Gyges the Terrible

By Adam Wasserman

Welcome to the United States of the not-so-distant future. Our Republic has given way to a new form of government, Freemocracy. The President rules virtually unopposed. Congress is a rubber-stamp institution, and society has fractured into the permanently privileged and the permanently working. The Supreme Court is the only alternate center of power, and the tension between the President, Samuel Judas Epstein, and the Chief Justice, Xiling, is set to boil over into open conflict.

The Earth, too, has changed. The nation has become a patchwork of restricted areas, security screens, and military checkpoints. Water is tightly rationed. The world powers vie with each other for territory on the lunar surface. Although the mines there are incredibly expensive to operate, the moon has become the only source for most of the natural resources consumed by an ever more ravenous industrial complex.

It is in this setting that a group of ordinary hooligans led by Marcellus Gyges storm the halls of empire. Possessed of a magic ring that confers the power of command, spurred on by his friends, Marcellus is in a unique position to depose the President.

At the same time, Marcellus is being tutored by his Guardian Angel. For it is the choices that we make in this life that determine what becomes of us in the next.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Adam Wasserman
• Release date: Aug 4, 2010
• ISBN: 9781452381794

Adam Wasserman

Adam Wasserman was - like all human beings - born on Earth. In the years since, he has proved himself to be an avid breather. He also eats regularly.Since all humans look alike, it is hard to differentiate him from the rest. He is, however, easiest to spot when lying on a beach, subjecting himself to a steady stream of dangerous rays from Sol. Such behavior is illogical, a common trait among his species.Eventually, his body will wear out and he will cease to function. In the meantime, he keeps busy by publishing falsehoods in book form, which somehow he imagines others will find entertaining and instructive.Humans are, of course, a strange and unfathomable species.

Book preview

for Gregorio and Elisa,

you add color to my life

Gyges the Terrible

Adam Wasserman

First Edition (Revised), April 2012

Copyright 2010 by Adam Wasserman

All rights reserved

Smashwords Edition

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The background on the cover was

derived from a photo of Benito Mussolini

addressing a crowd at Rome's

Palazzo Venezia (mid to late 1930's).

Epstein's head on the cover was

modeled on the painting

Study of a Bearded Man With Hands Raised,

Sir Anthony Van Dyck (1616).

The statue on the cover is a faithful

reproduction of The Motherland Calls,

Volgograd, Russia.

Stalker (1979) is a film directed by

Andrei Tarkovsky and written by

Boris and Arkady Strugatsky.

The unnamed President referred to in

the last chapter is Harry Truman.

The quote was from an address

to the NAACP (1947).

Chapter 1

Everyone has a name. Parents spar over the names of their children long before they are born, but however hard they may try the name rarely fits. That is why most people – especially if they are in any way remarkable or interesting – respond to more than the arbitrary syllables recorded in legal documents. These are the names we acquire during our lifetimes. We collect them, sometimes gladly as gifts from others and sometimes as shameful epithets bantered around behind our backs. Still others are the names we give to ourselves and may be private or even secret. Well, this is a story about a certain Marcellus Gyges. That's his given name. It's not what most people call him now, and it's certainly not what he calls himself, but that's the only name he had at the time, back when he first came to my attention.

Marcellus used to work in an office. Many people do. But the office where he worked was somewhat unusual. He knew the place simply as The Company. There was no sign hanging out front, the windows were all tinted, and an unhelpful contingent of heavyset guards in colorful suits and sunglasses loitered on the stoop. Their job was to look vaguely threatening, and they did it very well. Just inside was the grand foyer. There was no reception there. Those who were keyed up to enter the building were expected to know where they were going, and they were expected to be quiet while they went about doing it. Only the hurried clicking and clacking of heels on the hard, marble floor, echoing in all that great, empty space, was to be heard.

Marcellus’ job was to ferry packages between departments. He never knew what was in the packages. Sometimes he didn’t even know what the departments were called. But it meant he was authorized to go wherever he was scheduled, and in the course of a week he either picked something up or dropped something off in every office and cubicle of the building. It was this freedom of movement that convinced Marcellus and his best friend Jango that they could pull off their plan to steal the microchip and sell it on the black market. They reckoned that any organization going to such pains to hide what it did and who was operating it must in fact be doing something rather important. As it turned out, they were right.

Marcellus was on good terms with one of the big bosses’ secretaries. Jennifer worked in a large, spacious room without windows behind an imposing desk of orange marble seemingly carved from the wall behind it. Towering above her was The Company’s logo: two triangles like arrow tips lying on their sides, one embedded in the other and joined at the end. The ceiling above them was lost in shadows. There was no door to the foyer, just a wide open space in front of her where the corridor gaped. Far off to the right in a dim corner there was a small, almost nondescript portal of the same color and consistency as the surroundings, leading off to places she had never been allowed to go.

Jennifer wasn’t sure which big boss she worked for or what he did. She didn’t even know his name. But she made appointments for him and took his vidcalls. He was short, fat, and bald, and he sweat a lot. Also, he picked his nose when he didn’t think anyone was looking. Sometimes she would catch him on the vidphone during those few seconds before the connection registered on his receiver. To her pretty eyes, he was a nervous wreck. But she didn't feel badly for him. Her boss was a smelly, married, pathetic man who liked to get too familiar with her in passing conversation. His jokes were crude, but Jennifer laughed anyway when he told them.

