The Cloud Idol Speaks

By Dave Adams

In this comedic adventure, a quirky band of pro-environment warriors set out to revolutionize the status quo by taking on the world’s power elite at their ultra-exclusive club in the northern California redwoods.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Sep 16, 2015
• ISBN: 9781682221204

Book preview

better

PROLOGUE

The human experiment. What noble potential it once held.

Abundant possibilities for positive acts stood in the willowy grass, waiting to be embraced. Waiting for a simple hug, one which could lift them from the ground and spin them into something beautiful.

Meanwhile, hairless descendants of apes marched smugly past, arrogant in their possession of opposable thumbs. Some slowed to gaze at virtue with a mild curiosity tickling their brain. A few others stopped altogether and extended their arms without question. They were a minority. The remaining throng stomped the innocent grass to oblivion on its hurried way to the future.

Fast-forward.

There we were, with our toes hanging over the edge of the twentieth century, staring into the abyss of the next one like a shivering child on a diving board. It was much too high above a pool containing barely enough water to drown an ant. Despite the obvious signs of warning, we seemed confident and willing to clench our eyes tight and cannonball into the cement. We had come so far and learned so much, yet stupidity, selfishness, and greed still had a painfully firm grip on society’s balls. These loathsome qualities were responsible for brown air, sick water, and blood-soaked earth. Violence occurred before jaded eyes every minute of every day. Forests fell as fast as chain saw blades could spin. Whole species evaporated while our own numbers exploded to unmanageable levels. An elite few controlled our collective destiny from their posh pillow of luxury as incalculable masses wallowed in tortuous poverty.

Time had come to take an uncompromising look at ourselves.

At this point the reader may get the impression that the coming story is one of despair or agony. When actually, it is one of hope, of taking great risk in the name of positive change, and about gathering mirth along the way.

Yes, we are destroying our planet. Yes, we are destroying ourselves. However, our lack of foresight isn’t permanent.

A storm of consciousness is brewing, and our liberators may not be who we might expect.

RISE

grow into the human you can be

for a need has arisen

within you

within me

the design which commands

cannot set us free

it must fall

like the wall

imagining itself resembling dust

while we tramp forth

and approach fragile crust

the pie filling inside

belongs to the wise

to the true

for we know what to do

we shall no longer hide beneath a roof of apathy

shall never again turn away from a sea of greed

instead

we’ll rush the boats and raise the sails

allow the tide to reveal its power

then let the wind carry us there

to utopia…

in the unfolding hours

-Pixel

CHAPTER 1

A flaming arrow arched with confidence over four empty lanes of highway. Its crescent path streaked across an awakening sky. Its intent and purpose, to send a message to a destructive industry in a language it would surely understand.

Inside the tiny booth, an underpaid cashier answered his ringing phone without enthusiasm.

All-Night Gas ‘n Go.

You’re in danger! screamed an ominous voice, Get out now! Run! Run! Run!

Outside of his hut, the startled young man saw a shiny gasoline tanker parked beyond two rows of pumps, an airborne flame, and the truck’s driver sprinting down the road. He grabbed a fist full of cash from the register then practically tore the door from its hinges and ran for his meager life.

With the two men barely out of harm’s way, the fiery shaft impaled its target with precise accuracy. The victim, a thick rubber hose which currently pumped petroleum from the truck into the station’s underground tanks, burst instantly into a chain reaction of explosions.

Sunrise appeared to come a little early over this quiet stretch of road as incandescent devastation billowed skyward

Across the highway, on a hill, a lone archer crouched in the tall grass. She tucked her cell phone in a pocket, content in the knowledge that her warning arrived in time. Then the fifteen-year-old girl grinned a satisfied grin, packed away her bow, and disappeared like a wraith.

Pixel made it home just before her mother’s alarm clock blared. She stowed her bow under her bed and put on a pot of Kona coffee. Her mother entered the dining room to find Pixel typing diligently on her notebook computer, an open English book nearby.

