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The house is the color of muskmelon and has the same sunny charm. It looks out of place in its rundown suburb, where it attracts the attention of those who know that anyone with such a fine home must have money. Some break in to steal its valuables. Others, dressed in the smart clothes of realtors, see another kind of opportunity in the lovely home. Surely the owners want to leave their bad neighborhood. The agent can help them. For a commission, of course.
The money, the valuables, they’re there, in the house. You can smell it.
There’s a house like this in every city, from Detroit to Mogadishu, and no one ever sees the owners. Always someone tries to go in, though, sometimes for larceny, sometimes for honest greed.
The house, though? It doesn’t care about your motives. It only cares that you go into the basement, where the sticky sweet smell draws no flies, attracts no rats, and leaves only the clean, clean bones of the unwary.
To start at the beginning go here. To hear an audio reading of the chapter, hit the play button above.
We drove east out of town, up the same mountain road that Brick and Whip had taken me. I rolled down the window so I could feel the ocean wind on my face, increasingly dryer as we rose towards the blazing afternoon sun. We continued past the empty real estate developments that dotted the hills outside of Old Town and climbed until the road leveled off. It was nestled in between the grey granite of stark mountains and distant, isolated buttes that made it feel like it was surrounded by its own massive fortress. This high up, the air became cooler with a tang of winter still in it even as the leaves of every plant shimmered emerald in the afternoon’s golden sun.
Inland, to the north, I could see neat rows of a vineyard, stacked up a hillside, each separated from the next by rich, dark soil. The estate was crowned by a multi-story, angular home of wood and glass at the highest point, overlooking all. You could almost smell the wine and the money.
Soon the scenery began to repeat itself with other similar plantations as we went deeper into the remote enclave of wealth. Riding the road, caught between the spring green of the hills and the cool mountain breeze, it was hard not to see the charm. The only structure that wasn’t a remote mansion was a small church, its single bell tower reaching towards the blue sky with stone walls white and resplendent in the Mediterranean sun.
After nearly an hour of silent driving, Atwell stopped the Citroen on an empty stretch of road. From our position on the pavement, he pointedly looked down a gravel road that sprouted perpendicular from the main drag. Almost invisible within the foliage around it, the drive completely disappeared as it travelled through walls of green vines that climbed up trestles erected on either side. In the distance, a terracotta roof floated just high enough to be seen.
Atwell said, “That’s it.” It was hard to ignore that the narrow path into the estate would make a perfect funnel for whatever ambush someone might care to lay. I ignored that to say, “OK. Let’s go.”
Atwell carefully maneuvered the car onto the drive. After driving under the cloudless sky for the entire ride, disappearing into the shade of the vines, spiked through with bucolic sun, was pleasant enough to feel like the trap I was worried about.
There was no explosion, though, no IED or claymore, but as Atwell trundled the car down the graveled path, two of Sartre’s rooks stepped out from the bordering vegetation. Both were visibly armed, black machine pistols to match their dark suits.
Atwell wisely brought the Citroen to a stop several yards away. One of the rooks stepped forward, moving towards the driver’s side. Atwell cranked down his window and put on an official face. With all of us tired and dirty, the pretense of dignity struck me as so absurd I had to stifle laughter.
The rook hadn’t quite bent all the way down to the window before he started into a prepared smokescreen about us being on the private property of Madame Sartre. Atwell interrupted him. “We are not here to see madame. We are here to see Sartre.”
The rook moved his pencil mustache in a way that roughly translated into, “Who the fuck are you?” Before he could vocalize that, I added, “Tell Sartre it’s the Americans.”
The skin around the rook’s sunglasses furrowed, radiating dark doubt. Whatever the tiny yellow car had delivered to the estate, though, was strange enough that he said, “Wait here.”
We waited while the rooks conferred. Eventually until some unknown signal passed to them and they parted, stepping out of the road and gesturing us on. Atwell gently pressed down on the accelerator and we rumbled down the drive.
The narrow, vine-bordered path opened out into a yard of dark brown dirt that encircled a stone well. Directly on the other side was a three-story house with a burnt orange facade and blue shutters, a mosaic running the border between these and its green terracotta roof. All of it bore up against the mountain sun with a stolidity that spoke of generations. It was modest in comparison to the newer villas that had been built in the valley’s wine country. Something that might have once been a horse stable, now a converted carpark, stood to the right of the house filled with the slick, black cars of Sartre’s cavalcade.
The picture of quaintness was only ruined by the two guards standing in the yard, each visibly armed with tubular submachine guns. They shifted in their positions, waiting for whatever we might do next. I gestured for Atwell to park next to the well.
A stout old woman stepped out into the villa’s doorway, wiping her hands with a towel. She squinted at the Citroen as if its yellow were the brightness of the sun. A third rook followed her, hovering nearby, held at a distance by what appeared to be the conflicting forces of orders to protect her and a fear of her.
Everyone outside of the car stared at everyone in the car. Atwell asked, “Now what?” The word “dumbass” was unsaid at the end of the question.
Confident they weren’t going to gun us down in front of the old woman I said, “Now we get out.” I stepped from the car, standing tall to give everyone a target in case I was wrong.
