#ContinuityOfGovernment, #WW3, #DeepState
With his office infiltrated by a traitor and hobbled by incompetence, an increasingly unstable POTUS attempts a ‘Hail Mary’ that might just save the office of the president… even if it destroys the world in the process.
C/O Mr. Quixote
1569 Section L
Emma Baum stared at the note, being careful not to appear conspicuous as she did. She had stared at it many times over the previous three days. She was riding the monorail, whirling through the SuperBunker towards the Latin America section of the SuperBunker— Section L. She found an open seat which was unusual as the trains at that time were perpetually standing room only.
The Asia section flew past in the windows. Billboards covered every surface, picturing glamorous, symmetrical, flawless Asian faces, layered over vistas of aquamarine surf and sugar sand beaches and mountain pinnacles framing airbrushed, luminescent melon sunsets. Words flashed and scrolled in oriental characters, sentences each punctuated with national flags. The elites were out and about upon the avenues, sipping their tea and snorting their powders, bathing in the pristine, climate-controlled, bug-free, ersatz world of the SuperBunker… in their prescription-induced fogs.
The Greys served them dutifully, if not enthusiastically. In the Asian section, the workers stood apart with their pasty skin and fair hair—when it wasn’t died blue or green or some such. European guest workers were assigned to the Asian section. The race of the guest worker caste did not match that of the host elites. This was by design. The sociologists had determined that elites would feel less dissonance and discomfort when their servants were not of the same racial heritage. In Section N, the North America section, the Greys were of brown skin and dark hair and round faces and short stature. In Section E, the prole class was comprised of sinewy North Africans and Middle Easterners. When the monorail stopped at the border between Section A and Section L, white workers boarded and the blacks got off. The Greys that worked the Latin American facilities and serviced the Latin American elites were entirely Sub Saharan African or Aboriginal.
Baum stepped off with the crowd of uniformed passengers who quickly dispersed in the directions of their myriad destinations. She passed through an RFID tracking gate, down an escalator, and onto the colorful avenues of Imperium Hispanicum. She passed under the gaze of Simon Bolivar and Che Guevara and soon found avenue 1000, then block 500 and unit 69 without trouble. She entered a cozy, terra cotta cafe and sat at a small round table surfaced in bright tiles, facing the pedestrian avenue. An image of President Manfred giving a campaign speech with scrolling Spanish subtitles filled the television monitor behind the coffee bar. His strained grin and baggy, drooping eyes divulged the wear and tear of an intense campaign. The simulated election was going to be close. Baum was greeted moments later.
“Buenos dias,” chimed a Nubian server topped in a wreath of interwoven braids.
“Hello,” Baum replied.
“What will you to order?” she asked in shaky English.
“I’m only here to make a delivery.”
Baum reached into her bag and withdrew the envelope. “I have something I am to deliver to a Mr. Quixote. Is he here?”
The server’s lips pursed in confusion. “Who do you say?”
“I’m looking for a Mr. Quixote. Is he here?”
The server pondered. “I am not know any Senior Quixote.”
“Are you sure? My instructions say I am to give him this card here, at this address.”
“May I see?”
Baum was apprehensive but relinquished the envelope after considering the simple, cryptic note it contained. The server examined the envelope. Then she examined Baum. She handed it back. “One moment, please,” she said in faultless English, and she went off behind the counter and through a door into the back.
Baum turned to watch the passersby as she waited, noticing it looked like a typical sunny midday on the surface, betrayed only by the soft multiple shadows cast by the diffuse overhead lighting rather than the hard-edged shade made by a true sun. The server returned within two minutes.
“Mr. Quixote will see you now,” she remarked before drifting into a back room.
Baum tried to call after her but instead sat silently at the table.
“Hello, Ms. Baum,” came a voice from behind.
She turned to find a Chinese face stretched up from behind his laptop screen.
“How did you know my name?”
“You were expected.”
“You’re Mr. Quixote, then?”
“For our purposes, yes.”
“I am supposed to give you something.”
“That card you’re holding, I presume?”
“Yes. But how do I know you really are Mr. Quixote?”
Quixote grinned. “Is your note addressed to V?”
“Have you read the note inside?”
“Yes, I have.”
“Does it say ‘Guacamole’ or ‘Habenero’?”
Now convinced of Quixote’s authenticity, she handed the card over. “See for yourself.” He reached out to retrieve it and opened it up, read it, nodded, and tucked it into his shirt pocket.
“Do you have any idea about what’s happening?” he asked, probing her mind with his intense gaze.
“No,” Baum answered. “Are you going to tell me?”
“No. I’m afraid it’s too dangerous for you to know right at this moment. You wouldn’t want to know, anyway. It would be hard to get through your days with that knowledge, being unable to share it. But you’ll know everything soon enough. I promise you that. I’ll say that big changes are coming soon.”
“Should I be worried?”
“No. You should be hopeful.”
“What reason is there for hope? Hasn’t the world been destroyed?”
“Live in your hopes, Ms. Baum, not your fears.”
“Well, when will I find out?”
“Days. A week or two at the most. Just be ready.”
“Ready for what?”
“Be ready to trust.”
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