Authors: Chris Papst
Devolution
A POST HILL PRESS BOOK
ISBN: 978-1-61868-805-7
ISBN (eBook): 978-1-61868-804-0
DEVOLUTION
© 2016 by Chris Papst
All Rights Reserved
Cover Design by Christian Bentulan
This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, should be considered fictional.
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means without the written permission of the author and publisher.
Post Hill Press
275 Madison Avenue, 14th Floor
New York, NY 10016
posthillpress.com
CONTENTS
CHAPTER THREE - “BECAUSE SOMEHOW, THEY KNOW WHO WE ARE.”
CHAPTER FIVE - THE CONSTITUTION
CHAPTER SIX - A LOOSE DEMOCRACY AT WORK
CHAPTER NINE - IT’S US AGAINST THEM. PICK A SIDE.
CHAPTER TEN - WHAT IS PATRIOTISM?
CHAPTER ELEVEN - THE NEW MACHINE
CHAPTER TWELVE - SOWING THE SEEDS
CHAPTER THIRTEEN - WIN THE FUTURE NOW
CHAPTER FOURTEEN - ARROGANCE D’ÉTAT
PREFACE
“Humanity will never forget this moment,” he stated, sitting down at his carved English Oak desk. Centered on its front, a soaring eagle evoked the prestige that once embodied the office. Towering behind his chair, a pair of wilted flags separated three large rectangular windows.
The weary man looked up with defeated eyes. “Are we sure we want to do this?”
The forlorn dignitaries standing around him couldn’t even bring themselves to match his stare, let alone answer his question. With an unbearable reality, his head hung loaded with regret.
Did it have to come to this?
A calm autumn breeze drifted through a cracked window, yet did little to dilute the oppressive air.
Seated deep within his chair, the man reluctantly reached for a single piece of paper on the opposite side of the desk. He slid the document toward him.
The dozen witnesses, all dressed in black suits, stood motionless, but not emotionless. This unprecedented moment would not allow for apathy. The man drew a pen from his breast pocket. An overwhelming sense of duty and honor stopped him from using it. The idle seconds that followed only intensified the agony. Eventually, a bleak sense of sanity filled the void.
“We have no more options,” his secretary whispered. Her trembling voice matched her stricken eyes, which remained fixated on her folded hands.
Crippled with remorse, he reluctantly nodded.
His signature gradually manifested itself at the bottom of the page: President Madison C. Harris. His eyes eased shut when the pen broke contact with the page. Though the fault was not his own, he could not help but feel the immense weight of history pressing on his shoulders.
The circular room, draped in old Victorian styling, emptied for the final time.
As word spread, millions revolted. But millions more rejoiced.
The United States of America had just been signed out of existence.
CHAPTER ONE
YEARS LATER
“M
r. Nolan,” scolded Professor Sorenson, peering over his bifocals.
Startled, John Nolan looked up, covertly sliding his hand over the fresh markings on his desk. “Sorry, Professor.” His baritone voice softened from embarrassment.
“As I was saying,” continued the professor, “in
The End of Christendom
, Malcolm Muggeridge made this powerful observation about society:
“‘
I conclude that civilizations, like every other human creation, wax and wane. By the nature of the case, there can never be a lasting civilization any more than there can be a lasting spring or lasting happiness in an individual life or a lasting stability in a society. It’s in the nature of man and of all that he constructs, to perish, and it must ever be so. The world is full of the debris of past civilizations and others are known to have existed which have not left any debris behind them but have just disappeared.’”
The aging professor forced a deep breath, knowing his upcoming analysis would fall hollow on the young man he had admonished.
While the professor droned on, John peered through the window at the tumbling October leaves. He thought back to a few months prior, when he got the news that changed his life.
John sat at an ornate wooden desk. Dusty books and golden replicas of the globe furnished the musty room. The haughty-looking man opposite him was clad in plaid and corduroy. The door read,
Dean Darrin Pricart, Department of History
. It reeked of elitism.
“What do you mean I didn’t get in!?”
“My deepest regrets, Mr. Nolan.” Despite his words, the dean was not at all sympathetic. “We simply have no more room in the program.”
“I don’t understand,” John said frantically. “I met all the requirements. I did all the suggested activities and—”
“Yes,” the dean interrupted. “You did the minimum. However, if you want in this grad program at the University of Cambridge you must exceed the minimum.”
“What do I need to do?” John pleaded. “Tell me. I’ll do it.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nolan. It’s too late.”
John felt sick. He had planned his life around this graduate school.
“You can try again next year.” The dean leaned back in his polished leather chair. “If you wish, I can see if other departments have openings. Sociology may have availability.”
John nodded. He had never felt so empty.
John awoke as the professor was summing up his lecture.
