Chaos Theory – Chapter 27

Clandestine Coalition

1995, Pre-Pulse Gillette, Wyoming – Manticore Facility

Albert Sandeman stood studying the most recent sample.

Almost two years of failed inseminations. He just didn’t understand what was going wrong. The embryos were all viable and healthy, yet the hosts were rejecting the implantations.

Albert knew that in order to stop The Coming in time, his project had to yield successful pregnancies within the next few years. That alone was enough to drive him to the brink, but Manticore was hounding him daily, demanding explanations, and above all, results.

There was also the issue of problematic sequencing and unaccountable interferences the other scientists couldn’t explain. Albert had to tread carefully in that arena so that his special splicing wasn’t discovered. This meant he spent longer hours at the lab and worked harder and more determinedly towards a positive – and swift – outcome.

He had considered so many options, tested numerous theories, but the one idea that he believed would work was both dangerous and practically impossible to do on his own; he would need to enlist the help of one of his Brethren.

x-x-x

The seat of the Society was situated in London, England. Formed by a select few, the Circle was comprised of a peer group of twelve elite–ranking members of the Conclave who had deviated from the paths of their antecedents, intent on and committed to abolishing certain aspects of the Familiar rituals and way of life, and in doing so, preserving their families and futures.

The Society was fronted by the Kanakis Fellowship, providing student grants for exceptional individuals from underprivileged Cretan backgrounds. This enabled them to conduct all sorts of Society Cult business on premises without fear of discovery. It was a clever cover, and anyone attempting to probe deeply enough would learn shades of the truth; that each of the founders of the fellowship had ancestors who hailed from Crete.

Unlike their estranged brethren, the Society allowed their breeding hosts or contributors to live, encouraging strong, happy, stable families. They also believed in inoculating their children in the womb, ensuring that their offspring would pass the Kariff ritual on their seventh birthday. Both methods proved effective, however the truth was concealed from mainstream Familiars, enabling the Society to remain the purest and most elite.

Albert convinced himself that inoculating the hybrids in the womb would make them immune from the poisons set to be unleashed at The Coming. It was only a matter of informing, explaining and convincing the Circle of his plan. If agreed, the X5 series could be the ones to realize the Society’s ultimate plan for The Cleansing.

x-x-x

“Fen’os Tol,” he greeted when the call went through.

“Fen’os Tol, Brother Sandeman,” the priestess replied warmly. “To what do we owe the honor?”

Sandeman relayed his findings and theories and waited with baited breath.

“I am no scientist, Brother,” she acknowledged, “but your ideas have merit. I will discuss your plan at this evening’s meeting. If approved, you will be given a list of contacts in your area. Will this be satisfactory?”

Sandeman could barely contain his glee but answered respectfully, “Yes, Potinija, your will be done.”

1995, Pre-Pulse Sheridan, Wyoming – Late night

Donald Lydecker slouched over the bar, bleary eyed, disheveled and unfocused. He was halfway through his third bottle of vodka, having long since given up on gentlemen’s drinks and flavorful liquors. What point was there in paying for expensive alcohol when you had no intention of savouring it? Vodka suited his purposes just fine.

It had been two weeks since he returned home to find his life torn apart. Fourteen days since he had stolen silently into the house with a gift and a bottle of Dom, intent on surprising his wife with the news of his advancement. Eight thousand-odd hours from the moment his heart was ripped from his chest. It was only after the third bottle that the images blurred and he could no longer see where her battered and bloodied corpse ended and the bedroom carpet began.

Anyone who knew him saw that his wife’s death had left him an empty shell. An Army man first and foremost, he’d also been a loving husband and doting partner. The newly appointed, Maj. Donald Lydecker would have been proud at any other time. He was exactly where the Conclave wanted him; a swiftly advancing officer of the United States Army. But what was it all worth when she wasn’t there to share it with him?

He emptied the last of the contents of the bottle into his glass, sloshing the liquid with unsteady hands. The dim lighting of the bar suited his depressed state and he reveled in the dark shadows and dullness of his surroundings. Since Theresa’s death, everything had lost color, nothing had meaning. Nothing but the stinging of alcohol burning down his throat, a bitter reminder that he still lived while she did not.

