The Doctor, the Martyr, and the Terrorist (16)
Time had slipped past midnight before I knew it. The Diamond Casino's Waukulik uprising was set to begin at 9 p.m. local time. That was the only way to isolate the staff from the national observatory and the tourists who'd come to see the sights. Of course, taking hostages wouldn't help sway public opinion in the long run. But even if you planned to release them eventually, having them at the start gave you leverage. In a world flooded with major incidents, hostages were essential to grab attention.
First, seize the media and public's gaze—then stage a peaceful release to cultivate favorable opinion. That was my thinking, at least. But the Chief's handpicked successor wouldn't overlook something this basic. With a two-hour time difference between Mountain Standard Time and Eastern Standard Time, kicking off at 9 p.m. would hit the major news channels—ABC, NBC, CBS—right in their fourth hour slots, live from 11 a.m. to noon Eastern. Coincidentally, most Presidents' Day events were also timed for 11 a.m. Eastern.
The White House madman, who'd teased a motorcade for his supporters, wouldn't get the spotlight he craved. Not after ignoring public health guidelines for nothing. Strictly speaking, Presidents' Day celebrated George Washington's birth, the first president, or at most honored all who held the office. But the madman probably saw it as his day to shine. Hearing about the terror attack would sour his mood something fierce.
9 a.m. Mountain was 1 a.m. Korean time. By then, I figured I'd have Linfei back asleep and could handle business in peace, monitoring the situation. But this troublesome ward refused any more intimacy.
"I'm staying up till dawn today. I can sleep on the return flight. I already got plenty of rest earlier, even if it was unintentional…."
"Sorry, but I can't pull an all-nighter."
"…Eeeeng. Stay up with me. Who knows when I'll see you again after tonight? I want to savor every second with you, oppa."
Her eyes welled up red-rimmed, a little sniffle escaping. She thought it was endearing pathos, but to me, it was just exhausting whining. Tricky to force her down now, mid-performance of deepening affection. Even addicted to carnal pleasure as she must be, this felt off—like her calculations didn't add up.
Good thing I got to her smartphone first.
Earlier, when she'd passed out once, I'd planted a Trojan horse on Linfei's phone. I didn't know exactly who was issuing her orders, but securing surveillance couldn't hurt. I could've done it back in China, but with her sudden windfall, a phone upgrade was inevitable, so I'd held off.
Linfei eyed me warily. "Are you mad because I said no?"
"About what?"
"You know… us doing it together."
"Not at all."
"Doesn't seem like it. You wanted to, right, oppa?"
As if. But Linfei, who'd earlier voiced fears of failing to satisfy me, jumped to her own conclusions and rolled up her sleeves for needless heroics.
"I'll take care of you like this, then. Here…."
Unaware of her own repulsiveness, the organism forced reactions from me with hands and tongue. Even kissing evoked it—the human tongue's shape and texture reminiscent of annelids. A slimy, boneless cylinder, squirming like a fat leech. Her clumsy efforts conjured the illusion of one crawling across my skin. Worse, because a human lurked beneath.
If not for Life Incantation's advances strengthening magical bodily control, it'd have been a ordeal overcome only by conscious restraint and experience. No—I wouldn't have let it get this far.
The venom from our first meeting gone, Linfei gauged my reactions, offering shy devotion that her skills couldn't match. Each time I played along, adjusting my body, her face bloomed with smug pride. Midway, wiping her mouth with a fingertip, she said:
"Wow, turns out I have a knack for this too!"
"Yeah, you're really good."
Stroking her hair, she beamed like a dog. By then, the clock read 1:14 a.m.
That's when HQ's secretariat, monitoring closely, shared a news link via internal messenger.
No full coverage yet, just a brief bulletin hitting airwaves about the fool's caparison—Waukulik.
Finally.
The NBC link showed live talk-show hosts fumbling a sudden breaking report. They were mid-entertainment headlines.
Linfei, kneeling, grumbled petulantly. "Oppa, seriously… Can't you focus just on me right now?"
I swallowed a sigh and gave a bland reply. "Bomb terror in the US."
"Huh? Terror?"
"See for yourself."
Americans getting screwed was eternal Chinese glee. Her sulk vanished; she clambered up, leaning into me to peer at the phone. She managed English decently, if not Korean.