Jennifer was a pretty girl with long, wavy, light brown hair and a pleasant, slightly plump face. She had an ample, curvy body which she was proud of, although she was careful not to show too much skin. She favored huge loopy earrings and thick, colorful belts. Her favorite kind of footwear was boots, beautiful long ones, sometimes made of leather and sometimes soft and furry. She didn’t wear much make-up, but she loved to paint her nails. More often than not when Marcellus arrived to pick something up or drop something off, or both, she would be sitting idly behind her desk with one hand perched awkwardly in the air.

This was one of those times.

Marcellus stepped out of the lift into the corridor and looked hopefully in her direction. He was a handsome man, no doubt, and looked younger than his thirty years. He had a thick head of straight, light-brown hair which he wore to the nape of his neck. The tan uniform they made him wear – plain, short-sleeved shirt with a collar and matching trunks – looked rather good on him. But the way he moved somehow lacked the confidence she sought in a man, and his eyes – well, she wasn’t sure what it was, but somehow it detracted from what could have been an impressive appearance.

Blowing gently on the tips of her fingers, she watched calmly as he approached. He was wearing earphones, the source for which must have been buried in one of his pockets. Tucked neatly under one arm was a small package wrapped in what looked like brown paper. She wasn’t surprised.She had never seen him arrive with more than a single package. It sometimes happened that he showed up several times within the hour, and they had often wondered together whether it would have been more efficient to send everything off at once. But The Company operated on its own, somewhat esoteric terms. Like the billions of those like them totally devoid of power and influence in the world, all they could do was smugly think they knew better.

I’m bored, she said snobbishly as she watched him struggle to deactivate the force field.

What? he replied irritably. He was annoyed because his badge was attached to his belt on the same side as the arm carrying the package.

Why don’t you switch hands? Jennifer suggested.

Neither of them heard or saw anything, but Marcellus straightened out. After pausing a moment for good luck, he stepped into the large foyer. What?

Christ, take those damned things off! sighed Jennifer, rolling her eyes and peevishly flexing her drying fingertips in his direction.

Marcellus removed one of the earpieces. What did you say?

The other one, too. I mean, if you’re listening to music how can you be listening to me?

There’s a package for you.

Really? Jennifer’s eyes widened sarcastically.

Here it is. Marcellus placed it on her desk. At the same time, he deftly slipped her the microchip.

What is it? she asked as she dropped the microchip into her purse under the desk.

Damned if I know.

What’s wrong with you?

Fucking hot water, that’s what’s wrong. It always cuts out when I’m in the shower. Fucking landlord says he installed a monitor to make sure we all use our fair share of the quota, but I don’t believe him.

Get up earlier.

Marcellus grunted. I’m on a tight schedule, he told her. He was already backing away. Am I going to see you later?

Jennifer shrugged and held out a stiff hand in his direction. She eyed it critically. I don't know.

They put me in group two for lunch.

I’m in three.

Marcellus winked at her, put the earpiece back in, and strode off.

No doubt about it, Marcellus wanted to fuck Jennifer. So far she hadn’t let him. But every once in a while she would hint it was coming. The rational part of him doubted it was true. But the rational part of him didn’t get the last word in when it came to sex. So even though he tried his best, she exerted a certain amount of control over him. The thought annoyed him, so he did he best to avoid it.

Icarus, too, annoyed him. He wasn’t doing anything particularly noteworthy at the moment, but he would.

Marcellus was standing in the small, cramped, metal-encased chamber that was Icarus’ own private domain in The Company. Slicing the room in half was a counter of sorts that ran from wall to wall. It is what separated supplicants, who entered by the main door, from the all-powerful Icarus, who upon request would slip past the heavy, titanium-reinforced door on his side of the counter into places beyond reckoning.

Icarus was ignoring him. Angrily, Marcellus struck the counter with a closed fist.

Icarus kept on ignoring him.

Icarus was not, like Marcellus and Jennifer, a peon. He had some sort of status in The Company. Like everyone who wasn’t a peon, Marcellus knew little about him officially. He shouldn’t have known what function he had or what his real name was or what kind of car he drove, but he did.

Behind the counter on a cart was some complicated-looking piece of machinery. It was a grey, metallic box, much like the room they were in. There were no buttons on the front or flashing lights. Its back was open and Icarus was squatting behind it, peering inside and tinkering. A few green panels embedded with computer chips lay scattered about among a barrage of screws of varying sizes. Aside from the cart and some more hardware littering the workbench on his side of the counter, there wasn’t much to be seen. The thick door behind him with the tiny, plexiglass window was closed. A murky light was burning somewhere behind it.

Marcellus drummed his fingers impatiently on the counter.

After a moment, Icarus began to speak.

Hey, Mark, he asked, do you have an avatar? The voice sounded muffled and distinctly high-pitched.

I can't really afford the Sim, Icarus. I heard it fries your brain. Look, you got a package for me.

You'll turn into a zombie if you surf too often, yeah, but there's a safe zone. Billions of people do it every day. That's a fact.

Marcellus rolled his eyes and continued to drum his fingers on the counter. I'm not going to waste a week's worth of credits to gratify myself in virtual reality when I can do it in this world for free, he replied testily.

You talking about sex fantasies?

Marcellus suddenly got defensive. Nothing wrong with letting go of a little steam.