Terri had been his high school sweetheart; the first and only woman he’d ever loved. She had been chosen for him from childhood, chosen as a breeding host for his children. He’d seen other Familiar families, the way most of the friends of his youth had lost their mothers in infancy, killed off by the Conclave once they’d lost usefulness. But Donald fell in love with his intended and like very few others before him, held on to his wife even when she didn’t live up to the Conclave’s expectations and was unable to fulfil her role and bear children. He loved her, and refused to be ‘rid of the burden and take a proper mate’ – as was suggested.

But they wouldn’t back down and when Lydecker refused one time too many, the Conclave took it upon themselves to right the situation for him.

“Bastard sons of fucking bitches!” he howled with heartfelt pain, blindly hurling the empty vodka bottle at the wall above the bartender’s head where it shattered, missing the poor man by mere inches.

“Hey! Cut it out! You’ve had enough, man. It’s time to go,” the bartender shouted, motioning to a heavyset man off to the side of the bar. “Joe, show our buddy out, will ya? He’s overstayed his welcome.”

“Like hell! I’ll tella when’m done, ‘n noddone!” Lydecker stood on wobbly legs, punctuating his point by shaking his glass at the barkeep and shoving the bouncer’s hands away. He swayed dangerously, slurring obscenities and fighting off attempts to remove him from the bar.

They were interrupted by a dignified, older man who came up from behind Lydecker. He spoke quietly but politely, “Gentlemen, I have everything under control. If you please, I will escort him out and,” he approached the bar in two quick strides, removed a number of bills from his billfold and pressed them into the bartender’s hand, “I believe this will cover any damages. Excuse us?”

x-x-x

Lydecker blinked in the bright light, sat up and winced. His head was pounding and a quick glance around the room confirmed a strange environment. Immediately on the alert, despite his pounding headache and fuzzy tongue, sure-fire signs of a hangover, he swung his legs over the side of the bed and stood up. His eyes searched for a weapon but instead landed on a figure seated by the door.

The stranger sat primly in a wing backed chair, one leg crossed over the other, a cup of tea in hand and a newspaper balanced on his knee. Lydecker could smell the sickly scent of jasmine and it turned his already unsettled stomach.

“Good morning, Brother Lydecker, Fen’os Tol.”

“Fen’os Tol,” he replied automatically, then mentally kicked himself. He hated everything to do with the Conclave after what they’d done to his wife; he wanted nothing more to do with their kind. Lydecker didn’t know this man, he had no idea how he’d gotten here or what the stranger wanted, yet he’d been greeted in the proper fashion and had felt compelled to answer. Old habits died hard.

“Who the hell are you and why did you bring me here?” Lydecker spat at his ‘host’ as he cast an icy glare in the other man’s direction.

“No need for such language, Brother. You are among friends here,” the elderly gentleman replied.

“Friends? I don’t know you, old man. You’re no friend of mine.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled knowingly. “Perhaps not, Donald. But you may wish to rethink your stand. I bring you a message from the Potinija.”

Lydecker’s head shot up sharply. The Potinija was the High Priestess and head of the Society, a secretive sect of Familiars he’d only ever heard rumor of.

“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Rolphe Hultz, eldest son of one of the Circle’s founders. I have been tasked to contact you and present you with a sensitive proposition.”

A maid chose that moment to enter with a tray of coffee, toast and jam. “Please help yourself, Brother. You had a difficult night.”

“Thank you, Brother.”

“Shall I continue?” Hultz stated more than asked, raising an eyebrow at his guest. Lydecker nodded politely and took a sip of coffee, eyes focused intently on his host.

“It has come to our attention, Brother, that the Conclave was behind your wife’s death and that you’ve had a…falling out with them. The Potinija was most displeased by their initiative and, along with the Circle, wishes to extend her deepest sympathies for your loss. It is not the way of the Society; but then, we do not see eye to eye with the Conclave on many such matters.

“The Potinija and the Circle have a special mission that requires someone of your talents. We had feared that your loyalties might still lie with the Conclave. Were we wrong to assume that you no longer wish to blindly follow their lead? You would be quite the asset to our following and we would welcome a Brother with open arms…should he be true to our cause.”

