Marcus Alexander Hart - The Oblivion Society

This book would not exist had it not been for the encouragement of Michael Greenholt, Timb Kuder, and Amanda Dague, or as I call them, Audience Alpha. Mike has inspired me with his Oblivion artwork from day one all the way through the final book cover. I hope that someday I can repay him for everything hes done for me and for this book. Timb always found something nice to say about the story, even when it sucked. And the world has Amanda to thank for the fact that this novel no longer contains a chapter based on explosive diarrhea.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Gary Fixler, Ben Jerred, Austin McKinley, Jer Warren, and Brian Young for their insightful critique. Thanks also to Will DeRooy, for doing such a fantastic job editing my labyrinthine prose into coherent English. Additional shouts of appreciation and praise go out to-Mariah Day and Gina Faustino, for promoting this book at Comic-Con 2005; Scott OBrien, for a Lost in Space rant from which I shamelessly plagiarized jokes;

Irina Gelman, for teaching me to curse in Russian;

Tom Murphy VII, for his generous font licensing;

Sherrie McKinley, for a ghastly suggestion;

the bang. improv family, for treating me like one of their own;

the LiveJournal community, for answering all of my dumb questions;

Mom and Dad, for understanding;

and all of the other helpers who have been expunged from my memory due to time, age, and cheap beer. You know who you are, and I thank you.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, I would like to thank you for reading The Oblivion Society. When youre finished, be sure to tell your friends exactly how much ass it kicks. The power of your word-of-mouth publicity may be the only thing that ultimately stands between Oblivion and well, oblivion.

- Marcus Alexander Hart

February 3, 2006

The summer sun rolled around the North Pole in a lazy circle, just as it had done through the countless summers of countless past millennia. There was no reason to expect this, at least, to change at the end of this particular millennium. After all, Earths axial tilt would not be affected by the impending Y2K bug.

On the northern tip of Norway, just inside the Arctic Circle, a single rocket stood amid the bustle of a busy launch pad. Through an agreement with NATO, the Fimbulvetr Astronomical Institute had obtained this obsolete Wormwood-132 long-range missile from the U.S. military. Although it was originally designed to carry an atomic warhead, in the hands of researchers it had been retrofitted with a sophisticated array of daytime auroral imaging instruments to be launched deep into the heart of the northern lights.

This mission was an admirable use of wartime technology repurposed to deepen Mans understanding of his universe, and the nations of the world universally commended the institute on its noble endeavor.

Or rather, they would have commended the institute, had they bothered to read its launch announcement. But the worlds leaders had much more important business to attend to than some insignificant Norwegian science experiment.

The president of the United States stuck his nose into his armpit and took an investigatory sniff. He recoiled with a pained wince and quickly re-buttoned his navy-blue suit jacket.

Hoo-boy, Bubba, he thought, you smell like the McDonalds fryer at the end of a long day.

He shrugged. Well, the coats not coming off tonight anyway. He leaned against an ancient white oak and let his gaze drift through the heavy tree cover and into the hazy yellow glow of a Maryland sunset. For a so-called

presidential retreat, Camp Bravo afforded him precious little privacy. It had taken him an hour to lose his Secret Service escort, but now he was finally alone. As he had promised the American people, the president had spent the afternoon trying to reconcile with his wife and daughter, but that wasnt really why he had come to Camp Bravo. The real reasons were these dense woods, this forgotten corner, and that collapsing perimeter fence.

The president smiled as his eyes scaled the twelve-foot fence that guarded the interior of the presidential retreat from the heathens of the outside world. This ever-vigilant sentry encircled the entire compound in an unbroken barrier of heavy-gauge chain link and razor wire. Unbroken, that is, except for one lapse of weathered steel that some force of nature or decay had broken through, slashing its mesh into a pair of rusty curtains.

The Secret Service didnt know about this place.

The first lady didnt know.

The Camp Bravo groundskeepers didnt even know.

Only one other person did.

The president pulled a cigar from his breast pocket. He put it in his mouth but didnt light it. He almost never smoked cigars, and when he did, he didnt inhale. The sun had now completely slipped below the horizon, and the president looked at his watch eagerly. He worried that perhaps his signal had been too subtle. No, it was fine. Unmistakable. He twirled the cigar in his fingers and daydreamed about what he could do with it if he wasnt going to smoke it.

Just then he heard a rustling, snapping advance through the bushes on the other side of the fence. The president flicked his tongue over his dry lips and waited a long, tense moment. He could hear hard-soled shoes pounding through the loose brush, step by weighty step. Finally, when his sense of anticipation had fully filled out his trousers, he saw a jet-black mound of hair emerge from the foliage, followed by a round, female face.

The presidents relationship with this particular White House intern had become somewhat sticky in recent days, literally before figuratively.

The intern walked up to the fence and peered through its corroded mesh coquettishly.

Good evening, Mr. President, she purred. Are you alone? The president grinned back at her from his side of the fence.

It depends on how you define alone, he said flirtatiously. I see you caught my speech this afternoon.

The intern blushed.

I know you were addressing the entire nation, but I felt like you were speaking only to me, she cooed. I especially liked the part about breaching the walls at the darkest twilight to meet between the tall trees. The presidents impossibly wide grin grew wider.

Well, if you like trees, come on in and Ill show you the executive branch. With an excited squeal the intern put her palms against the rusted scar in the fence and shoved her way through its ineffectual barrier. But while the ancient chain link of the perimeter fence slept on the job, its sharp young apprentice opened up one eager eye. Just as the interns heaving bosom pushed through the fence, it also pushed through the beam of an invisible laser grid, shattering the air of Camp Bravo with an earsplitting security klaxon!

The air was calm in the Peoples National Strategic Control Centre just outside of Beijing, China. Chairman Qian leafed listlessly through the evenings state-sponsored newspaper. It was full of the same old propaganda touting China as the most powerful nation on Earth. He sighed and took a sip of his oolong tea. If only it were true.

He looked around the room at the thirty sharply uniformed young men and women sitting at their computer terminals and tapping quietly at their keyboards. Actually, just young men. The chairman couldnt remember the last time he had actually seen a young woman. He sighed again.

One of the officers turned to him with an expression that completely failed to be surprise.

Mr. Chairman, he said, weve just received an urgent military communiqu

from one of our operatives in the field. Theres been an international incident, sir. The chairman stood up and smiled hungrily. It was about time. What good was being the leader of the largest standing army in the world if you never got to do anything with it? Finally, this old dragon was going to get a chance to roar! He put down his paper and teacup and issued a giddy order in his most restrained voice.