Above the world, alone stands The Olympus. The colossus that dwarfed all other structures could not even be called a skyscraper in any serious sense. She is the world’s only Spacescraper. She was designed and built in a world that valued the short-term gains and get-rich-quick schemes in all strata of society. Small men with narrow timelines and shorter marks on history scoffed at the modern marvel. “Too impractical, too expensive, too...much”, though when pressed, the last point was never elaborated on. These insignificant criticisms fell under Alex Mercer, who from the top floor, looked down on a world that either refused to understand him or had become so warped by the virus of immediacy, that they couldn’t, no matter how herculean the effort.
The world was different now, of course. There weren’t many voices that blared against the glass windows of the Olympus and if there were, they were too quiet to reach the top of the world. No, most of his critics were dead. That was reality. Whether harsh violence or slow, debilitating starvation took out most of the Eastern half of the former United States. There was no point mourning them or praising them as worthy foes, as Alex neither saw them as worthy nor as foes. They, like all footnotes, would only be referenced regarding Alex’s achievements and only remembered by the most niche historians, who’d collect the small scraps that remained of them after death and wax psychologically about how they’d act if they’d lived or what they must have thought as they laid down for the last time.
History’s great monsters envisioned worlds that required a widespread culling of thought criminals, the handicapped, or the racially impure. The heroes of the ages saw the troubles around them and rose to the occasion, raising their societies around them and leaving lasting legacies. Alex Mercer would never call himself a Hero, but would neither deny the role of villain. He was a man of consequence. Born at the right time, equipped with the faculties and traits that served great men, and raised with the will to oversee the necessary endeavor. When savage jungle swallowed the world around him, he walled off the small plot of the garden and like a lighthouse, kept the electricity running in the Olympus for all to see and hope and remember that the world could once again be as it was.
The world he inherited was broken by weaker men before him. It was Sidney Posner, his once close friend, and business partner, who acted as a catalyst, plunging the world into depression and almost deleting the word ‘money’ from human conception in an afternoon. But you don’t blame hurricanes for breaking levees or forest fires for burning everything in their paths. No, the fault lies with man and his indifference. The same men who scoff at the Olympus are the ones who break levees and burn forests. Alex looked out from the top of his monument, down onto the world below, and wept for what could have been. He closed his eyes, thinking of the greatest man he’d ever known, his father, Phil Mercer.
As he opened his mind’s eye, Alex was again a child, around six years old. He filled in his small suit, whose tiny tie matched a tiny pocket square that sat in his left breast pocket. His hair was tidy, parted to the left, which he kept the same his entire life. He was following his father to his office, who himself was wearing a larger suit, complemented by a larger tie and hair slicked back to cover the widening hurricane forming on the top of his head. The pair passed Cynthia’s desk, his father’s secretary, who gave Alex a wave and his father a knowing look. Inside, Alex took his regular spot, a couch on one end of the office, just far enough to not be a bother, but close enough that he could pay attention.
Alex always loved his father’s office. The vibrant blue carpet matched the walls and most of the furniture, save for the large oak desk his father sat behind in the worn leather chair he’d had for years. Alex’s favorite spot on the couch lay underneath a portrait of his grandfather that was a blown-up version of a smaller picture his father kept on the desk. Alex enjoyed staring at it, squinting his eyes until the picture appeared clearer to him. The monochromatic blue of the office reminded Alex of the ocean and especially the trip they’d taken to Mexico, where the water was just as blue as the carpet underneath his feet.
It was a big day for the Mercer family. The City Planner was stopping by to discuss his father’s designs for the Olympus Building, right in the heart of downtown Manhattan. Anyone who knew Phil Mercer knew that he wanted this project approved more than anything on Earth. Some men were born to write or paint or sculpt marble. Some men were born to count money, obsessing over it, losing sleep, craving to engineer new ways to get it. Phil Mercer built things. When he was a boy, stores would stock up on Lincoln Logs and Lego sets because they knew that young Phil couldn’t resist them. When he was twelve, he built his own treehouse. The structure won an engineering award that year, though no one was exactly sure where he found the wood to build it. He managed to dodge those questions, opting to say that he wanted a treehouse, and somehow, that was the end of it. It was this intensity and determination that bore the fruit of Phil Mercer’s dreams.
“Mr. Caro,” Phil greeted as a short, intense man sauntered into the office. He had flush red cheeks and green eyes that seemed to sap the energy out of whatever met his gaze. He scowled as he shook Phil’s hand, who towered over him. Alex looked at the pair like David and Goliath but was unsure who was who.
“Mr. Mercer. Thanks for having me,”
“Can I get you something to eat?”
“No, thank you,”
“Some water or coffee or something like that perhaps?” he asked, pouring himself a glass of ice water.