Hultz’s shrewd, calculating gaze bore into Lydecker and the normally unflinching man, flinched. 

“Will you swear allegiance to the Potinija?”

1995, Pre-Pulse Jackson, Wyoming – Later that week

Albert Sandeman had not had a good week. He hadn’t heard anything regarding his suggestions to the Circle but he knew better than to contact them again. He would be alerted when they’d come to a decision.

His superiors at Manticore were becoming suspicious of the failed experiments and the scientists’ inability to explain those failings. The heat was rising, time was running out and tempers were short. He needed that answer – soon – or his job would likely be on the line.

Sandeman shook his head. Currently, he was having family troubles. He rubbed his temples in a vain attempt to alleviate the throbbing. The angry accusations of his son were not conductive to headache relief.

“Ames, if you cannot address me with respect, then this conversation is over. You’re a young man, not a preschooler. Surely we can discuss this civilly?”

“You’re not like them, Dad, and I want to know why. In school they keep telling me things I’m supposed to do but you don’t. And when I tell them my dad doesn’t do that, they get mad. I’m sick of bein’ beat up! Even the teachers pick on me! Or they let the other kids do it and act like nothing’s happening. It’s not fair!”

Sandeman closed his eyes, praying for some inner inspiration, some hidden well of strength to help him explain things to his son. But he knew his son’s impressionable young mind was slowly being corrupted by the general views of the Conclave, and the boy was too young to understand the intricacies of his father’s split loyalties.

“Ames,” he began wearily, “It’s true that I sometimes do things differently from what you are taught in school. I’m sure that most of your friends’ parents don’t say, think or do things exactly the sa-,”

Ames interjected angrily, “You’re wrong! They all do! Only you don’t! They’re normal!”

“Quiet, boy! You keep your mouth shut while I’m talking, do you hear?” he snapped at his son. The boy glared angrily but held his tongue.

“Son,” he continued in a softer tone, “just because we are all part of the Conclave does not mean that we can’t disagree at times. There are some things that I have a hard time accepting. But I still send you to the Everton Academy. You are still receiving the best education available! You are young, Ames,” he caught his son’s indignant scowl and quickly amended, “but you are intelligent enough to know that everyone has their own opinions and that each person can make his or her own choices. Do you agree?”

He was met with silence. “Answer me, son. Do you agree with me?”

“Yeah, Dad,” he replied with a spark of anger. “But you also taught me that we need to be careful with our choices ‘cuz they affect other people.”

Sandeman nodded kindly at his son, proud that this lessen had been learned. His mood faltered, however, when his son hissed venomously, “I hate you! You don’t care about me! If you did, you wouldn’t do things different than the other kids’ dads! Your choices are hurting me! They all call me a traitor. ‘Your dad’s a traitor and so are you, freak!‘

Gazing sadly at his son whose hurt displayed prominently in his eyes, his face contorted in anger and loathing, Sandeman felt a heavy guilt settle upon him. He wouldn’t change his actions even if he could, but it didn’t stop him from wishing his son hadn’t been harmed.

“Son-,”

“Don’t you say anything! Don’t you dare! I’m going back to school, Dad, and I’m staying. The Potinhedra says that if I come back to stay the punishment won’t be so bad and I can prove myself. She said that if i change my name and give myself to them completely I can be a new person! I won’t be Traitor Sandeman anymore.”

Sandeman’s heart rent with pain but he faced his son like a man and not a child.

“You wish to cut ties with your family?” he asked acidly, eyes glittering cold and unkind.

Ames crossed his arms defiantly and met his father’s gaze head on.

“I won’t pay for your mistakes anymore. I am not your son. The Potinhedra will make it official when I get back.” The boy straightened proudly upon making that pronouncement.

Sandeman, eyes unfocused in his grief, barely acknowledged his estranged son as the boy made to leave. He was grieving, knowing he had failed his late wife, that he hadn’t been able to keep their only surviving child from the poisonous teachings of the Conclave. He knew, too, that his work was too important to risk by exposing his true loyalties and motivations to a boy too young to fully understand. He had to let his son go for the greater good.

“What does one call he who forsook his family, I wonder,” he murmured bitterly.

The boy turned to face him one last time.

“White.”