AT NINETEEN BUFORD HAD ACCEPTED a missionary post to Nepal, even though he had no intention of converting anyone. He went because he’d heard a man could levitate.
When he saw with his own eyes a scrawny twig of a nearly naked man levitating freely off the ground, he knew with pristine clarity that the world’s secrets were meant entirely for his use and benefit. Alzheimer’s had claimed both his parents, so there was no difficulty assuming another persona. Not so much a new identity; personas were tools to be used at will. Everything in the False Prophet Buford’s world was a potential tool. It took him two years of fasting and cleansing to learn levitation, which, shown to the right people, was a powerful recruiting tool, particularly among wealthy nutcases, of which there were ridiculously many.
Charles Eyelet, then premiere of the Thoom, took interest in a floating young man with steel-grey eyes, until he started to wonder why he always thought of himself as a lug wrench whenever the boy was around.
And now here he was, the most powerful man in the world, imprisoned by the idiots he’d damn near become the leader of. Buford hated irony.
The irony of almost being the leader of the Thoom was an irksomely useless tool right now. Buford stared through the glass cage.
So far they hadn’t made any demands or threats. This was worrisome. Since the age of twelve Buford hadn’t been bored a day in his life, but now he was reduced to staring at the void, and it was boring.
Staring upward made him think about the Mount. There was power there that no one, not even the Jetstreams, understood. Something intrinsic to the world… and he’d failed to possess it. His hubris hadn’t fit in his pants.
Buford pushed those thoughts away. Failure was an outright terror not meant for civilized Man.
What would possess the Thoom to clone Milo Jetstream? Even rhetorically it was guaranteed to blow up in their faces. They knew it. But Thoom and logic were often mutually exclusive.
Of course, if Buford ever got hold of the clones...
A cadre of Milo Jetstreams running around would make damn good tools.
~~~
The end of the mundane day was the only time to put on a comfortable robe and know without doubt one was their better self.
It had been a long day of secret phone calls and coded open-communiqués, not to mention acquiring four major Hollywood stars as Thoom-front soldiers. True Humans Over Ordinary Man was a subtle sell, but a necessary sell, but as Triumphant Heuristics it went over that much better. It was true that it was all in the name, and the oldest meaningful joke in the world was that god spelled backwards was dog. Madam loved the oldies, because there hadn’t been anything new in a thousand years. The proto-Bufords had made sure of that. Controlled obsolescence kept the world going ‘round.
Her silver hair had one red streak in it, a look which complemented the sky blue robe. The blue robe had the careful silk thread count of dozens of child laborers. It was of the sort that slid on, as though her skin was pure glass and the robe merely there to polish it. The fabric even whispered over bra and panties, themselves of a quality not meant for touching by the ordinary.
Every Thoom wore perfectly fitting, private tickling, moisture wicking underwear, excellent as excellent could be.
But not as good as hers.
Madam’s underwear changed the courses of nations. Buford Bone would never see the light of day again, but he’d definitely see her bloomers.
Large monitors came on for her as she moved from room to room. A new disease outbreak in Burkina Faso; Africa would be strip-mined the next eight lifetimes anyone had. Food and medical aid to Kabul blocked; new terrorist group; terrorist groups had PR departments. Madam laughed. Wonderful, necessary evils that the surface dwellers needed in order to keep going on.
She thought about the man—god, really—currently in the box. He was the sort of man she wouldn’t have thought twice about if she didn’t know who he was, but inside the Box it was her special duty to see that he thoroughly realized the impotence of his situation. He had abandoned the Thoom; he flagrantly questioned Thoom validity—
And he made more money than the Thoom. Way more. Can’t forgive a bastard for that.
He thought he was important and behaved accordingly.
People who thought they were important did nothing but stand in the way of Madam on her way to doing important things.
While there wasn’t a single guard visible in her house, there could be a race riot outside and she’d still be fixing herself a sandwich. Buford was four levels below as she padded a layer of silk away from bare-assed through her well-appointed home. Safety was not an issue. As with the Lost Clan of No-See-Ums, lack of visibility had nothing to do with impact.
She descended the levels. A boob itched in the three-hundred sixty degree monitored XY axis car and she scratched it. She had scratched ass, armpit, crotch and foot with utter indifference.
She shined that indifference now in the face of Buford.
“Full lights,” she commanded.
Buford rolled upright and sat cross-legged on his mat, squinting.
“You’re trying to make me fall in love with you,” he said. “Blue’s my favorite color.”
“A sky you’ll never see again, sir.” She perched on her plush stool, doing nothing but regarding him a moment. “You haven’t asked a single pertinent question yet.”
“I make it a point never to ask questions of people who have answers. Makes me look weak. When does the brainwashing start, sweetheart?”
She didn’t answer.
“Women like to ask men is sex that important to us,” said Buford. “They think the question elicits contrite rumination. Short answer to an old question: yes.”
“That’s how you want to play? Nothing grander for your final hours? Trite sexuality?”
“You’re not likely to come in here for the real thing. Trite will do.”
“You’re a bit of an idiot. Full dark,” she said, then disappeared into the darkness.
“Men of power usually are,” he called out. “Let’s try to make tomorrow a little more interesting, shall we?” said Buford.