The Battle for Level Six
This bit of spooky fiction is sort of Hunter S. Thompson (or James Bond) meets The Twilight Zone, with an anti-war theme.
Maybe it could become a short film, or get fleshed out into novel/feature length.
It was written in spring 2002, before the Iraq War, and should probably be updated to an Iraq or Afghanistan setting.
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The Battle for Level Six
(c) 2002 by Ntheon
Jerusalem. A sleazy motel room. Empty bottles of Absolut, Jack Daniels and cheap beer are strewn casually among the half eaten cartons of chop suey.
On the nightstand lies a battered laptop, a serviceable camera, a cell phone, on it’s charger, ringer off. Beside them, on a sturdy lanyard, a laminated press pass, emblazoned with the ANN logo. Tools of the trade. The travel alarm reads 4:27 a.m., local time.
The room is bathed in pearl white from the full moon and glorious stars, barely competing with the shimmering reds and blues from the tacky neon signs shining across the narrow boulevard, a crazy quilt mixture of Arabic, Hebrew and English, advertising everything anyone could possibly need. No questions asked.
As if on cue, another mortar round pierces the eerie calm, only to be answered by a flurry of small arms fire, and another cry from the wounded and dying. The jaded city huddles in and ignores the suffering. You can get used to anything they say. The calm night silence returns.
The frigid desert night breeze plays in through the wide-open window, caressing the sweaty, rumpled bed sheets and their three nude occupants.
Victor Magnus lies on his back, eyes closed, lips locked with Fatima Arafat. Upside down from them, Rachel Sharon alternates her oral attentions between Victor and Fatima.
So much in common, he thought absently as they briefly came up for air. Both stunning brunettes with finely chiseled Semitic features, both nineteen, both fashion models, both fixtures in the local nightclubs of this international city. And both of their grandfathers, world leaders, bent on killing each other.
Naturally the young ladies with so much in common had never met, until a certain cocky journalist accidentally found himself with two dates for the evening, and so thought to arrange this little impromptu summit in his motel room.
He returns to the activities at hand, switching his attention from Fatima to Rachel. Just as they get re-situated, an insistent banging at the door.
“Go away damn it. Don’t you people know not to bother a man when he’s with a lady? Or two.”
“Sirrah, a thousand pardons sirrah” came the nervous, heavily accented voice through the thin door. “Mr. Yates says he must speak with you. Urgent.”
“Oh shit. Sorry ladies, this one I gotta answer. It better be damned important” he mumbles as he disengages himself. The head of American News Network is one of the few people in this shitty world he did not lightly keep waiting.
He stumbles to the door and shoves about $10 worth of whatever passes for money around here under the door for the poor messenger. The girls frown briefly, then turn their attentions to each other.
Magnus checks the laptop. “You have ... 67 ... new emails.” Most from Yates, the rest from various women still stalking him. He flips open the cell phone and finds sixteen voicemails, thirteen from Yates, the rest from that little CNN photog chick from last week. She just won’t give up.
Damn, we’ve only been on this little bender for, what, twelve hours. Ok, maybe three days. Longer? Shit, I don’t remember. And my head’s starting to pound.
Ignoring the messages, he punches Yates, speed dial number one. The sleepy voice on the other end becomes suddenly animated. “Sweet Jesus man, I’ve been looking for you for four days now. What the Hell are you still doing in Jerusalem?”
“Er, there is a war on here sir.”
“Old hat. We’ve covered every angle. Twice. Listen, there’s a brand new scoop. Nobody is on this yet. We’re first. I just hope we’re not too late. It’s got everything, all the classic elements of a great story. War, carnage, suffering innocents, colorful characters, intrigue, betrayal, drugs, loot, sex.”
“OK Chief. Relax. I’m on it. Where?”
“Uh, well, can’t really tell you by phone. Your tickets are booked, pick them up at the airport.”
“Well ladies, duty calls. My work here is done. Maybe now you two can get your grandpas to the bargaining table.” They squealed enthusiastically, and then went back to work on each other.