Morning, baby. Coffee smells great. What are you doing up so early?

Just have some homework to finish up, Pixel lied.

Ya want some eggs and toast before school?

Sure mom, sounds good, she responded, without looking up from her screen.

Her mom smiled a proud smile at her studious daughter then entered the kitchen.

While breakfast aromas wafted through the house, Pixel updated her web site, entitled Eco-Terror: The Only Solution. Her site gave detailed information on specific companies and the reasons they should be hit. She also described efficient fire starting techniques which left little or no evidence and urged her readers to only strike at times when no people would be present, despite the fact that her own anger-fueled actions had lately pushed the envelope regarding the sparing of human life.

A high percentage of her targets had been burned, some at the hands of Pixel’s on-line followers, some by her alone. The FBI kept a thick file on her activities but had yet to identify the elusive teenager.

Pixel then checked her e-mail.

Her first two messages contained the usual boy-crazy ramblings of her best friend at school, but the third electronic letter caught Pixel off balance. It was from a man who called himself Caesar.

Dear Pixel,

I know who you are and I like your style. Please don’t be alarmed. I am not a member of the government or law enforcement. I am simply a man dedicated to achieving a peaceful, ecologically responsible society on a global scale. I would like to recruit you to assist me in this endeavor.

A cautious and nervous Pixel shut down her system and ran to the window. She peeked through the mini blinds in a paranoid manner while biting her lower lip.

As breakfast hit the table, she could not imagine how much her life was about to transform.

During the next seven years, Pixel grew to love and trust Caesar like no other. The angry teenager evolved into a remarkable young woman with his fatherly guidance. Countless typed conversations passed between them on philosophy, ecology, alternative energy, politics, meditation, humanity, and more.

Caesar supported her financially and Pixel worked tirelessly toward his idealistic goals. Goals which became her own as she left behind her eco-terrorist tendencies to accept Caesar’s broader views of world change.

Pixel had been awake all night. She did her best thinking then. It had become her pattern, her rhythm in life. She was not a vampire, although she sometimes resembled one. Blackness of the ocean on a moonless night ran through the strands of her hair. It was smooth and long against her soft pale skin. The windows to her soul were clear and green. A wise intelligence was visible within them as they reflected the bright screen before her.

The rest of the room was dim with the light of only candles. Twists of smoke caressed the air with a hint of sandalwood. Tiny flames surrounded Pixel as she sat in the lotus position in the center of the room. Her posture was perfect. Her mood was calm. She was naked.

It was a scene set for meditation, which she did often. Not tonight. A small bamboo table in front of her held a slim laptop computer, its screen aglow.

Seventy six miles of cable carried Pixel’s thoughts away from her modest cabin in the Cazadero hills. It sped them along to an ivy-covered building in San Francisco. The building was home to the most exclusive club for men.

The Osprey Club.

Tonight Pixel probed their files. What was she looking for? Even she wasn’t completely sure. When she found it she would know.

Hacking was one of Pixel’s many talents. Her fingers danced over the keys in a blurred ballet. She enjoyed the sense of power it gave her. Nothing except perhaps orgasm brought her the same level of joy as breaking down digital doors and roaming halls where she was not allowed. Hacking was like being invisible on a crowded street and sticking her tongue out at everyone who wore a suit. That is how she described it, anyway. The rebel in her loved the anonymity.

Screens flashed by quickly as Pixel broke through many walls of fire meant to hide masses of personal information. Only moments passed before a sly expression crossed her lips.

She was in.

At the top of the page a heading read, Personnel Files. Scrolling down and reading the information consumed several hours. Her eyes grew heavy as the sun began peeking through the trees. She shut down her machine and slipped into a deep sleep.

