospital, where they said they'd convey his success to the sub-commander, and for him to come back tomorrow. When he returned the next morning they allowed him up to the sub-commander's office. The sub-commander smiled. "So, you've successfully published our manifesto on Internet, I understand?" Morgan nodded. The sub-commander motioned to two goons with a nod. They seized his arms. At another nod, one punched Morgan in the gut. "Never, ever lie to the Nation of the Strong, Mr. Hyland."


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