“Muggeridge concluded by saying,
‘...but the realization is impossible for the simple reason that a fallen creature like man, though capable of conceiving perfection and aspiring after it, is in himself and in his works, forever imperfect. Thus, he is fated to exist in the no man’s land between the perfection he can conceive and the imperfection that characterizes his own nature and everything he does.’
“Thank you for coming today.” The elderly academic gently closed the book from which he read. “Remember, your thesis topic is due by the end of semester. I am here if you need me.”
“Have a topic?” Christian Blaire asked John as they gathered their belongings. His British accent was thick, but unlike other natives of the island, it was highly unrefined.
John and Christian were close friends, yet appeared very dissimilar. John was about six feet tall with rusty brown hair, similarly colored eyes, and a slim physique. He was not particularly handsome, nor was he terribly unfortunate looking. Christian, conversely, had a mass of distinguishing features. His stumpy 65-inch frame was half as wide as tall. Two cavernous dimples quartered his round checks earning his nickname – the chubby chipmunk. His dirty blond hair was dirty due to actual dirt. The 22-year-old’s most characterizing attribute sparkled in his clear blue eyes.
“Nope. Not yet.” John’s accent was more in line with what the United Kingdom had become; a random mix of British and American dialects. “I’ll figure it out.”
“It be nice if
that
were your topic,” Christian said, studying the humbly elegant April Lynn as she tossed her backpack over her shoulder. His lip curled under his stubby yellow teeth.
John rolled his eyes and chuckled.
*
“Hey, can you get me another box of the 1190?” yelled Milt Sirrah as he carefully backed out of the shower.
John’s boss was only 45 years old, but his choice of profession wore heavily on his body. Straggly dark hair and an unkempt beard complemented his Mediterranean skin tone.
John walked across the unfinished hall with the marble. The bony young man was dripping with sweat from grouting the secondary bath.
Milt reached for the box. “Must I check your work, again?” he asked, only halfway joking. The other half was serious.
John smiled.
“Make sure you cover that floor before you leave,” Milt said, ripping the cardboard box. “This dude has kids. You know, it’s a bitch to get dirt out of grout.”
“I know,” John said. “Hey, Milt, do you mind if I leave early? I have schoolwork.”
“Fine.” Milt crawled back into the shower. “Hey,” he said, his voice echoing off the reflective walls. “When are you done anyway?”
“All I have is my thesis.”
Milt finished the final row and rose to his feet. “So I guess I’ll need a new laborer?” His joints cracked as he stretched his back and sighed in relief. “Things are slow. I might go solo for a while.”
John unsnapped his knee pads and brushed himself off. “Well, I don’t even have a topic, so I’ll be around for a while.”
Milt chuckled and reached for his water. That was not surprising.
Seconds later, John was running towards his old red hatchback. Home was minutes away.
*
With a burdened mind, the robust man sat on a frigid metal chair, his elbows resting on his knees, eyes fixated on the concrete below. His cement enclosure harbored a damp aroma. In a room that reflected noise nothing could be heard, not even a faint breath amongst the chill of the moment.
The man wore a black armored suit with thick soled boots, laced halfway to his knees. Dense gloves protected his hands. A lone pistol, ammunition, and a long knife encircled his waist. The black mask, folded above his eyes, revealed his only exposed skin. The dim room cast a powerful shadow, concealing his identity. His soul appeared as dead as his demeanor.
A similarly dressed man appeared at the door, his arrival marked by silence. He stood feet soldier-width apart, chin high, hands locked at the small of his back. “Everyone is here, Captain.”
The man in the chair continued to stare at the foundation beneath, elbows perched with a sagging brow.
“The literature is here as well, sir.” The man’s voice reflected no emotion. “It is time.” His words were as lifeless as his spirit.
“Are we doing the right thing?” Within the captain’s equivocal tone, a hint of certainty arose.
No answer was forthcoming. There was none to give. The debate was over.
The captain rose until his back arched in perfect posture. His thick chest and broad shoulders formed an impressive silhouette. With both hands, he rolled the ski mask over his shadowed face.
*
John’s bedroom was filled with pictures from history’s most famous and infamous moments: the 1945 photo taken by Joe Rosenthal of five U.S. Marines and a sailor raising the American flag over Iwo Jima; a snapshot from the battle of Gravelines, which contributed to the defeat of the Spanish Armada; the destruction of Napoleon’s La Grande Arm
é
e following the invasion of Russia; and the Ides of March as depicted by Vincenzo Camuccini.
John’s fascination with history ran deep. He’d planned to turn that passion into a career, however, the Cambridge history department’s rejection letter, which lay on his dresser, had shattered that dream.
The young man sat at his desk deeply engrossed in a book when his father, Theodore Nolan, approached the doorway.
“Are you coming to eat?” he asked.
John remained huddled over his book.
“Son!” his father raised his voice and stepped into the room.
Startled, John shook the thoughts from his mind. “What? I’ll be down in a second. I’m …” he stopped and exhaled.