Twilight settled over the mountain, like a cozy blanket, pulled by giant unseen hands. Pixel awoke refreshed. As her nightly routine dictated, she stepped out onto the deck to stretch. Cool evening air of spring wrapped its arms around her still-naked body. She breathed deep and felt alive.

Her cabin was very private, the nearest house being almost a mile away. This suited Pixel nicely since she rarely wore more than a smile at home. There was one item she never took off, however. It was a necklace made from a piece of teal-colored, ocean-smoothed glass, which hung on a strand of thin, black, braided leather.

The necklace gave Pixel strength and comfort. It was her only connection to her father, who made it for her as a child. She had found the teal glass glistening on a beach and said, Look Daddy, it’s the same color as your eyes!

Later that summer he was killed in an accident while protesting an offshore oil drilling rig with Greenpeace. Pixel’s happy, carefree world collapsed. She was only eight. The void created by his loss left her mother a shattered shell of a woman. In Pixel, the terrible event cemented an iron resolve to carry on his antiestablishment beliefs.

With her regimen of stretching, yoga, and tai chi complete, Pixel showered. She tried to grasp her dream. It was something about acting belligerent in the middle of a street, yet no one seemed to notice.

Stars sparkled in the now dark sky as she methodically lit candles and incense. Feeling more alert by the minute, Pixel put on a CD of Armenian belly dance music and settled in to work.

The challenge of breaking into Osprey Club’s files had been greatly reduced. Before exiting last time, Pixel had left herself a simple route back in. With just a few keystrokes, she once again examined their very personal personnel files.

Last night all of the current employees’ history had been trudged through without a glimpse of hope. None of them had skeletons in their closets. They were dedicated, loyal, well paid, mindless, unpersuadable drones.

On to the former employees.

Near the end of this list Pixel struck gold. A potential candidate for Caesar’s clandestine plan stepped forward.

Find us an insider, Caesar had pleaded.

Pixel had responded and complied, as she always did, with his requests. She had nothing but respect for this man she had yet to meet in person.

It was now 1:00 a.m. on the Cazadero hill Pixel called home. Glowing from her computer screen read a name.

Jacob Rush.

He was a former employee of Camp Osprey, which was the Osprey Club’s ultra-exclusive retreat in the northern California redwoods. Their very private property was located a mere butterfly’s flight away from Pixel’s cabin at this very moment.

While she scanned Jacob’s file, her sharp eyes noticed an oddity in the background. Behind the normal text, a subtle watermark emerged.

It read EPA NARC.

Pixel’s curiosity led her into a maze of cover-up within the encrypted files of the Environmental Protection Agency. She now knew Jacob was their man. Jacob Rush was about to become a key player in a vast underground movement, and he didn’t have a clue.

Where are you now? Pixel whispered to her computer.

His personnel file ended with his termination. Current location unknown.

Well I know what I’ll be doing the rest of the night, Pixel said to no one, Where, oh where, have you gone?

Next, she busted in on the U.S. Postal Service’s files. This was a tricky task that took the better part of an hour. Government systems were always the toughest to penetrate. Difficult, but not impossible. Pixel was, after all, among the best of her breed. A hacker’s hacker.

One of her eco-terrorist friends had given her the nickname Pixel because she was so good that it seemed as if she became part of the systems she raided. He had compared her to one of the thousands of tiny dots on the screen, peering inside, changing, hiding, and maneuvering among them.

Government computer systems had sophisticated tracking software, invented by the most talented hackers in exchange for lighter sentences. Most of whom currently sat in federal prisons. These programs kicked in automatically when a breach of their security was detected, traced the call, and notified the authorities.

Pixel had learned this the hard way several years ago while toying with the FBI. When she attempted to erase their file of her eco-terrorist activities, she was traced. Luckily, she made a narrow escape from overly eager policemen.

Since that frightening experience, Pixel created an elaborate countermeasure. Her program worked on a complex loop, bouncing her signal around thousands of cities. With this protection in place, she was now able to invade the status quo comfortably, naked, from her cabin in the woods.