That would be a nice fringe benefit. But he didn’t really give a damn one way or another. This place was getting a bit stale, and his mind was already on the next big story. Another war. Just need an angle. Some interviews. Hot damn! I smell Pulitzer...
A long flight from Jerusalem to London’s Heathrow. Endless security checks, surly customs officers. Shit I hate travel, Victor Magnus mumbles under his breath, sneaking another slug of Jack Daniels from his travel flask.
The trip starts to improve at Heathrow, where he hooks up with his new camera op. Lily, natural redhead, five foot five, and most of it legs. Pouty, stoic, taciturn, and completely unfazeable. She must have been through every horror imaginable, packed into her 20 years. It showed in her eyes. A little Goth from Philadelphia, with a penchant for chronic, black nails, fresh warm blood and near invisible fabrics. A top-notch camera op, and an even better lay. Concorde to New York. They spend most of the flight tying up the restroom. They call it the Mach 1 club.
Finally, a long flight south and a helicopter out to the front. It is late morning, cloudless, the sun bright and stifling hot. From 500 feet they circle the devastation, while Lily works the helicopter’s huge news camera. All is still.
“To the darkened skies once more, and ever onward”, Lily intones. Magnus shoots an odd glance at the girl who never speaks, then realizes she was simply humming along with her ever-present iPod. The pilot sets them down and is off, also without a word.
Reporter and camerawoman walk in silence through the battlefield, sharing the last of a roach. It must have ended as abruptly and senselessly as it began. Rubble and bodies cleared, weeds begun to grow again over the blooded soil. Already the hallowed ground had acquired the quiet, eerie feeling of an ancient battlefield, like walking through the fields of Gettysburg, or Normandy.
The silence is finally broken by an incongruous thud as Magnus suddenly trips on a rusted, abandoned ration tin. As he lies face up on the broken ground, all the frustration bottled within boils to the surface. “Shit! Shit, we’re too damn late. There’s nothing here, nothing, no story, nothing. Shit!” He senses his Pulitzer slipping from his grasp.
With no better idea how to calm him down, Lily decides to make an opportunity of his horizontal position. She hikes up her abbreviated skirt and proceeds to defile the solemn battleground.
Busy dressing, they do not notice the old man approach. He is robed and barefoot, short, slightly pudgy, his face crinkled and reddened. He walks hunched, tired, as if all the weight of eons rests on his shoulders, and his mind.
“I know you. Magnus. Freelance journalist, impressive credentials. I wouldn’t worry too much about your Pulitzer, young man” he says by way of introduction. His accent is mildly odd, unplaceable.
“Shit, you startled me” he growls. Lily merely shrugs and glances at the old man impassively, with just the barest nod, perhaps a dim recognition from somewhere deep in her past.
He was primarily a print journalist, but some news junkies will know his name and face. Still, this strange old man seemed to know what he was thinking. He didn’t recall mentioning the Pulitzer out loud. Not that the entire press corps wouldn’t know how bad he wanted one, after the two times that by all rights it should have been his already.
“I won’t be accepting any prizes this time. This one is all over. Damn, timing just keeps biting me in the ass.”
“True enough, this war has ended, but war itself is eternal. Were there nothing left to fight over, human conflict would continue all the same. The desire to avenge, to dominate, to destroy what is different, is built deep into the fabric of humanity, generation after generation. From the first recorded battle at Megiddo to the Afghanistan conflict, it has always been so, and so shall it ever be. Even the peace of the grave is an illusion. Those who hate and fight are damned to hate and fight and kill and die forever. Even now, those on both sides who wrought such carnage here are preparing to begin anew.”
“And we who survive by selling the images of death, and those who sell the munitions to make it all possible, we are the vultures who feed on the corpses of the fallen.” This from Lily, delivered entirely deadpan. Magnus just glares at her. Probably the longest sentence she’s ever deigned to speak and it would have to be a missile directed right into his soul.
Ignoring the sharp barb from an unexpected quarter, his mind is on new possibilities. This crazy old man offered a tantalizing shred of hope. He might yet pull this off this time, finally. “What did you mean, they are preparing anew?”