“No, no, I won’t be here that long. I must say, your office is very… loud, very… naff,”
Alex wasn’t sure what the small man was saying but started to smile when he saw that his father was smiling at the comment.
“If you think this is great, just wait til you see the one we build downtown!” Alex exclaimed, jumping on the couch. Caro snapped his attention to the precocious child and Alex, like a punished puppy, sat and put his head down, waiting for the predatory glare to move somewhere else. It didn’t and for what felt like an eternity, the old man tried to glare the boy away.
“I find that children ought to be seen and not heard. And that’s only in the direst of circumstances. Otherwise, I’d have them put away next to the good linens.”
“This is my son, Alex. Come shake Mr. Caro’s hand, Alex.”
Alex shook his head.
“Don’t bother, I can’t stay long. I just came by to let you know that your proposal has been reviewed and denied.”
“Excuse me?” Phil responded, spilling a bit of water on his shirt. “That can’t be right. I had lunch with the mayor and a few members of the zoning commission last week. We’d come to an understanding.”
“I’m sure you did. That’s probably why the Mayor waited until this morning to send me here. He wanted the check to clear first.”
Caro turned around and made for the door.
“Now hold on just a minute,” Phil pleaded. “I didn’t even get a chance to show you the designs. This was going to be huge! The biggest free-standing structure on Earth and not to be outdone for quite some time! You can’t tell me they weren’t interested in that?”
Caro turned back to Phil and walked up to him, penetrating his personal space and forcing the larger man to bend over at an uncomfortable angle.
“Why’s that?”
“I have no doubt that you want to build the largest skyscraper on Earth and I welcome you to do so. Just not in New York”, Caro replied, rubbing the bridge of his nose, “When you think of New York City, you think of that wonderful skyline. All the buildings are near each other in height and every year a new building creeps taller and taller with the rest. Your building would only make the rest of the city feel small. The only person that your monstrosity would help is you, sir. You and your massive ego. The city has enough egos to contend with. We don’t need a brutish, garish billionaire riling up the others.”
“You can’t do this! I have a lot of pull in this damn city. I put the Man in Manhattan for god’s sake!” Phil shouted.
“I can, actually. It’s my job to maintain this city’s integrity. If I let every pissant with some steel and concrete build whatever he wanted, we’d have a mishmash of empty office buildings with no place for people to live and sleep and shop. I mean really, imagine if I allowed you to build more rooms like this big blue eyesore that I find myself getting ill in.”
A vein popped across Phil’s forehead as his face reddened and his knuckles whitened. Caro made no response, except a small move to the side, as if to say “Olay”. But then, Phil smoothed out his suit, ran his hand through his thinning hair, and tried to calm himself. “I mean, the proposals I have here were done by a professional company. Gettis &Co. They’re the guys that did the Freedom Tower remodel. I had very little input. Every room will be a palace at the Olympus.”
Caro shook his head. “It’s not about the rooms or even the building, Mr. Mercer. It’s about you. You and your bravado. ‘I put the man in Manhattan’,” he made a spitting sound, “this city inherited a great lineage of European architecture. One that a simple- Or should I say, provincial, mind like yourself doesn’t understand. You replace elegance with size, mistake kitsch with taste, and you speak like a longshoreman while wearing an ill-fitting, two thousand dollar suit. A building is a lasting monument and I won’t let this city’s largest monument be a celebration of its excess and the cultural gutter you represent. Now, goodbye Mr. Mercer.”
The small man marched out of the room, the air leaving with him. Phil stood, choking on his failed dream. Alex noticed tears in his father’s eyes, the only time he could ever recall that happening.
“Wait!” Phil shouted, chasing him. “Wait, Goddamn you, wait a minute.”
Alex followed his father passed the secretary, who looked concerned, calling for security. Alex found his father, on his knees in front of the elevator bank.
“Dad?” but there was no response. Alex crept closer, calling to his father, who looked catatonic as if waiting for a guillotine to fall.
“Dad?” still nothing. He walked right up to him, noticing small whimpers coming out of his father’s mouth and streams of tears running from his eyes.
“I’m finished,” his father mumbled.
“Dad?” Alex whispered, embracing his father, but unable to get his small arms around his father’s large frame.
“Alex,” he said, snapping back. He started wiping the tears from his face and got up, picking the boy up with him and carrying him back to the office. “It’s okay, son. It’s gonna be okay.”
Alex woke up in his bed, sweat pouring from his brow. It was the same dream over and over again, a warped memory. The room was dark, save for a sliver of light that cracked in from the kitchen. Alex got up to investigate, to find that evening’s companion rummaging through his refrigerator. She was of average height and light brown hair, wearing nothing save for a bathrobe she must have taken after getting up. The clanking of bottles and containers was few and far between, which Alex took as a signal that she did not want him to wake up. It was fortunate, then, that he seldom slept. He cleared his throat, which had her jumping straight into the air. A box of leftovers spilled to the ground, the spaghetti dinner painting the white marble reddish.