Jacob’s last known address was in Santa Rosa, California. He had not left a forwarding address.

Of course not, Pixel said, exasperated, You needed to make a fresh start.

Pixel spoke to her screen often, especially when she felt frustration tugging at her pores. She inhaled slowly and sighed as she stood. Her supple body glided to the kitchen for some cherry juice. The edge of the counter was cold and hard, yet felt good against her bare flesh as she leaned back on it. Pixel’s lips fell into a slight pout as she thought.

OK, OK, what next… yes, the IRS.

The empty space of the kitchen listened patiently to its nude occupant.

Yes, those guys must know where Jacob is.

Strands of straight black hair drifted beyond Pixel’s piercing green orbs and onto her milky shoulders. As she continued to drink, a bit of juice escaped from the corner of her mouth and dripped down her chin. Pixel caught a glimpse of herself in a mirror over the sink and chuckled. The blood-like appearance of the cherry juice on her face furthered the vampire image she had of herself.

Fresh enthusiasm coursed through her as she approached the computer.

Look out boys, here I come. Remember me?

Pixel had visited the Internal Revenue Service’s network a few times before, to help friends out of unreasonable tax trouble, and was comfortable walking their digital halls. Within minutes she had what she came for, Jacob Rush’s latest tax return. Unfortunately, his address on the form was a Post Office box.

Knowing the Postal Service required a residential address when signing up for a box, she tickled her way back across the keyboard into their system.

Soon, Pixel’s green crystals lit up with satisfaction. She had found him! The insider. The man who would be an important piece in the movement’s puzzle of success.

Caesar would be pleased.

Pixel spun her nubile form around the cabin, dancing on a cloud of joy. She was given to fits of emotional outburst and this was cause for celebration. Caesar’s plan was one step closer to completion.

Another disc of belly dance music now played. She turned up the volume and let the tambourines and drums take her over. Her senses were immersed in rhythm as she imagined herself in a faraway land, in another time. Pixel was the center of attention in a lavish desert castle. She held the audience in her grip, dancing, spinning, and shedding her veils at the feet of a dark-skinned king.

This fantasy of being in a subservient role amused her to the point of laughter. Pixel was a strong and independent woman, one who was now nude and giggling at her own silliness in a candlelit cabin in the woods.

The music and fantasy lifted her spirit and inspired her toward another one of her talents. Pixel swept up her worn and weary notebook and began to write.

BELLY DANCE

chaos remembered in the dance

left us in a trance

borrowed time from trouble

blowing giant bubbles

of gypsy romance

gravity defying veils

spin, rise, and shake

our fevered attention they take

by the ounce

and by the ton

every inhibition shunned

waves of bellies rolling

to the shore and beyond

powerful as geysers

serene as empty ponds

jiggle, wiggle, and arouse

silk to flesh we browse

pagan questions answered

by raised eyebrows

elated is the spirit

that is the goal

as a thousand candles are lit

in our souls

fire, passion, and dreams

embodied in drums and tambourines

and jewels, it seems

we desire it never end

when it does we may pretend

to still be there

gazes fixed upon shimmering raven hair

When finished, she looked thoughtfully at the page. Over one hundred poems preceded this one in her ragged notebook and Pixel was pleased with them all. However, she had never felt comfortable with sharing her bits of word sculpture. They were a private matter. With no outside criticism, each poem remained a masterpiece of pure art. That’s what she often told herself.

The only other set of eyes to see Pixel’s poems belonged to her cat, and Tango always approved.

As if on cue, she came trotting through the cat door. Tango strutted with an air of independence, fresh from the night’s hunt. Like her owner, Tango was strong-willed and distinct. Also like her owner, she was not above enjoying a good long session of petting.

Woman and cat were quite happy to see each other. Pixel lay on her futon with a large soft pillow under her head and a relaxed expression on her face.