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Client: Ford
Target market: Generation AA
Title: Working Commuter
Actor Gender/Age: Adult male. Salty, looks old enough to be successful, but young enough to have vitality. Handsome, successful Young Dad on the way up vibe. The narrator shouldn’t be the Young Dad, but like one of his friends admiring him.
Description: 60-second spot, but needs to grab them in the first 5 seconds to avoid to skip hacks.
Direction notes: Young Dad is smiling, upbeat and enthusiastic, but relaxed. We’re looking at him through the driver’s side window of his new Ford Bronco Nirvana. The glass is crystal clear, but we can see the orange glow of the sunrise reflecting from it. Young Dad is ON FIRE and loving it.
VOICEOVER: It’s a scary world outside, but winners aren’t afraid. They aren’t stupid either.
ACTION: [The camera pulls back from Young Dad driving the Nirvana out of his enclave, waving to the gateguards as he pulls away. Underneath their helmets we can see the gateguards admiring the Nirvana as they wave back.]
VOICEOVER: When you have to leave your castle for that important client meeting, make sure your ride can get you there and back.
ACTION: [Young Dad drives the Nirvana off the smooth roads surrounding his enclave and onto a pockmarked road. This should be the worst of the worst, like the road into Detroit, grooves and potholes so bad the old yellow paint lines can barely be seen. The dried out dirt that the road runs through threatens to swallow it as Young Dad speedsalong without so much as spilling his coffee.]
VOICEOVER: With its new smart suspension the roads into the city won’t stop you. They won’t even give you a bumpy ride.
ACTION: [Against the orange burning of the sun, Young Dad speaks to the Nirvana‘s central computer. Through the glass we can see him mouth the words, “Office,” and the central console lights up with a map of his commute. As the Nirvana continues its smooth ride down the crumbling highway, Young Dad pulls on a sleep mask.]
VOICEOVER: With that smooth ride you can even catch a few extra winks on your way into the office by trusting Ford’s next generation auto-pilot.
ACTION: [With Young Dad napping safely behind the wheel, we see up ahead a group of nomads hiding behind berms that flank the road. Bob DO NOT pull in actual nomads for this shot. We don’t want grandmas living out of their RVs. We need some Mad Max level cannibals and ex-cons. Killers in wait for the unworried Young Dad cruising down the road. They’re big, mean and dressed in leather and about to slide out a row of road spikes. Think of that narco-tribe that butchered the bus of tourists down in Coahuila last week.
As the nomads slather over their next kill the Nirvana rolls right over the spikes without a blip.]
VOICEOVER: You won’t even need to watch the roads to make sure you get there safely. With the Nirvana‘spuncture proof tires and perimeter defense system, the Bronco will push past any non-essential threat.
ACTION: [With the Nirvana rolling down the road, the nomads howl in frustration while the sleeping Young Dad speeds past another commuter, driving something wimpy and small, like one of the new Sun Beetles, its solar panels caked in dust from the road. The viewer sees the driver of the Sun watch in jealousy as the Nirvana speeds by, this look turning to horror as he sees that the nomads have spotted him. He should have his mobile out, calling for roadside assistance, but now he’s saying his last words as the nomads head his way.
[Down the road, we see a city, clean and resplendent, one of its tall towers surely the Young Dad’s destination.]
VOICEOVER: Survive your commute in comfort. In style. In the new Ford Bronco Nirvava.
To start at the beginning go here. To hear an audio reading of the chapter, hit the play button above.
After seeing his uncle’s corpse, Lanzo wasn’t capable of thought, only moving forward as I maneuvered him. I needed to get him somewhere safe before I lost control of the situation. I kept coming back to the one solution I had, backing away from it, and then only running into it again as we turned another corner. Eventually, out through the narrow opening of an alleyway, I saw what we needed.
Near that end of the alley, I propped Lanzo up on a trash bin, tried to say something comforting, failed. Before I walked out onto the cobblestone road, I took several deep breaths, timing my exhales for control, and wiped the sweat off my dome. With a cacophony of bad ideas ringing in my skull I tried to present a calm exterior. I think I might have even succeeded.
The payphone I spotted from the alley was, gratefully, functional and had no one in its vicinity. I picked it up and dialed. The high tone of the phone chiming continued until Atwell finally answered. “Who is this?”
“It’s your favorite neighborhood miscreant.” Not giving Atwell a chance to reply I continued, “I need you to come pick me up.” Mentioning Lanzo would only increase the odds of Atwell saying no, so I didn’t.
It didn’t matter as Atwell’s refusal was prompt and immediate. “Go fuck yourself.”
“Unless you want me to mention to the Night Governor that you’ve been watching him for Mitnick, I’d suggest you get in that shitty little car of yours and get down here.”
I could hear Atwell subjugate all of his nasty replies in his strangled voice. That not quite silence dragged on until he said, “Where are you?”
A quick scan of shuttered storefronts gave me the street name and a number. I read the address to Atwell, then hung up, not wanting to give him a chance to complain further.