Acting out in fantasy what most of us can’t in real life? Yeah, I guess you're right. I mean, if you carry the thought to its conclusion, you could say the Sim provides a convenient way around all that bourgeois middle-class bullshit we all profess to believe in. So we can continue to appear respectable to our peers and profess to believe in it. A sharp clang echoed from within the metallic box. Icarus leaned back and appeared to wipe his forehead. Some of his hair was showing.

No one will find out, you mean, Marcellus pointed out.

Icarus leaned back even more. Some of his unkempt, black, curly hair was exposed. No one knows who you really are in the Sim.

Marcellus nodded. You been inside recently?

Icarus didn’t answer immediately. Then, suddenly, he jutted his head out from behind the box and barked, No, Mark. Just like you! Thin, green eyes twinkled mischievously behind thick, squarish lenses.

Despite himself, Marcellus laughed. It felt good.

Icarus was unattractive. Only a mother could have loved a face like his, and Marcellus imagined even that with difficulty. His skin was pasty white and looked unhealthy. Large, red pustules like supernovae appeared and blossomed on his face with amazing rapidity and then exploded in an orgy of unpleasantness. His clothes and shoes were out of style and mismatched. He didn’t decorate his body with piercings, tattoos, or ornaments of any kind. His glasses, too, were unfashionable. Certain intellectuals and artistic types enjoyed being seen wearing them, especially once they reached a certain age. But it was obvious that Icarus was neither of these. The frames he had chosen identified him as belonging to the other class of people who preferred the old-fashioned lenses: the hard-core geek.

Icarus responded with a laughter of his own that sounded more like guffawing than anything else. I’ll bet you like to get it on with boys! he crooned and slapped his thigh enthusiastically.

Can I have the package now? Marcellus demanded irritably.

When the laughter subsided, Icarus stood up and grew serious. But there are other parts of the Sim, he continued. Places you have to be invited by someone who knows. It's not sexcapades that go on there. Well, he added quickly, approaching the closed door at the back, there's the violent kind.

Yeah, agreed Marcellus. I've heard stories.

Have you? People act out murders. Really weird stuff. Did you know some people actually fantasize about being hunted down and killed in bizarre ways?

Jango does shit like that, Marcellus told him. Kills people in the Sim.

Well I think it’s sick, Icarus stated firmly. He brushed his hip against the door and it popped open a crack. There’s a difference you know. Sex is just sex. It’s okay to do it in the real world. But murder, rape, gassing. That stuff shouldn’t be encouraged. Practicing it just makes the impulse stronger. They call it priming.

Yeah, agreed Marcellus a bit lamely. Jango’s pretty fucking sick.

Exactly, said Icarus. And we’re sick because we hang out with him. Not caring to wait for a reply, he slipped through the thick, metal door and closed it after him with a sonorous click.

Marcellus waited for what seemed a long time. Eventually he drifted away in thought and began to sift through experiences from the past. Soon he found himself back in Caracas with his cousin Jesus and his crazy friends.

Jesus was not only very beautiful, but he had a personality to match. Wherever Jesus went, the girls gravitated to him. It was a matter of course, a fact of nature like the conservation of energy. From time to time Marcellus would grow jealous. It seemed like wherever they went he was invisible. The girls collected around Jesus laughing and giggling and hardly a single one glanced in his direction except when Jesus happened to say something to him. But Marcellus was never angry with him for very long. He knew his cousin wasn't doing anything other than being himself.

The night Marcellus was thinking about was during Christmas break after Jesus had finished classes for the year. They had all piled into one of his friend’s cars – Marcellus couldn’t recall his name – and were driving off to Caracas after a whole afternoon of drinking rum and dancing meringue and salsa and reggaeton. On the way they passed two girls on the side of the road, and as young men will often do they stopped the car to try their luck.

The car was not a very nice car. Parts of it had been welded together, the colors didn't match, and the paint was peeling. There were no side-view mirrors and one of the back lights had been punched out. It was rusted through in places. But for all that, it was equipped with a fantastic sound system. What should have been a trunk had been converted into a massive set of speakers. Inside the car, with the reggaeton pumping, the people in the back seat couldn’t hear each other speaking.

The girls on the side of the road weren't initially receptive to their advances. Marcellus didn’t speak Spanish well enough at the time to know what the driver was saying, but it was obvious to anyone by their body language that it wasn’t working. And then Jesus got out of the car and started chatting them up. The next thing Marcellus knew the door next to him opened and one of the girls was climbing into the car along with two more of their friends, squeezing into the space between his lap and the roof. Jesus, laughing and chatting away, triumphantly slipped back into the front seat with the hottest one and –

Three heavily armed security drones interrupted Marcellus’ reverie. He hadn’t heard the door behind him open, but at some point he felt their ominous presence. Turning, he saw that he was surrounded. He flinched. How long had they been standing there staring at him? He wasn’t sure.

They were large bipedal figures encased in an unrecognizable, shiny substance that resembled a curious mix of nylon and rubber. Their faces were obscured by an opaque film held in place by a hideous mask with tubes that crisscrossed at the nose and mouth and arched behind the helmet, burrowing back into their suits. Not a shred of skin could be seen. Were they even human? He wasn’t sure.