“Hungry?” he asked.
“Starving.”
“That’s not funny.”
“Who said I was joking?”
“You were starving when I found you. It was some effort to ensure that’s no longer the case.”
“And in the morning?”
“Depends on how the rest of the night goes.”
“I’m not a whore.”
“Everyone’s a whore. It’s all a matter of price and output.”
“I could be a queen,” she shot back. Naked and unafraid, Alex saw with clear eyes, this woman before him who earlier was more of an outlet. Standing confident, he saw the inklings of an equal and that thought sent a fearful tinge down his spine.
“Who are you?” he asked, intrigued to hear her answer.
“You don’t even remember my name?”
“Tanya, but I didn’t ask for your name. Who are you?”
She stood and thought for a second and as she pondered, he looked her body up and down. She was thin, though not emaciated. His doctor had checked her out and she was given a clean bill of health. Even her teeth were in good shape, which was a rarity these days. He inspected every inch of her, looking for nothing and instead, hoping something would jump out at him. She noticed his searching and as the quiet lingered, she covered herself with her hands in all the spots his eyes traveled.
“Who are you?”
“I- I’m Tanya. I could be,” she trailed off, her eyes moving to the floor, avoiding his prodding stare.
“I can’t know what you could be without knowing who you are. Everyone thinks they can be anything they want. But I can’t be a fish or a jackal or even one of you poor wretched souls. I am who I am. I know what I am. I am the man at the top of the world, with a view of hell below me. You will certainly return to that hell tomorrow, much worse off than you were before. Sure, you’ll have had a night of release, a belly full of food and a long, restful sleep that might carry you forward, but you’ll also have something terminal.”
She looked scared, searching her body for some evidence that he harmed her. Her eyes widened and her full lips started trembling.
“No, no, not physical. The terminal disease you carry is knowledge. Before, you had to be so strong. Strong enough to carry forth. You didn’t know that any alternative existed. But then, an angel came and whisked you off to safety. To comfort. To weakness. You had no knowledge of the world outside yourself and now, now you know that life could be better. You’ll go to sleep cold, afraid, and hungry, wishing and praying that you can come back here. And then you’ll die. Some part, deep down, will long for the chance to be weak again and that will betray you, unfortunately. I’m sorry for that. I didn’t mean to kill you.”
The fear grew in her eyes and she, like a trapped animal, looked around for an escape route. He turned his back to her and headed for his bedroom.
“Maybe, I’m wrong. Maybe, you’ll find the strength to endure, even if you know that pretty much everywhere else on Earth is better than where you are. Maybe you’ll be strong enough to be my equal. I hope that’s the case, Tanya. I’m a pretty lonely guy. Good evening.”
He went back to bed and in the morning she was gone. The fridge was empty. Even the ice cube tray was missing. Nothing else was touched except the sheet she used to bundle it all together. Nothing else held any value. The clothes he had brought up for her were still where he left them on one of the leather sofas in the penthouse. Alex took that as a good sign that she might be different than the others. The rest took the clothes and other trinkets. One took a painting off the wall. He found it and her months later, both in a ruined state beyond repair. He made a call to have the apartment cleaned while he was at work, just one floor above. A liquid breakfast of scotch and soda was on the menu, his hidden bar untouched by his guest.
“Maybe,” he said to himself and a smile came across his face. He carried that small hope to the war room, where his executives turned officers gathered, along with every general he could hire from the old regime. They were divided across the room like a middle school dance, neither side warming up to the other. The air was stale and it looked like some had not left the room in days, planning the offensive in Manhattan and adjusting to the reality on the ground. Everyone kept their seats when Alex entered the room. He had twenty minutes before he had to trek down the hall for another meeting. He figured it was easier for him to make his rounds to the different departments than have them all funnel in and out of one conference room. He had the space, after all.
“Are we on schedule?” Alex asked.
“We’ve got control of the Westside Highway and the FDR. The vice is in place and now, we just need to apply pressure,” stated General Harry Amos, squeezing his hand into a fist as he spoke. He was a Navy Pilot and rose to the rank of Rear Admiral, but Alex had no need for admirals and insisted he was now a General.
“Thank you, General,” Alex replied and Amos winced. He cringed every time he was called General. Alex didn’t care. The man had yet to bring him any significant victory and he figured that maybe discomfort might become motivation. It hadn’t yet and now, Alex called him that in malice.
“Recruitment is down,” Doom added. John Parsons was Alex’s most capable adviser. He got the nickname ‘Doom’ for being the dourest and unpleasant man in every room. He was even kept out of his own wife’s delivery room because one of the doctors lost his nerve as Doom waxed on and on about infant mortality rates. He under-promised and over-delivered every time but always insisted his victories were covert defeats. “Seems your toy soldiers are melting. Statistically speaking, every new recruiter we send into the city has a forty percent chance of dying at the end of his first week. Desertions are up as well. And it seems we have an organized insurgency to boot. The squeeze won’t be as easy as General Amos predicts.”