“Come” the old man says simply. He walks slowly, in perfect cadence, ever so light of step. Magnus follows behind, taking pains to match the uncomfortable slow steps. Lily follows, off to the side, in her own world.
They crest a low hill into a mist, with fresh sweet grass beneath. Odd how the hot sun has not yet burned off the mist. As they crest another low hill, the mist is clear, and in the bright sunlight, they look down upon vast, impossibly neat rows of headstones, as far as the eye can see. At this distance there is nothing to mark the nationality or faction of the fallen.
A narrow cobblestone road leads through the vast cemetery. They pass in silence, rows of graves on either side. As they tire, they at last come to a black, ornate wrought iron fence with a gate, the standard issue graveyard fence. As the old man reaches to open the gate, he looks back. “Are you certain? There is no going back from here.” The old man steps on through. Victor Magnus pauses, nods, then follows. Lily simply steps through without pause.
A short ways further down the road they come upon a crypt, white marble, with Greco-roman pillars. Layers of dust mostly obscure the single name on the door. Only the first letter is partly visible. Probably half a W, he guessed, or possibly a V? He resisted the urge to run up and wipe off the dust.
The old man creaks open the crypt door and ushers them in. There is a single vault, with the drawer half open. Inside is a closed metal casket. He notices that the decorations on the walls, the vault, the casket, are all quills and parchments, ink bottles, and the like, and phrases he recognizes as Latin but cannot translate. The deceased must have been a writer of some kind, Magnus decides.
The old man leads them through a large oaken side door. Within the side chamber is an old fashioned cage type elevator, probably circa 1925. The machine was ornate brass, as if made for a fancy hotel. The sign proclaims this as the first floor. The old man presses the only button, marked with the down arrow, and they wait patiently for the car to arrive. As it opens, empty, the old man motions the journalist and the stoic camerawoman inside.
Oddly, only here in the elevator did he finally notice any smell, musty and mildewy, as if from decades of people riding the elevator in damp clothing.
As the door closes, he notices that the elevator has a single row of nine buttons, labeled L1, at the top, to L9, at the bottom. He wonders idly how one returns to the first floor.
“Would you mind pressing L6, please” the old man asks gently. Nearest the buttons, Lily complies impassively. “We have a beautiful and expansive grounds set up on Level 6.”
The rapid drop left Magnus’ stomach a couple of levels above him, and he fought to keep from retching. The only sensation of the whole weird sojourn, so far, to involve the least bit of physical discomfort. Suddenly the elevator comes to a screeching halt, and Magnus’ stomach at last catches up with him, leaving him crumpled on the floor. The old man held his feet and seemed quite unperturbed by the experience. Naturally, Lily didnt even notice the ride. Absolutely nothing fazed her anymore.
“I do apologize,” the old man said. “I tend to forget to warn first timers about that drop. This is the express.”
The door opens, and they step out into another small chamber. The old man motions them through a brass door, which clangs shut behind them, leaving no seam. He notices the lack of a door handle on the exterior side.
They are outdoors, on a high cliff. Off to their left, a difficult but manageable trail led to the plain below. They had left at mid-morning, but it was now clearly pre-dawn. How could it be four hours earlier? Could it be the next day, some 20 hours later? How long could they have been indoors? Or some other explanation.
Looking over the vista from the cliff, one could make out vast rolling steppes, dark forests and rivers, villages and magnificent cities, and a beach on a vast sea or ocean. It was indeed a vast canvas upon which the greatest of conflicts could unfold. Lily began to roll video, while Magnus snapped a few stills and began to mentally shape his impressions into first draft prose.
“Come,” said the old man. “We shall see the front.” He leads them down the path to the base of the cliff. It is much easier than it looks. At the base, they walk on lush damp wild grassland, through a pre-dawn mist.
Again topping a low ridge, they stare out over vast lines of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Slowly passing over the savannah moved the silhouettes of sleek helicopters, bristling with rocket firepower. A wing of Mirage fighter jets passed overhead, providing figher cover for a lumbering B-52 bomber. He recognizes a pair of F-14 fighters, carrier based, implying vast navies somewhere out upon that great sea. Line after line of hardware and hard looking troops, impressive in crisp fatigues.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” the old man asks. “Everything a commander could ask for. There will be generals and spies, ministers and queens, new weapons and vast armies, victory and burning, stinking bodies, glory and treachery, endless reversals and endless surprise. Soldiers are never lost permanently, only to be recycled, to charge into the cannon again and again and again.”