Two of them were pointing some kind of weapon at him. He had never seen anything like it before. It was about as large as a rifle but bulkier. A humming battery pack was mounted near the back. No doubt it was a laser of some kind. As far as Marcellus knew such weapons were experimental if they even existed at all. He had to admit, though, the thing that was pointing at him didn’t look very experimental.

Marcellus was still staring down the barrel of the laser tube when the door into the back room swung open and Icarus reappeared. He was holding a damaged cardboard box with wires and gears and other mechanical parts protruding. He had a look of haughty impatience about him, but when he saw the company Marcellus had he stopped short and held his tongue.

Come with us, intoned one of the drones. There was no mouth, of course. The sound was broadcast from speakers embedded in its helmet. The voice had been digitally processed to remove all distinguishing features, including cadence and tone.

With a questioning glance in Icarus’ direction, Marcellus began to move towards the entrance. Two of the drones closed in behind him. One, however, remained near the counter. It seemed to be looking fixedly at Icarus.

What? he barked, slamming the cardboard box down on the workbench.

Come with us, the drone told him in the same measured tones as his colleague.

What? Why? Get it right you pile of scrap! Don't you have orders or something?

The drone did not respond except to train its laser tube on him.

Goddamn it! hollered Icarus. Letting out a belabored burst of air, he stomped over to the little door in the counter and clicked it open. I’m going to have fun scavenging you for spare parts.

The drone took up a position immediately behind and smacked him firmly in the square of the back with the butt of his weapon.

The drones led them away through metal-encased corridors with tract lighting. Neither Marcellus nor Icarus was sure where they were going, but no matter how they twisted and turned, it always seemed to be down. As they went, they met fewer and fewer people, until eventually the only souls they encountered were encased in rubber and nylon as well.

Eventually they were led into a bare room with metallic walls. There was a table in the middle and behind it a simple, metal chair. Another drone was already present. As if on cue, the four drones took up positions in each corner. Marcellus and Icarus were left standing awkwardly in the middle of the room.

You turned us in? Marcellus hissed at Icarus.

No talking! intoned one of the drones. It was hard to tell which one.

A few minutes later, the door opened. Jennifer was pushed inside. Following her came another drone.

Easy! Easy! snapped Jennifer. I’m a woman, can’t you see? The door closed. She took a look around. Markie, she said when she saw him, what are we doing here?

Marcellus jutted his chin in Icarus’ direction. Fucking bastard ratted on us.

But we didn't do anything.

The drone gave her another hard shove in Marcellus’ direction. She stumbled and almost fell to the floor, but he caught her.

No talking!

They stood quietly. Eventually, the fifth drone moved towards the metal table and stopped behind the chair. The three of them had the vague impression it was studying them, but it was hard to tell. After a moment, it reached up and pulled off the helmet. The three of them felt a wave of relief. There really was a human being inside!

What faced them was a middle-aged woman with iron grey hair pulled into a tight, fastidious bun. Her face was hard and lined and her nose decidedly pointy. Her lips were thin and pursed and colorless. Their first impression was that this was a woman overflowing with contempt, contempt for them, contempt for society, contempt for The Company – they weren’t sure, but whatever it was, she most certainly didn't think highly of it.

I hate these costumes, she complained bitterly to no one in particular as she crawled out of hers. It’s so damned hot!

What emerged was a thin, formless body enclosed in a featureless iron grey dress of a slightly darker color than her hair. With great pleasure, she shook it out and – with a rough kick at the pile of nylon and rubber she left beside her on the floor – sat assumed her place in the metal chair behind the table. Somehow she produced a leather-bound dossier. Where it had come from none of them knew, but there it was. She placed it in front of her and opened it up. Sheaves of old-fashioned paper were stacked neatly inside. Meticulously, she began to review them, pausing on each page before crisply turning it over and moving on to the next. Occasionally, she would let out a hmmm or an ahhhh.

Of course, at last, she said more than that. I am rather disappointed in you all.

Are you going to turn us over to the police? Jennifer asked.

The Iron Lady made a strangled sound. That’s just what I mean. Flip. You had no idea what you were getting yourselves into, did you? Well, now you're really in for it.

Jennifer and Marcellus exchanged uncomfortable glances but said nothing. Icarus, scowling, stared bitterly at the floor.

Where’s the chip, Mr. Gyges? the Iron Lady suddenly demanded, her voice rising and her words curt. She looked up at Marcellus, narrow, bird-like eyes affixed to his, hard and cold and almost expressionless. Almost, because he could quite clearly see lurking behind them an intensity that was alarming.

I don’t know.

The Iron Lady seemed to have expected his response. Yes, well, we know you don’t have it. You gave it to Ms. Apoian here this morning. She pointed to the paper lying exposed in front of her. We have it on surveillance. The scanners pick up everything you know.

So why are you asking us? Jennifer shot back. If your scanners are so damned good, you ought to know where the fucking chip is.

We scanned you on the way down here, Ms. Apoian. We know you don’t have the chip either. In fact, our surveillance reveals that you destroyed a microchip in the lavatory in the office where you work. We can only assume you had already transferred its contents to some other medium. Perhaps you uploaded it onto the link? Or was it a dummy intended to mislead us?

Jennifer shuddered. You watch us even in the toilet?

We are omnipresent. Now answer the question.

I don’t know what you’re talking about.