He rotated his chair to face his father, whose cavernous wrinkles had unfairly aged him, as did his thinning gray hair.
“This…this thesis has me lost.”
Theo felt his son’s frustration.
John said, sulking in his own doubt. “If you didn’t know the College Officer I probably wouldn’t have got into Cambridge at all.”
“Well, as an aspiring—”
“It has to deal with Great Britain,” John interrupted. “I need to find an aspect of society and predict how behavior will evolve.”
“You’re limited.”
John haplessly concurred.
“Well,” his father said, making his way to the door, “dinner’s limited, too. And if you don’t get there before your sisters, you’ll be frustrated
and
hungry.” He stopped at the doorway. “If this isn’t what you wanted, why did you stay in school?”
“I don’t know,” John said. “Maybe I wasn’t ready for the
real world
.” He wrapped his fingers in quotes.
Their eyes locked, exchanging the type of silent smiles reserved for family.
“Come on.” Theodore draped his arm around his son’s scrawny shoulders and they walked down the hall.
*
That night John awoke to the faint sound of screaming. As the cries steadily grew louder, he forced open his eyes. Although blurry, the flash of red and blue lights was unmistakable.
He jumped out of bed and bolted to his window, where the intense rays proved overwhelming. He backed away from the frosty glass, his head buried in his arm. His groggy eyes were slow to adjust.
He ran to his door and swung it open. His father was already standing in the hall.
Although panicked, John remained in control. “What is that?”
“It looks like the police have stormed the Santos’ house.” The cutting light flashed throughout the hallway. “Come on!”
The Santos’ were a popular couple. The family had been in the neighborhood for decades. They were social and took an active role in the community. The husband was pushing 70 and his wife wasn’t far behind.
Within minutes, the dazed neighbors had gathered in the street, watching in curious disbelief as handcuffed people were escorted out of the house—people no one recognized, barely clothed and greatly dispirited. They held few belongings. Authorities packed windowless vans with sealed cardboard boxes.
It wasn’t long before the husband and wife emerged from the darkness of the front door. Their appearance triggered gasps and loud whispers. With high chins, they walked to the squad car and slid inside without acknowledging their gawking neighbors. The police eventually blocked off the street and forced back the crowd. But it didn’t matter any longer. After the couple was taken away, there was nothing left to see. The street returned to the night.
*
The following day’s news made no mention of that morning’s incident. The lack of information forced concerned neighbors to talk amongst themselves, and the conspiracies thrived.
“I knew them for years. They seemed to have nothing to hide.”
“Maybe they were spies.”
“Do you think they killed anyone?”
“You know, I always thought they were a little suspicious.”
“They had to be corrupt. They got what they deserved.”
The head of the Neighborhood Watch called police, who had no comment. Local politicians remained quiet.
“What’s happenin’, man?” Christian’s high voice was easy to hear in the crowded pub. “I want to be trustin’, but the government’s not makin’ it easy.”
John snickered as he finished the day’s first beer—it was noon.
John and Christian had been friends since primary school. John was immediately drawn to his glowing smile and infectious laugh, neither of which seemed to wane regardless of the situation. Christian was the only son of a military parts supplier, and his family was well-off. Unlike many children of new money, the spirit of giving was not lost upon him. But the refined nature of high society was.
“Elections are comin’,” Christian proclaimed. “Maybe we can kick some asses out.”
“What will that do?” John smirked at his friend’s blind faith. “If you want to change the circumstance, you have to change the system.”
“No,” Christian argued, “it doesn’t need to be drastic. We just need some honesty.”
“New players in the same game is not the answer,” John replied. “Voting out the dishonest does little if a new set of dishonest people take their place. If there’s something about the current system that produces counterproductive politicians, that is what needs to be changed.”
“We spent years rebuildin’ our overseas colonies,” Christian stated. “We can’t chance losing all that.”
“Sure, but sometimes a new system is
needed
—like in America or Rome.”
“Rome?” Christian signaled the waitress for another round. “I thought Rome was conquered.”
“It was. But what caused that to happen?”
“A weak military?” Christian guessed.
“Yes, but it’s much deeper than that. The Roman
Republic
was a mix of democracy and oligopoly. Many of Rome’s magistrates were elected. But the senate, which was their most powerful body, was not elected. They were appointed by the ruling class. Over time, an aristocracy arose that became so powerful the elected governance lost control. The leadership could only be overthrown by revolution.”
“A change in the system,” Christian added.
“Exactly.” John was glad to see his friend was listening. “The republic had a strictly hierarchical society with slaves at the bottom, freedmen in the middle, and freeborn citizens at the top. Women could not participate in politics, the poor vote was many times not counted, and many senators were corrupt. Soldiers had more loyalty to their generals than to Rome. The need for slaves grew as the country’s men fought in wars. And, of course, slaves were not loyal to the nation. The groundwork for revolution was laid. They only needed a catalyst.”