Lanzo was still hunched against the bin, trying to remember his macho pride and cease blubbering. Before he could protest, I rifled through his jacket and came up with his cigarettes, pulled one out and stuck it in his mouth. I lifted his chin and looked him in the eye. If someone walked by and saw the poor, tear-stained mess the kid was and me holding him, they might have mistaken us for lovers.
If that were the case, though, I would have thought of something kind to say. Instead I said, “Get it together.” I pawed through his pockets again to come up with his lighter and flicked it to life, allowing Lanzo to inhale his smoke with shaking hands.
Once he had restored some semblance of control, I told him, “Someone’s on the way to pick us up. We’re going to get out of here.”
“I must find who did this.”
“You need to get out of town with the girl.”
“I cannot let this pass.”
“Did you think this was going to happen without someone getting hurt?”
“But why? He had nothing to do with this.”
I thought again about Sartre’s implied relationship with Moreau. I couldn’t think of any reason Sartre would want him dead; he had spoken of him with a strange kind of fondness. I’m sure that wouldn’t stop Sartre if he wanted to take something from Moreau, but the old drunk didn’t have much the world wanted or want much from the world.
I kept coming back to Whip and Brick showing up at Moreau’s garage. If the Russians were still searching for me, wanting revenge for Mikhail’s death, they might have shown up to see what Moreau knew. If that was the case, I had a pretty good idea of who within Mitnick’s organization was talking to the Russians.
“I don’t know,” I lied. We waited for Atwell.
Amazingly, we didn’t have to wait long before the tiny yellow Citroen rolled down the road. I kept Lanzo out of sight by the trash bin until the last moment. When the car stopped, I grabbed him and hustled in. Atwell protested the entire time, all of it boiling down to, “Who the hell is this?”
“He’s a material witness.” Where that came from I have no idea, but I didn’t elaborate, telling Atwell to drive. His weasel instincts must have told him there was trouble around because he actually did the smart thing and drove.
In the presence of a stranger, Lanzo regained his composure and the good sense to keep quiet. Atwell, on the other hand, resumed his questioning as soon as the Citroen had ceased its whining, accelerating pitch. “What the fuck is going on? Who is this kid?”
I ignored him. “Where’s Sartre?”
“How would I know?”
“You’ve been following him. You know his routine. Where is he?”
In between watching the road to dodge traffic, Atwell managed to spit a petulant, “Fuck you.” He went on, but I stopped listening. I slid the revolver out from the trench coat and set it on my lap. Atwell stopped talking.
Instead of the threat he was expecting, I served up my usual concoction of half-truths. “The kid is one of Sartre’s. Take us there so we can drop him off. When we do I can tell Sartre you saved his ass by starting the fire at the service station. Then you can stop hiding from him.”
Sandwiched between the immediate threat of me and Sartre’s potential wrath, Atwell acquiesced. “OK. He’s probably at his mother’s.”
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Welcome to the graduation for the School of Order and Chaos. This is your commencement speech. If you are looking for the commencement speech for the School of Chaos and Order, you should be in Moorcock Auditorium. Please go there now.
Everyone settled? Good, then let’s start this. Or end it rather. If you’ve successfully graduated without cheating, you know they’re basically the same thing. If any of you are using multiverse pathways to revisit a fond memory, welcome back.
When this school was established, there was much hot debate (and cold refusal) of the idea that Order and Chaos could be taught and mentored within the same institution. As I was on both sides of the debate, I’ve been invited to give the commencement speech to its first graduating class.
Pause for laughter.
Oh, sorry, I wasn’t meant to read that part out loud.
Anyway, we proved them all, most of all me, wrong. Each of you here now, engineers and visionaries, clerics and anarchists, accountants and marketers, are on your own path into the world after having spent years studying and honing your skills with and against one another. For having survived that alone, you deserve congratulations. Unfortunately, there is much work to be done. There are challenges big and small.
For you radicals of Chaos, there are authoritarian regimes that subjugate their citizens, corporations who crush everything in their mindless pursuit of profit, autocrats that use nuclear holocaust as a bargaining chip and those that prop them up, buying and selling politicians in order to protect and project their own singular plans. There are dictators in every shape and form waiting for you to break their tyrannical hold.
For you disciples of Law, there are those that would use violence rather than reason to get their way. There are people who would tear down venerable institutions that protect the innocent because it is politically expedient. You stand in the way of those who would sell revolution from the safety of their palaces.
If you’ve come this far, I know you have big ambitions, but I urge you not to forget about the individuals, the people downtrodden by the systems and individuals you wish to destroy (or reform, depending on which side of the aisle you’re sitting). Most are merely trying to survive. Even those who seem willing participants in the forces you seek to countervail may, in fact, be captives of them. There are people all over the world that would like to change the systems, norms, and brutality they participate in, but fear if they make too much noise the forces their lives rely upon will crush them. These individuals may be your greatest allies or lead a mob to your door, depending on how you treat them. Your actions will have more effect on them than any on those that pull the levers of power, even if you bring the powerful to their knees.
So go forth and work your magic. Bring balance to the world. And if you do, you will accomplish what no other generation before you has.