The Iron Lady sighed in frustration. At nine o’ clock thirty-seven minutes this morning, Mr. Charles Dixon here – she stabbed the air with a bony finger in Icarus’ direction – reported to Operational Security that you, Ms. Apoian – another stab – and you, Mr. Gyges – another – proposed to pay fifty thousand credits in return for his taking possession of a microchip of unspecified origin for an unspecified period. Mr. Dixon was to return the microchip to either you, Ms. Apoian, or you, Mr. Gyges, at which point he would receive his reward. Looking up, she folded her hands neatly in front of her. Do you have anything to add?

Marcellus spoke up. No.

Excellent. The Iron Lady nodded her head approvingly. Now tell me where the chip is.

Silence.

The Iron Lady sighed gravely. How unfortunate that you refuse to cooperate.

I’ll cooperate, mumbled Icarus. I thought I already was cooperating.

Mr. Dixon! the Iron Lady suddenly growled. I do not appreciate your dissimulating!

How do you mean?

Your story does not hold up to the facts! Try as we might we could not find anything in surveillance to corroborate it. As far as we are concerned, neither Mr. Gyges nor Ms. Apoian ever passed you anything. We must therefore conclude that they never in fact possessed the chip until you, Mr. Dixon, gave it to them! That exchange, of course, we do have. So perhaps you can tell us, Mr. Dixon. Where is the chip?

This is ridiculous! Icarus barked. I should have kept my mouth shut.

That would hardly have been possible considering your involvement in this sordid affair. What exactly is on the chip?

The three of them exchanged uncomfortable glances.

Yes, yes, it’s time to drop this tiresome charade. We know everything. What is on the chip?

Silence.

It would be much easier for all of us if you just told me. In the end, you will, you know. According to my information, Mr. Dixon told Operational Security that it contains the names and personal information of employees here. Is that true?

Silence.

Well, we see no reason to disbelieve it. Such information is quite valuable in certain circles. Who is the buyer? I can’t imagine you would have any use for it.

Look, lady, Icarus protested loudly. Whatever you think, I’m not involved with these people. That’s a fact. If I was, why would I bring attention to them? To myself?

Because, Mr. Dixon, your intention was to betray your fellow conspirators and keep the chip for yourself.

Really. So why did I give it to them?

Because we didn’t move to immediately arrest them as you requested.

Jesus Christ, Jennifer snarled. You're a fucking bastard, Ikkie!

Calm down, Marcellus prodded her.

Calm down? Wasn’t it your idea to bring him in on it?

Silence! The Iron Lady’s voice rang out like the long, drawn out chords of a bell. Abruptly, she pushed her chair back and stood up. I am wasting my time. She gestured swiftly to the still drones. They came to life! Before they knew it, a drone had moved behind each of them and another was opening the door. You know where, the Iron Lady said. She stood watching gravely as they were led away one by one.

They found themselves back in the metallic maze, the underground, technological dungeon which had been built to conceal matters and goings on exactly such as these. Unexpectedly and much to Marcellus’ alarm, they were being separated. First the drone pushing Icarus veered off in one direction, and then before he knew it Jennifer was gone, too.

He took a deep breath and marched onwards. There was no other choice.

Somewhere along the way, the drone pushed him into a small, dark room and shut the door behind him. He was alone. Or at least he thought he was.

At first all he could make out were shadows. There was something long and flat in the middle of the room. Instinctively, he shied away from it. After a few moments, he could make out what looked to be cabinets along the far wall and a counter with perhaps even a washbasin. Behind him was the closed door. Underneath was a broad strip of light. It wasn’t much, but it was all he had to see by.

But wait! What was that? As his eyes scanned the room, something glittering and seductive caught his attention. It had vanished in an instant. Had he really seen it at all? It had the most wonderful yellow color.

Whatever he had seen had come from the long table taking shape in the center of the room. There was something on it. A sheet was draped over it, the sides of which hung nearly to the floor. Slowly, Marcellus approached. He wondered what it was. He wondered if that glittering object he had caught a glimpse of was there. He wondered…

It was then that he noticed two feet sticking out from under the sheet. In fact, in that moment he noticed a great deal at once. Yes, those were two feet. Human feet. And the sheet – in this light the only colors he could make out were shades of grey – was stained in various places with a dark, ominous substance. An arm hung limply down one side of the table. There was a ring on one of its fingers.

Marcellus was thankful that the corpse was covered. He didn’t care to see what had happened to it when it was still alive. Suddenly, he understood the point his captors were trying to make. At least, he hoped they were trying to make a point. The thought briefly flitted through his mind that there was no message at all, that perhaps they merely hadn’t had time to clear the refuse from their last bang-up job before they started a new one.

He tried to stay rational. They don’t know what's happened to the microchip, he reassured himself. They needed him alive.

As much as he tried to silence it, the other part of his brain kept budding in. Well, it said, maybe that’s exactly the kind of information they are planning to extract from you before they produce a second corpse. Don't you see those pointy instruments lying innocently on the counter back there? And what are those gloves for?

Marcellus steadfastly refused to believe that anyone would take the trouble to clean and sterilize instruments of torture.

His other half had a ready reply. Naturally, no one is going to clean them. But it's very likely that whoever uses them doesn’t want to walk around the halls outside covered in blood and gore and who knows what other unpleasantness. See, isn’t that some kind of apron lying on the floor there? Probably used. And a bucket? Probably dirty. Why don’t you take a look?