“Funny though,” he continued, with some hint of amusement. “They have no idea where they really are, no idea that they are damned to continue their fighting for all eternity. Ignorance can be bliss.”
“Your cellular telephone, portable computer, television transmitters and other devices will work perfectly here,” he continued. “You will be able to file your dispatches back home from the greatest front of all. You will of course want to censor some details, remain vague about where you are reporting from. But if you tell a good story, no one will mind. If you are half the wordsmith you know yourself to be, you will soon have your Pulitzer.”
“I confess, I too look forward to this conflict. For someday, the final reversal will come. The strongest of the survivors will at last band together, to rule the sixth level. And then they shall fight their way down to level nine, to at last challenge me. Eventually, they will prevail, and succeed me. Then at last I can put down this burden and rest.”
“But for now, I must bid you farewell. Your destiny awaits. And I have many more duties to perform.”
For the first time in years, Magnus was feeling truly happy. As crazy and bizarre as it all seemed, his dream was at last about to come true. But as a journalist, he had to ask. “By the way, old man, who are you?”
“Oh come now Mr. Journalist. You know the answer to that one. You didn’t really expect some silly childhood stereotype did you? Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.” The old one smiles at his little joke, then turns about face and strolls his slow, dignified stroll, back into the mist.
Magnus shoulders his laptop and camera bags and trudges toward the front lines, Lily strolling behind, impassive as always.
As they walk, Magnus begins to laugh to himself. Damn, this was all some weird kinda trip. Probably somebody slipped me some bad acid in that pot. Lily’s idea of a joke? All I know is I see a war ahead of me, and once again, hot damn, I smell Pulitzer!.
Lily ignored the laughter and continued strolling. She felt oddly at home here.
And so begins the Great War for Level 6.
Maybe it could become a short film, or get fleshed out into novel/feature length.
It was written in spring 2002, before the Iraq War, and should probably be updated to an Iraq or Afghanistan setting.
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The Battle for Level Six
(c) 2002 by Ntheon
Jerusalem. A sleazy motel room. Empty bottles of Absolut, Jack Daniels and cheap beer are strewn casually among the half eaten cartons of chop suey.
On the nightstand lies a battered laptop, a serviceable camera, a cell phone, on it’s charger, ringer off. Beside them, on a sturdy lanyard, a laminated press pass, emblazoned with the ANN logo. Tools of the trade. The travel alarm reads 4:27 a.m., local time.
The room is bathed in pearl white from the full moon and glorious stars, barely competing with the shimmering reds and blues from the tacky neon signs shining across the narrow boulevard, a crazy quilt mixture of Arabic, Hebrew and English, advertising everything anyone could possibly need. No questions asked.
As if on cue, another mortar round pierces the eerie calm, only to be answered by a flurry of small arms fire, and another cry from the wounded and dying. The jaded city huddles in and ignores the suffering. You can get used to anything they say. The calm night silence returns.
The frigid desert night breeze plays in through the wide-open window, caressing the sweaty, rumpled bed sheets and their three nude occupants.
Victor Magnus lies on his back, eyes closed, lips locked with Fatima Arafat. Upside down from them, Rachel Sharon alternates her oral attentions between Victor and Fatima.
So much in common, he thought absently as they briefly came up for air. Both stunning brunettes with finely chiseled Semitic features, both nineteen, both fashion models, both fixtures in the local nightclubs of this international city. And both of their grandfathers, world leaders, bent on killing each other.
Naturally the young ladies with so much in common had never met, until a certain cocky journalist accidentally found himself with two dates for the evening, and so thought to arrange this little impromptu summit in his motel room.
He returns to the activities at hand, switching his attention from Fatima to Rachel. Just as they get re-situated, an insistent banging at the door.