“Alright, I’ve heard enough,” Amos scoffed. “Thank you, John, but I think my people have enough experience to snuff out a half-cocked, half-starved insurgency. I used to patrol bigger patches of territory than Manhattan in one flight. Whatever it is they’ve got going on down there, we will adjust and keep on mission.”
Alex grew annoyed at Amos’ unearned overconfidence. He sat back in his chair, a noticeable paunch bulging out from his uniform. He wore his old medals and ribbons, artifacts that might as well have been laurels from the roman empire in terms of relevance. The stack collected from just below his shoulder blade down past his left breast and was mirrored by a few shiny badges on his right. It was an almost comical display, nearing the absurdity of the field marshals of various former Communist regimes. Alex imagined he had back problems from all those awards and wondered if he wore the same solution as so many middle school girls. It was those kinds of thoughts that kept Alex from launching across the table and strangling the smug bastard until his smile left his face and the soul crept out of his eyes.
“No Bullshit, Doom. What will this cost, blood, and treasure?” Alex asked.
Doom scribbled some notes down in his loose-leaf binder. It was a blue, three-ring that was a perfect representation of his mind. Messy and overfilled with information, most of it of no use without the rest. Doom looked up and without missing a beat, in the driest, casual tone, said, “ Fifty-thousand soldiers initially. Two Billion dollars if we can finish in two months. An additional one point five Billion every month after. After six months, we are no longer able to make payroll. My recommendation, we ignore New York. We abandon this mission and move back across the Hudson. We funnel all refugees across the GW and lure them over with a carrot. After that, we whack the remainder with the stick and shove the carrot up their asses.”
“That’s a load of bullshit,” Amos yelled. “Alex, I don’t know why you keep this guy around. He creeps around like the goddamn crypt keeper, whispering doubt in every ear he can. It’s not good for morale. It’s not good for our mission confidence. And I’m just about worn out from his shit.”
“I’m just a numbers guy, General. You’re the one who runs the show. And from a numbers perspective, you’ll manage to stumble into something resembling victory at the cost of at least ten thousand casualties and two Billion dollars.”
“You arrogant little prick,” Amos shot up and his chair flew over behind him. He wasn’t particularly tall, most pilots aren’t, but he cast a long shadow across every room he entered. Alex noticed it when they first met. Doom, not one for intimidation, felt the cool “You sit in this fucking office building like you’re in a goddamn ivory tower. How about you take a green army with training so pedestrian it could barely qualify as basic, march them up and down the East Coast, and see how they do against an unknown enemy? Oh, and don’t forget, they haven’t had a decent meal in a long god damn time, so their dedication to this thing, or each other, is only as long as the wait time between dinner and breakfast being served. Bean counters have been trying to run wars in this country for a long god damn time. I thought this would be different. You have no idea what you’re talking about. I am not William Westmoreland and you are no Macnamara. So why don’t you and the other Whiz Kids fuck off and run a lemonade stand and let me run the goddamn war.”
“Alright, alright,” Alex tried to calm them, waving his hands down, trying to take control of the room. “General, I think what Doom is trying to say, in his own way, is that you’ve been confident about victory before. I remember being promised Fort Benning and instead, we were pushed back to Fort Bragg, North Carolina.”
“That was then, this is now,” Amos replied. “We’ve learned since then.” He paused, contemplating. “I’ve learned.”
Alex saw the look in Amos’ eye. The push South had been a disastrous setback. They had no intelligence on the situation, but Amos preached pushing forward. There was no way to know that an organized government was put in place to resist them or they at least didn’t take the time to consider that as a possibility. Twenty thousand dead. Times two wounded.
“General Amos is right. This is nothing like the push South. This is more like a siege. We have the vice in place, as you mentioned, but like a handful of sand, the tighter we squeeze, the more falls out. So, what are we gonna do about it?”
There was silence. They learned by now that Alex seldom asked questions he didn’t have answers for.
“We let it fall. When someone comes through, they come through where we want them. We send them across the bridge and have them chase the carrot into our territory. This is first and foremost a humanitarian mission, let’s not forget that. We can reserve the stick for anyone who stays behind. The most important part of this whole mission, the key to victory, is getting as many people out of New York safely and into uniform quickly.” He stood up to leave, and everyone else in the room rose with him, “Oh, and try not to destroy any buildings, either. The skyline is iconic, after all.”
My man, sorry to bother you, but I don't have access to credit cards at the moment and am not in the US.
Could we come to an arrangement where I send some crypto over your way and you send over the Automaton pdf to me?
You got a big recommendation from Aristophanes, so I figured I had to check it out!
Very strong opening