"Whoa, it's real?"
How many dead? Lots, I hoped. Her muttering lips curled in thrilled amusement—pure black patriotism reveling in strangers' deaths.
Terror's essence: political propaganda via violence and destruction. Public perception hinged on first impressions. So the natives at the holy reclamation forefront live-streamed their uprising online, swelling news volume rapidly. No more filler chit-chat till updates—this was quality intel.
Less than five minutes after the first bulletin, a statement arrived at networks. Mashath's plan meshed like clockwork, proving its precision. Even elite squads botch openings in real ops; commanding low-education militants to this degree was impressive. Green or not, the Chief's heir had talent aplenty.
"Aww, no one's dead…."
Disappointed by reports of blocked access roads sans casualties, Linfei perked at the modulated voice droning the statement.
"Dear American citizens. On this day commemorating the birth of your nation's greatest president, we of the Waukulik Restoration Movement deeply regret the unfortunate incident we've caused."
"At 9 p.m. local time, we blocked the sole access road to the astronomical facility you call Kit Peak National Observatory, sealing off vehicle entry. While explosives were unavoidable to barricade the road, no lives were lost in the process. Aside from the rockfall-clogged path, property damage was nil—we state this upfront."
"The armed personnel who seized the facility post-blast intend only occupation. Facility staff and tourists temporarily detained will be safely released today. We sincerely apologize to all who've felt worry and fear."
"The Waukulik Restoration Movement is a group of dedicated youth from the Desert People, one North American Indigenous tribe. Our purpose, as the name implies, is reclaiming our tribe's sacred mountain, Waukulik, into tribal hands."
"As you may surmise, the Kit Peak National Observatory sits at the mountain's heart—our tribe's 'God's Garden.' The peak hosting the gamma-ray facility is a holy site where our tribal ancestor and creator, the 'Man in the Maze,' is said to dwell…."
The rest detailed the absurd terms in the perpetual lease for the sacred mountain. Hearing of fixed 25 cents per acre rent with no renegotiation rights, Linfei fumed like it was personal.
"Whoa, look at America's bullshit! No wonder they're England's bastard child…. With our Hong Kong mess, their story hits close to home."
Shut up.
"Last year, we lost a sacred burial ground of our ancestors' spirits. We could only watch ancient cacti—vessels of the dead—blown up indiscriminately. On White House orders."
"Thus, reclaiming the sacred mountain is vital. Waukulik is our tribe's last sanctuary and spiritual pillar."
"By restoring Waukulik, we aim to unite fractured kin, heal old wounds, and march toward a constructive future…."
Waukulik's restoration was the White Chief's lifelong dream. The first step to overcoming rampant tribal discrimination, even among their mere 20,000 souls.
The White Chief's pale skin stemmed from forced assimilation. The US government stole Indigenous kids for white adoptions, shipped students to urban schools for white indoctrination, bred Indigenous women with white men—erasing their existence. Living proof of that filthy history.
Bred in poverty and alienation, Indigenous folk turned vicious: hating educated kin, scorning mixed-bloods, deeming urban exodus betrayal. Division and strife defined them.
The White Chief held a federal Certificate of Degree of Indian Blood (CDIB), but conservatives dismissed it as invader scrap paper. How could feds, not the tribe, certify membership?
I recalled his pre-chief nickname: Mexican, was it? Pale skin meant Mexican to them. "You're light-skinned, thin-haired, low cheekbones—not true Akimel O'odham."
His contributions buried the discrimination, but didn't uproot the malice. The weak everywhere lack immunity to evil.
Thus, Mashath craved Waukulik—to ease her grandfather's regret, and earn tribal recognition as heir. The latter weighed heavier.
The White Chief's retirement was abrupt. Even prepared succession breeds discord; now? Chaos.
Mashath needed achievements. Monumental ones to quell factions, jealousy, and revolt in the tribal council—to fully claim her grandfather's legacy.
"Poor things…."
Linfei's reaction proved Mashath's media strategy on point. But rational plans crumble against a mad lone wolf who scorns negotiation, backed by overwhelming might. Public sympathy fades fast; traitors always pipe up internally. With plagues rampant and security crumbling, timing sucked.
To me, Mashath's failure was fate sealed.