“Go away damn it. Don’t you people know not to bother a man when he’s with a lady? Or two.”
“Sirrah, a thousand pardons sirrah” came the nervous, heavily accented voice through the thin door. “Mr. Yates says he must speak with you. Urgent.”
“Oh shit. Sorry ladies, this one I gotta answer. It better be damned important” he mumbles as he disengages himself. The head of American News Network is one of the few people in this shitty world he did not lightly keep waiting.
He stumbles to the door and shoves about $10 worth of whatever passes for money around here under the door for the poor messenger. The girls frown briefly, then turn their attentions to each other.
Magnus checks the laptop. “You have ... 67 ... new emails.” Most from Yates, the rest from various women still stalking him. He flips open the cell phone and finds sixteen voicemails, thirteen from Yates, the rest from that little CNN photog chick from last week. She just won’t give up.
Damn, we’ve only been on this little bender for, what, twelve hours. Ok, maybe three days. Longer? Shit, I don’t remember. And my head’s starting to pound.
Ignoring the messages, he punches Yates, speed dial number one. The sleepy voice on the other end becomes suddenly animated. “Sweet Jesus man, I’ve been looking for you for four days now. What the Hell are you still doing in Jerusalem?”
“Er, there is a war on here sir.”
“Old hat. We’ve covered every angle. Twice. Listen, there’s a brand new scoop. Nobody is on this yet. We’re first. I just hope we’re not too late. It’s got everything, all the classic elements of a great story. War, carnage, suffering innocents, colorful characters, intrigue, betrayal, drugs, loot, sex.”
“OK Chief. Relax. I’m on it. Where?”
“Uh, well, can’t really tell you by phone. Your tickets are booked, pick them up at the airport.”
“Well ladies, duty calls. My work here is done. Maybe now you two can get your grandpas to the bargaining table.” They squealed enthusiastically, and then went back to work on each other.
That would be a nice fringe benefit. But he didn’t really give a damn one way or another. This place was getting a bit stale, and his mind was already on the next big story. Another war. Just need an angle. Some interviews. Hot damn! I smell Pulitzer...
A long flight from Jerusalem to London’s Heathrow. Endless security checks, surly customs officers. Shit I hate travel, Victor Magnus mumbles under his breath, sneaking another slug of Jack Daniels from his travel flask.
The trip starts to improve at Heathrow, where he hooks up with his new camera op. Lily, natural redhead, five foot five, and most of it legs. Pouty, stoic, taciturn, and completely unfazeable. She must have been through every horror imaginable, packed into her 20 years. It showed in her eyes. A little Goth from Philadelphia, with a penchant for chronic, black nails, fresh warm blood and near invisible fabrics. A top-notch camera op, and an even better lay. Concorde to New York. They spend most of the flight tying up the restroom. They call it the Mach 1 club.
Finally, a long flight south and a helicopter out to the front. It is late morning, cloudless, the sun bright and stifling hot. From 500 feet they circle the devastation, while Lily works the helicopter’s huge news camera. All is still.
“To the darkened skies once more, and ever onward”, Lily intones. Magnus shoots an odd glance at the girl who never speaks, then realizes she was simply humming along with her ever-present iPod. The pilot sets them down and is off, also without a word.
Reporter and camerawoman walk in silence through the battlefield, sharing the last of a roach. It must have ended as abruptly and senselessly as it began. Rubble and bodies cleared, weeds begun to grow again over the blooded soil. Already the hallowed ground had acquired the quiet, eerie feeling of an ancient battlefield, like walking through the fields of Gettysburg, or Normandy.
The silence is finally broken by an incongruous thud as Magnus suddenly trips on a rusted, abandoned ration tin. As he lies face up on the broken ground, all the frustration bottled within boils to the surface. “Shit! Shit, we’re too damn late. There’s nothing here, nothing, no story, nothing. Shit!” He senses his Pulitzer slipping from his grasp.
With no better idea how to calm him down, Lily decides to make an opportunity of his horizontal position. She hikes up her abbreviated skirt and proceeds to defile the solemn battleground.