Hey love, good night on the prowl?

Tango responded with a gentle meow and leapt skillfully onto Pixel’s bare thigh. Her long orange fur tickled Pixel’s belly as she made her way toward those friendly green eyes. Tango licked her cheek and settled into the cozy warmth between Pixel’s inviting breasts. A long petting ensued, accompanied by much purring.

Before drifting off to sleep, Pixel relived the memory of their first encounter. While hiking on a trail in the nearby woods, Pixel had heard the tiniest squeak. She investigated and found it coming from the dry creek bed beside the path. Eventually, seeing a stirring of leaves, she laid eyes on a sweet orange puff ball who looked back.

Tango had been abandoned by her mother and needed milk. Pixel scooped her up and brought her home, where she began to save her life by hand-feeding the kitten with an eyedropper. Tango grew to be one of Pixel’s truest companions.

Woman and cat now fell into dreamland together as the sun once again rose to greet a new day.

That evening, Pixel awoke alone. Tango had already begun her wild night in the forest. All that remained of her presence were strands of wispy orange hair on Pixel’s belly.

In winter, Tango’s coat grew so thick and puffy that she actually developed dreadlocks. Pixel described her as the world’s only Rastafarian cat, at least the only one she had ever seen.

Now spring had sprung, Tango’s fur thinned, and evidence of her was all over the cabin.

Pixel had completed her exercise routine and exited the shower when she saw her laptop’s screen flashing green and purple, indicating a secure incoming message from Caesar. With a couple clicks and a few key strokes, their typed, coded conversation began. Pixel started.

-hey babe, you have great timing

-hi sugar, you have some news?

-yep, i think i found our man

-great! you sure he’ll bite?

-with what this fish has been through, he’ll probably jump in the boat without bait

-that’s what i want to hear, great work! who is he?

-jacob rush, he worked for the ospreys 8 years, terminated 2 years ago for reporting the club to the epa

-no shit? what were those boys up to?

-the question is what weren’t they up to?

-so then you cracked the epa?

-yep, and it wasn’t easy to find any info on the matter, someone buried it all very well, i ended up finding encrypted files hidden within the personal files of a top executive

-wow! the ospreys must have thrown a ton of money at this

-i don’t doubt that, caesar, not a hint of misconduct made it to the papers and jacob rush moved far away, he’s been silenced, either by cash or threats

-we need to find out which, let’s watch him for a little while before we approach with our proposal, you up for a trip?

-sure, i could use some action

-you’re the best, by the way, how is that rastafarian cat of yours?

-as unique as ever

-thanx again for hanging tough pix, i’d better watch out, your hacking skills are going to surpass mine

-yeah babe, i might even discover who you really are someday

-i do miss our little game

Caesar referred to the early years of their cyber-relationship when Pixel attempted to discover his identity, only to come up empty-handed time after time.

Once Pixel told Caesar where Jacob Rush could be found, he was instantly jealous of her mission. Caesar had been kept at home with his work far too long

Pixel spent the night packing and repacking a bag. Choosing clothes was not her favorite task.

Why can’t I just go naked! she exasperated to the quiet cabin.

Fifteen hours later, Pixel was clothed and on a plane.

TO THE FORTUNATE

under the light of the flash

I wrote

filtering out the sand

dying with the bright of the sun

I swam

across a foreign land

opinions galore fell from the sky

I listened

as everyone asked why

some already knew

that the planet was askew

unbalanced until the day we try

to unbutton our greed

give in to the need

and spread around the entire pie

this means you, holders of the key

the castles are locked to a vast many

so lower the bridges and open the doors

give all the rowers the honor of oars

-Pixel

CHAPTER 2

It was an undeniable fact that the flight of the pigeon was a precarious one. This less attractive, under-appreciated cousin to the dove had been given a bad rap. In cities everywhere, the pigeon was seen as a pest. A dirty, scruffy menace to the human society thriving below it. Pigeons were merely disgusting rats with wings who seemed to enjoy shitting on clean, shiny cars.