But just as it seemed the fear was going to overtake him, Marcellus thought of something else. There was light streaming in from under the door. Any loud noises in here would easily be heard outside. If you’re going to torture somebody, you do it in a sound-proof room where no one else is going to hear, don’t you?

The other part of his brain retreated sulking into its corner and – for the moment at least – remained silent.

What about that ring? It flashed at him again in the dimness. Why had they left it behind?

The other part of his brain gave it one last try. Maybe they were so concerned with the business at hand that the ring didn’t concern them.

Shut up, Marcellus told himself.

It was a stiff, cold hand attached to a stiff, lifeless body, but Marcellus suppressed the thought and, lunging quickly forward, clenched his teeth and slipped it from the dead man.

Marcellus wasn’t sure how long he stood subdued in the corner, hand in his pocket fingering his new find, before the door to the chamber was pulled open. The light seemed unexpectedly intense. He squinted and raised a hand to shield his eyes. Outlined by the brightness stood the incredibly hard, black form of a drone. It was pointing its laser tube at him. It said nothing, but after a moment Marcellus got the idea that he was supposed to follow it. Gratefully, he sprang forward. The laser tube seemed to twitch. Marcellus suddenly stopped, afraid he'd acted out of turn.

Come with me, the drone told him.

As he emerged into the metallic corridor, Marcellus was flooded with an enormous sense of relief. They bought it, he thought smugly to himself.

The drone, taking up a position behind, pushed him further down the corridor. After a few twists and turns, it laid a heavy hand on his shoulder. They stopped. Marcellus glanced around, but no one was in sight.

He didn’t have to wait long, though. First came Icarus, followed by a drone of his own. Hardly had he been deposited next to Marcellus when Jennifer marched into view.

From the other direction, the fourth drone appeared. Behind it was the Iron Lady. She stood gravely facing them lined up in a neat row before her. We have decided that the best way to handle the situation is to terminate your work status and eject you from the premises.

Even though unemployment subjected them to possible clean-up by Population Control, Icarus drew a heavy sigh of relief. Thank the gods, he breathed. You know what they had in that room with me?

One of the drones smacked him across the back of the head.

Our investigation into this matter, however, is still ongoing. You will be required for further questioning. Escape is out of the question. We will be monitoring you closely.

Marcellus and Jennifer nodded amiably.

It would, of course, be very unwise of you to discuss your work here with any of your friends or acquaintances. In fact, you shouldn't mention this place at all. If you do, I can assure you that not only will we come after you, but we will come after your families as well. Your children, your parents, your wives and husbands, your lovers – whomever is dear to you. We will make you watch what we do to them before we do it to you. Do you understand?

Marcellus swallowed thickly.

Good. The Iron Lady stepped aside and motioned their escorts on.

The fourth drone marched off down the corridor. The prisoners followed in a line. Bringing up the rear were the three remaining drones.

They were going steadily up. It was all Marcellus could do to contain his excitement. No doubt they were still being watched. To give themselves away when they were so close to escape would have been absurd. He kept his face mired to the floor and tried to keep his head clear. As they went, he imagined that on the other side of the wall was fresh air. Soon, he imagined, they would be pushed out of some secret side-entrance and that would be that.

But suddenly, inexplicably, everything went wrong. Marcellus felt it the moment it happened. The drone leading them turned one way, and the three drones behind expected to go another. Marcellus, Icarus, and Jennifer continued after the drone in front, but the footsteps behind abruptly ceased. Glancing over his shoulder, Marcellus saw them standing rigidly at attention.

It didn’t take long for new orders to arrive. Halt! the drones behind them intoned in unison.

The drone leading them quickened its pace and turned a corner. But it was a futile exercise.

The three drones behind rushed quickly to intercept. Halt! They rounded the corner and lifted their laser tubes.

The drone in front halted.

Turn around!

The drone in front turned to face them.

Do not reach for your laser tube! ordered one.

Remove your head gear! instructed another.

Two black-gloved hands reached up, undid the straps, and pulled off the helmet.

A plain-looking girl with tousled, dirty-blond hair appeared.

Hi, Maya, said Jennifer.

Maya glanced at her. Nice earrings, Jen. Where did you get them?

What just happened? interrupted Icarus.

I don’t know, Marcellus said, but we have to get out of here. Fast. Or they’re going to erase the chip.

Don’t worry. The chip’s safe. Maya shot a glance at the three drones behind. They made no protests against their talking. They’re getting new instructions. Whatever we’re going to do, Mark, we've got to do it now.

Marcellus felt a great frustration well up inside him. They were so close! A hand slipped unnoticed into his pocket. He nervously fingered what was inside. Goddamn it! he cried out suddenly and turned on the three drones. Back down! Let us go! He wasn't sure why he did it. In fact, he wasn't even sure he decided to do it in the first place. But it's what he did all the same.

An amazing thing happened then. The three drones backed down and let them go.

C’mon, said Marcellus, seizing the moment.

Maya, get us out of here! screamed Icarus shrilly.

Is it far? Jennifer asked.

No, responded Maya uncertainly, tossing her helmet and laser tube to the floor. She cast a troubled glance in Marcellus' direction and took off.