Busy dressing, they do not notice the old man approach. He is robed and barefoot, short, slightly pudgy, his face crinkled and reddened. He walks hunched, tired, as if all the weight of eons rests on his shoulders, and his mind.
“I know you. Magnus. Freelance journalist, impressive credentials. I wouldn’t worry too much about your Pulitzer, young man” he says by way of introduction. His accent is mildly odd, unplaceable.
“Shit, you startled me” he growls. Lily merely shrugs and glances at the old man impassively, with just the barest nod, perhaps a dim recognition from somewhere deep in her past.
He was primarily a print journalist, but some news junkies will know his name and face. Still, this strange old man seemed to know what he was thinking. He didn’t recall mentioning the Pulitzer out loud. Not that the entire press corps wouldn’t know how bad he wanted one, after the two times that by all rights it should have been his already.
“I won’t be accepting any prizes this time. This one is all over. Damn, timing just keeps biting me in the ass.”
“True enough, this war has ended, but war itself is eternal. Were there nothing left to fight over, human conflict would continue all the same. The desire to avenge, to dominate, to destroy what is different, is built deep into the fabric of humanity, generation after generation. From the first recorded battle at Megiddo to the Afghanistan conflict, it has always been so, and so shall it ever be. Even the peace of the grave is an illusion. Those who hate and fight are damned to hate and fight and kill and die forever. Even now, those on both sides who wrought such carnage here are preparing to begin anew.”
“And we who survive by selling the images of death, and those who sell the munitions to make it all possible, we are the vultures who feed on the corpses of the fallen.” This from Lily, delivered entirely deadpan. Magnus just glares at her. Probably the longest sentence she’s ever deigned to speak and it would have to be a missile directed right into his soul.
Ignoring the sharp barb from an unexpected quarter, his mind is on new possibilities. This crazy old man offered a tantalizing shred of hope. He might yet pull this off this time, finally. “What did you mean, they are preparing anew?”
“Come” the old man says simply. He walks slowly, in perfect cadence, ever so light of step. Magnus follows behind, taking pains to match the uncomfortable slow steps. Lily follows, off to the side, in her own world.
They crest a low hill into a mist, with fresh sweet grass beneath. Odd how the hot sun has not yet burned off the mist. As they crest another low hill, the mist is clear, and in the bright sunlight, they look down upon vast, impossibly neat rows of headstones, as far as the eye can see. At this distance there is nothing to mark the nationality or faction of the fallen.
A narrow cobblestone road leads through the vast cemetery. They pass in silence, rows of graves on either side. As they tire, they at last come to a black, ornate wrought iron fence with a gate, the standard issue graveyard fence. As the old man reaches to open the gate, he looks back. “Are you certain? There is no going back from here.” The old man steps on through. Victor Magnus pauses, nods, then follows. Lily simply steps through without pause.
A short ways further down the road they come upon a crypt, white marble, with Greco-roman pillars. Layers of dust mostly obscure the single name on the door. Only the first letter is partly visible. Probably half a W, he guessed, or possibly a V? He resisted the urge to run up and wipe off the dust.
The old man creaks open the crypt door and ushers them in. There is a single vault, with the drawer half open. Inside is a closed metal casket. He notices that the decorations on the walls, the vault, the casket, are all quills and parchments, ink bottles, and the like, and phrases he recognizes as Latin but cannot translate. The deceased must have been a writer of some kind, Magnus decides.
The old man leads them through a large oaken side door. Within the side chamber is an old fashioned cage type elevator, probably circa 1925. The machine was ornate brass, as if made for a fancy hotel. The sign proclaims this as the first floor. The old man presses the only button, marked with the down arrow, and they wait patiently for the car to arrive. As it opens, empty, the old man motions the journalist and the stoic camerawoman inside.
Oddly, only here in the elevator did he finally notice any smell, musty and mildewy, as if from decades of people riding the elevator in damp clothing.
As the door closes, he notices that the elevator has a single row of nine buttons, labeled L1, at the top, to L9, at the bottom. He wonders idly how one returns to the first floor.
“Would you mind pressing L6, please” the old man asks gently. Nearest the buttons, Lily complies impassively. “We have a beautiful and expansive grounds set up on Level 6.”