When committing this act, the pigeons were probably just enacting bits of revenge against the objects destroying their air.

Many obstacles lay in the path of flight of the city birds. Tall buildings, billboards, and power lines all stood with obstinacy, waiting for a collision. Despite this fact, pigeons did remarkably well in the navigation department. They possessed generations of instinct to guide them through the maze of man-made monsters. In addition to their city-dwelling ancestors, modern pigeons had the blood of war heroes flowing through their veins. Homing pigeons had been trained to carry important messages between troops and commanders. They bravely flew through heavy enemy fire to help win battles and ultimately defeat the Nazis.

The lone pigeon who now flew did not concern himself with any thought of long past struggles. He simply wanted to reach his nest before dark.

Filo the pigeon batted his tired wings against the gray San Francisco sky. Two red towers, belonging to the Golden Gate Bridge, stood proudly in view of his tail feathers as Filo skirted the edge of the city. Below him lay a long row of piers reaching out to the expanse of the bay. Tugboats worked the busy harbor. Sea lions lazed about on the docks and barked at their counterparts who fought over the limited space. Amused tourists watched and snapped pictures of the blubbery battles, while holding their noses from the terrible smell.

Filo passed over a cruise ship as it sat idle on one of its rare visits. The immaculate superstructure and fancy decks would make prime targets, but Filo was too exhausted for a bombing raid. Perhaps tomorrow.

The gray mass of metal known as the Bay Bridge stretched its two layers of road in the distance. Filo wouldn’t be going quite that far. As he approached the clock tower of the ferry building, he made a sharp right and headed into the city. This is where all those hazards to navigation came into play. Filo was, however, a seasoned pro and had flown this route on many occasions.

So he zigged and he zagged. He dove, swooped, and soared.

Noise and stench of traffic congested itself below on every rolling street the city had to offer. Filo’s senses were offended, but his objective was in sight.

Home sweet home.

The window ledge where Filo’s Mrs. waited sat high on the ominous building. Thick ivy clung to almost every inch of its dark stone walls and climbed nearly all of its ten stories.

Ah, the nest. Filo the pigeon could finally rest his weary wings. He arrived just in time to watch the nightly show which took place on the other side of the glass.

Rich aromatic smoke of fine Cuban cigars hung in the air. Tendrils of it rose to greet the high ceiling, originating from many of the thick brown sticks which glowed with fire. At the moment, a thin haze drifted in its lazy antigravity motion throughout the space. Before the evening ended, the haze would grow into a dense pillow that would smother the entire room, much like the famous San Francisco fog that usually rolled in to blanket the city by the bay.

A tall fire crackled at one end of the room. The blazing wood gently squealed and hissed as moisture escaped the violent heat. Flames danced as high as an average man. They were the only things dancing in this place, however, and the men gathered here were anything except average.

Framing the blaze was an enormous pile of stones. They were set into the wall and carefully arranged to form a high quality piece of masonry art. On the mantle stood a detailed wooden sculpture of an osprey, wings outstretched, clutching a salmon in its talons.

Members of the Osprey Club had made the large bird of prey their symbol over one hundred twenty five years earlier. They admired its skill for diving from great heights to deftly snatch fish from the river. This group of mega-elitists viewed themselves as the osprey and the rest of the world’s population as the fish.

Filo and the Mrs. sat, transfixed by the scene, like an elderly human couple with their eyes glued to the television for a favorite show. Gazing at the osprey sculpture always made Filo well up with pride, knowing he was of the same persuasion. At the same time, he felt intimidated by its size and strength and air of superiority.

He often wondered where this great bird lived. Filo and the Mrs. discussed the subject from time to time and speculated that it must be a country bird.

Nothing that majestic roams the skies of this concrete jungle, he spouted with confidence.

"Those ungainly