They only ran a few meters when Maya pushed against what looked to be another part of the corridor wall. But it yielded! They passed into a dimly lit passage. Before long they came to another door. Maya brushed her hip against the wall. The door refused to open. She kicked it. Rusted joints bent and whined. Together, they all hammered at it. Eventually, the hinges broke and it fell against the stairs ahead of them.

Sunlight greeted them. The stuffy odor of the streets. The noise of cars. Of people talking. Human activity.

They piled out the doorway. Icarus was the last one out. With relish, he kicked the broken door lying below them.

Looking around, they saw that they were standing in a narrow, deserted alleyway next to an overflowing dumpster. The door they had emerged from looked to be the back-entrance of a diner.

At the far end of the alley, blocking the exit into the main street, there was a car.

Icarus whooped for joy when he saw it.

They ran for it. In the back of their minds they expected an army of nylon- and rubber-clad drones to pour out the doorway after them. They were listening for the sounds of helicopters gathering in the sky above them. Maybe even police sirens. But they heard and saw none of that.

It took only a few moments to reach the car. Pulling the doors open, they piled inside.

Drive! Marcellus called out. Jango, drive!

Relax. Jango, crouched in the front seat, peeled out of his parking space and sped off into traffic. He almost hit a delivery truck.

Jesus Christ, Jango! spat Jennifer as he veered dangerously.

Jango seemed to be enjoying himself. Don’t worry, ladies. I’m in control now.

No worries, muttered Icarus. Why would we worry?

Jango was a large man with a barrel chest, massive arms, and an unimpressive pot-belly. He was wearing a pair of faded jeans and a plain, splotched T-shirt. His brown hair was thinning but he wore it long anyway. He had a workman’s cracked hands and was usually unshaven. How’d it go? he asked, grinning broadly. His voice was big like his body.

No one seemed to know what to say.

What happened back there? Jennifer asked Marcellus suddenly, turning on him.

Marcellus shrugged and looked evasively out the window. Hell if I know, he said.

We got away, Maya pointed out, hardly able to keep the exultation out of her voice. Right now that's all I care about. She was trying to get a peek in the rearview mirror and straighten out her matted hair.

An uncomfortable silence descended.

I brought beers, guys, Jango bellowed at them good-naturedly. Dig in! I mean, we just pulled off the heist of the century!

No one answered.

He grunted and reached for a can. Fine, suit yourself, he said and cracked it open. Jango sped away, confident they weren’t being followed.

Chapter 2

What do you mean, there’s no buyer? The voice was Maya’s. It was deceptively quiet.

Marcellus shifted uncomfortably.

Jango, stonily returning her stare, shrugged his shoulders. The guy never showed up. His wrinkled shirt was a tad too small. The rump of his potbelly peeked out from underneath. It's not my fault.

Maya clenched her teeth and glared in frustration at the ceiling. Jango, you had one job to do. You couldn’t even handle that!

I drove the getaway car.

I can drive, too, you know, muttered Icarus.

Not like I can, insisted Jango. We didn’t hit any flashpoints, did we?

Are you saying you knew where they would be?

Jango smiled mysteriously and didn’t answer.

Maya stomped her foot. What are we going to do with a microchip, Jango? Hang it on the tree at Christmas? Her hair was long and delicate, her face pale. She was wearing plain, bell-bottomed slacks and a short, beige, buttoned-down vest. Her shoes looked like big, brown clogs.

Despite himself, Icarus chuckled.

It’s not funny!

Icarus’ car had been abandoned in the parking lot of one of the city’s run-down bus stations. No doubt it had been spotted. No doubt it was being watched, if it was still there at all. Inside the car they had left their PA’s and their ID cards: their draft cards proving when and where they had served, their national guard issued identifications (the serial numbers of which matched the letters tattooed on their backs), their birth certificates, and their now invalid proofs of employment. They weren't ever going back.

Two days had passed since the heist. Jango had arranged a safe house, a crude apartment in one of the shady parts of town. Every once in a while the police would drive an armored convoy through the area and pick people up at random, but the ones who really didn't want to be found always seemed to know about it beforehand. Interspersed among the criminals there were also the junkies – unhealthy, desperate looking creatures – and the Sim zombies, shambling slowly down the street in no particular direction, mumbling quietly to themselves and occasionally growing enraged at a fire hydrant. There were, of course, the people who lived there simply because they couldn't afford to live anywhere else. They gave the place its legitimacy.

The apartment's kitchen was infested with cockroaches and at night they could hear the mice scampering joyfully inside the walls. The only toilet kept flushing itself spontaneously. The living room was drafty and there were water stains on the ceiling. Some of the wallpaper was torn and hanging down in jagged strips. And there was a slightly sour smell to the air. Jango thought the place had character. The others thought it was disgusting, but no one complained, not even Jennifer. They hadn’t had to submit to a background check or register themselves with the national guard. If they got caught without valid identification it would mean a freemocracy camp for sure, robbery or not.

They were gathered in the living room. There was a dirty, exhausted two-seater where Marcellus and Jennifer sat. Across from it, Jango was sprawled in what must once have been a comfortable chair. You used to be able to lean back in it and the footrest elevated, but not anymore. Bits of yellow-colored fluff showed through the various cigarettes burns. Icarus, dressed in black pants and a black T-shirt, was sitting cross-legged on a towel on the floor, looking up at everyone. Maya, fuming, was the only one standing.