The rapid drop left Magnus’ stomach a couple of levels above him, and he fought to keep from retching. The only sensation of the whole weird sojourn, so far, to involve the least bit of physical discomfort. Suddenly the elevator comes to a screeching halt, and Magnus’ stomach at last catches up with him, leaving him crumpled on the floor. The old man held his feet and seemed quite unperturbed by the experience. Naturally, Lily didnt even notice the ride. Absolutely nothing fazed her anymore.
“I do apologize,” the old man said. “I tend to forget to warn first timers about that drop. This is the express.”
The door opens, and they step out into another small chamber. The old man motions them through a brass door, which clangs shut behind them, leaving no seam. He notices the lack of a door handle on the exterior side.
They are outdoors, on a high cliff. Off to their left, a difficult but manageable trail led to the plain below. They had left at mid-morning, but it was now clearly pre-dawn. How could it be four hours earlier? Could it be the next day, some 20 hours later? How long could they have been indoors? Or some other explanation.
Looking over the vista from the cliff, one could make out vast rolling steppes, dark forests and rivers, villages and magnificent cities, and a beach on a vast sea or ocean. It was indeed a vast canvas upon which the greatest of conflicts could unfold. Lily began to roll video, while Magnus snapped a few stills and began to mentally shape his impressions into first draft prose.
“Come,” said the old man. “We shall see the front.” He leads them down the path to the base of the cliff. It is much easier than it looks. At the base, they walk on lush damp wild grassland, through a pre-dawn mist.
Again topping a low ridge, they stare out over vast lines of tanks and armored personnel carriers. Slowly passing over the savannah moved the silhouettes of sleek helicopters, bristling with rocket firepower. A wing of Mirage fighter jets passed overhead, providing figher cover for a lumbering B-52 bomber. He recognizes a pair of F-14 fighters, carrier based, implying vast navies somewhere out upon that great sea. Line after line of hardware and hard looking troops, impressive in crisp fatigues.
“Isn’t it magnificent?” the old man asks. “Everything a commander could ask for. There will be generals and spies, ministers and queens, new weapons and vast armies, victory and burning, stinking bodies, glory and treachery, endless reversals and endless surprise. Soldiers are never lost permanently, only to be recycled, to charge into the cannon again and again and again.”
“Funny though,” he continued, with some hint of amusement. “They have no idea where they really are, no idea that they are damned to continue their fighting for all eternity. Ignorance can be bliss.”
“Your cellular telephone, portable computer, television transmitters and other devices will work perfectly here,” he continued. “You will be able to file your dispatches back home from the greatest front of all. You will of course want to censor some details, remain vague about where you are reporting from. But if you tell a good story, no one will mind. If you are half the wordsmith you know yourself to be, you will soon have your Pulitzer.”
“I confess, I too look forward to this conflict. For someday, the final reversal will come. The strongest of the survivors will at last band together, to rule the sixth level. And then they shall fight their way down to level nine, to at last challenge me. Eventually, they will prevail, and succeed me. Then at last I can put down this burden and rest.”
“But for now, I must bid you farewell. Your destiny awaits. And I have many more duties to perform.”
For the first time in years, Magnus was feeling truly happy. As crazy and bizarre as it all seemed, his dream was at last about to come true. But as a journalist, he had to ask. “By the way, old man, who are you?”
“Oh come now Mr. Journalist. You know the answer to that one. You didn’t really expect some silly childhood stereotype did you? Pleased to meet you. Hope you guessed my name.” The old one smiles at his little joke, then turns about face and strolls his slow, dignified stroll, back into the mist.
Magnus shoulders his laptop and camera bags and trudges toward the front lines, Lily strolling behind, impassive as always.
As they walk, Magnus begins to laugh to himself. Damn, this was all some weird kinda trip. Probably somebody slipped me some bad acid in that pot. Lily’s idea of a joke? All I know is I see a war ahead of me, and once again, hot damn, I smell Pulitzer!.
Lily ignored the laughter and continued strolling. She felt oddly at home here.
And so begins the Great War for Level 6.