It’s not my fault, Jango repeated defensively. The guy sounded serious enough when I talked to him. How was I supposed to know?

Icarus pulled at the rug. Well, I held up my end, he said. Everything turned out like I said it would.

Not everything, said Jennifer brightly. She was bedecked with jewelry of all shapes and sizes. Her ears, wrists, neck and an ankle glittered excitedly. They tried to stop us just before we got away. Remember?

Is that what happened? I thought they were handing out lollipops.

Jennifer giggled. I passed the chip to Maya without their scanners picking it up. She grinned at them all vainly.

And I infiltrated the security team and arranged the exit, Maya reminded them.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, muttered Jango.

So you see, Icarus finished grandly. The plan couldn’t have worked without any of us. Except you, Jango.

I drove the getaway car. Without me, they’d have followed us. He paused. Did you check the contents?

Check it? Jennifer’s eyeliner arched inquisitively.

Maybe they replaced the data!

They never found the chip, Maya retorted defensively.

How do you know?

Icarus glanced at Maya. They could have tried to wipe it and upload anything they wanted over the ether. But the chip’s fine. I encrypted it myself. You’re the one who screwed up, Jango.

Stay healthy, Jango snapped irritably. Shut the fuck up.

Jennifer shuddered. They locked me up with a dead body.

There was moment of silence. It was measured by the sloppy sounds of Jennifer's chewing gum. At irregular intervals Maya would loudly sigh and refold her arms. Icarus was absently twirling a few stray strands of the rug between his fingers. Marcellus, conspicuously quiet, was staring absently at Jango, who was calmly drinking a beer and making a point of looking very relaxed.

Finally, Jennifer blew a bubble and asked, What happened back there anyway?

The drones knew, that’s what! snapped Maya.

Knew about what?

Yeah, Icarus, purred Jango. Your plan was shit.

It was Marcellus’ plan, Icarus retorted sourly.

It was a good fucking plan, Marcellus snapped. We got the chip. Everybody's alive. Or not, Icarus? Huh?

Maya wasn’t listening. Now she was speaking directly to Jennifer. I just assumed the drones would follow wherever I took you. I mean, they’re just drones! Stupid, ignorant drones!

Icarus’ eyes narrowed. What are you saying?

I’m saying they goddamn knew!

Knew what?

Maya stared at Icarus in disbelief. Hello? Icarus? Didn’t you notice when they pointed their tubes at us?

You mean those weren’t lollipops? Yeah, okay. I figured they managed to find some data on Jen passing you the chip. When you staged that fight in the cafeteria.

Jennifer giggled. I think I pulled some of your hair out.

No way. Maya shook her head. Those helmets are equipped with mics. The drones were reporting back that I wasn’t following orders.

I don't see why you're making such a big deal, Maya. Icarus said, shrugging. They had an exit of their own. So what?

There shouldn't have been any orders, Maya continued, ignoring Icarus. They wanted us to take the exit they prepared. You heard what she said! They wanted to keep an eye on us.

Christ, murmured Jennifer nervously. They could have tailed us. Do you think they tailed us?

No, they didn’t tail us, snapped Jango.

Maya suddenly turned on Marcellus. You told them to go away. And they did. For no apparent reason.

Marcellus looked uncomfortable.

Jango laughed. It was a deep, laborious rumble. Hard to imagine anyone scared of you, Mark.

Marcellus realized he had to say something. I think we're getting off track. We've got a chip and no buyer. Jango, you're the only one who ever met this guy. Is he reliable?

Jango looked at him blankly.

Don’t try and change the subject, Maya began, advancing on him. I know how those drones work. They follow orders, every single –

Maya, will you let it fucking drop! Marcellus shouted, his face turning a light shade of red. He took a moment and swallowed. "I

Reviews for Gyges the Terrible

[scoshie · Rating: 4 out of 5 stars]

Cased upon the mythos of Gyges of history, Marcellus Gyges happens upon a powerful ring and of course that is where the trouble starts. Set in a world that is ruled now a s a Freemocrocy and the President pretty much rulse most of the world. Marcellus and his friends go on a terrifying politcal journey through the pitfalls of bureaucracy and end having a metaphysical realization. Once you get hte authors rythym this book was lots of fun.

[chickey1981 · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I won this book from the Librarything member giveaway in exchange for an honest review.This book is about the journey of Gyges, unsurprisingly, given the title. He steals a ring of immense power and through a mixture of dreams/philosophy and bloody war, he makes his way up the ranks of a dystopian United States.The premise was intriguing to me, and I believe this is the strength of the book. There are certain passages where I was drawn into the text. Wasserman has a sarcastic tone and this book is a black comedy of sorts.But I have to admit, I had a really hard getting through this novel. It needs to be heavily edited, there are many grammatical and spelling mistakes. I believe that the change in tenses was deliberate, but I don't believe it was a risk that paid off. The entire book was confusing and dense, packed at a 399 page total. The mixture of black comedy and odd philosophy and sarcastic humor didn't do it for me. I thought all of the characters were completely despicable including Mr. Gyges and didn't care if they lived or died. Of course, this may have been Wasserman's intention, but it made getting through the book very difficult. Lastly, I didn't get why someone didn't just steal the ring back at the beginning... Gyges definitely sleeps and doesn't always wear the ring. That said, I admired the scope of the novel and the vast array of characters. It may be that I just didn't get his style.