Awakening, 2nd edition (56 page)

Someone different from them, different from their parents, who achieved nothing in life .
Someone different from their aimlessly existing friends . Someone different from greedy and drooling politicians on the TV screen. Someone different —someone with an infinite self-confidence, someone who knows no doubts, who is tormented by no complexes, who has nothing to prove to anybody. Someone who know s something they are not meant to know.

And since they don’t find anyone like this around them, they have to settle for charlatans and fakes. And they follow mediocre loudmouths who themselves are amazed by the results of their own loud and hollow words. But loudmouths don ’t know what to do with the crowds who gather to their loud bubbling. They have petty imagination s , ideas worthy of soap -opera villains and subconscious fear of anything truly ambitious, anything authentically grand. Regardless of their rhetoric, in their hearts they are only peanut politicians and almost always there ’s someone invisible standing in the shadow s behind them.

Most importantly, they stupidly try fighting a marvelous political system instead of using it to their benefit. The system that , despite many years of perfection, or perhaps because of these years, only appears impenetrable, but is, in fact, only waiting for a real Master to appear and take it. All the balance of power the system had been built for implies first of all the existence of that power. But when there ’s nothing but a surrogate left, true power once it gets inside will mold the system to its will, shaking and breaking the rotten boundaries and leaving the system to serve it.

In this country, in this civilization , people have forgotten what true faith in someone is. Yet, they are still people and this faith lives in them, unknown to them , unrecognized and unnoticeable. It nests inside their souls, ready to someday find its object of adoration. And then , interflowing to brooks, creeks, rivers , this faith of many people will turn into that unstoppable ferocious stream that carries true power within it. Inconceivable, unthinkable, limitless—power.

I’ll teach you what this shabby word , soiled by many sweaty, dirty, sticky Bandar-Log hands , really means. I will make your pointless , dull existence sensible. I will remind you what it means to live for someone else instead of living for yourself. For a breathtaking, dazzling goal and not for yourself. And I will give you this goal.

Once again, he felt a surge of that exhilarating, unforgettable, unmatched -by -anything -else feeling of ease. It came for the first time at that moment in the games room , when suddenly he realized he could control all of them like puppets. That he could see all the strings on which their unsophisticated feelings and desires—and therefore their actions—hung. It was at that moment that Kevin entered the room, dangling strings dragging behind him, and it was so simple to pick them up in one easy movement. And just ten minutes later , the first marionette was moving obediently. These strings are so obvious, so easy to use . . .

Alex was capable of seeing only a single thick rope labeled “Fear ” and kept yanking it every which way. Had he been smarter in using it, he would never have lost poor Alan ’s vote . And , above all, Alex was far from realizing that he himself was nothing but a puppet.

A game of chess. That’s what it was. A beaten analogy used by those who know nothing about power. By those who always mistake chessmen for the players. But in this case it suits. There was a game. Only it was not played against Chris or Joan or even Alex. They were all down there, at the board. Chessmen, fancying themselves as players. While at the opposite side of the board sat an experienced , comely player pretending to be a chess fan. An observer. One move, another move, a castling, a diverting defense . . . a slap in the face . . . an exchange sacrifice, a counterfeit neglect of the enemy ’s menacing queen . . . A multistep combination c alculated down to the last detail. Then—a sharp, unexpected attack, leveling everything in its way. Checkmate.

And nevertheless this was a trivial game. Not even a warm-up.

Suddenly, the surrounding walls slid apart, then fell down softly, opening an endless checkered space. There, full of naive confidence in their freedom, human figures , as if on a medieval Venetian painting , moved . And somewhere far away, at the opposite side, sat a vague formidable silhouette—the second player.

He always wins. His hourglass watch is inexorable, as is his scythe. It is impossible to defeat him. But this does not mean you can ’t challenge him. Only such challenge, such battle , is worth spending a life on. Because the ultimate game is the highest reward in itself.

Those who dared to fight that fight in the past understood this. A chosen few, whose names remained in the history annals forever. Traces of even their most ancient chess games still surface in laws and borders, in languages and rituals, in how people think and in what they worship. They understood the rules of the game, recognized that single player worth challenging, fully realized the inevitability of their own defeat at the end—and , still, despite all this, they dared to play. And their daring, melted together with the rarest inborn talent, bore fruit that most people can only look at in awe.

But before they understood the game, they had to understand something else. They had to understand themselves. They had discovered the source of all power—their will. They had to realize they were born to rule. Because you cannot change who you are. But you can recognize it.

The time has come for a new game. The whole country is a chessboard. The whole world is a chessboard. A board on which he is about to play a game never seen in history.

Michael shook his head cheerfully. The dark silhouette looming in the distance and the black-and-white squares slowly faded away , giving way to a mirror. For a minute Michael was peering into his own reflection. The reflection was returning an intent gaze of deep , dark eyes. Then suddenly it gave him a wink.

“For starters , I ’m going to become the president, ” Michael told it. “For starters.”

THE END

Please enjoy the following sample from Ray N. Kuili’s novel ette Overdose , currently available in Amazon Kindle Store.

Overdose

A Novelette

Ray N. Kuili

The robbery was unprecedentedly brazen.

That’s what the newspapers were about to call it tomorrow. Brazen. Brazen and bold. Some would even go as far as labeling it, “The Robbery of the Decade.” “The Robbery of the Century” sounds even better, but it would be too much of a stretch even for the local reporters. “Decade” is just about right. Headlines like that can work miracles even in this age of shrinking circulations. Yet there was nothing bold about this robbery. Dull and downright cheeky, maybe. But not bold. And, as usual, they’ll blame the police. They have this way of making cops looking worse than robbers. As if—“Lieutenant?”

Lieutenant Steve Gorton looked up.

Inspector Kelly’s smile was shining before his eyes like a shot from a toothpaste commercial. Gorton made an effort not to wince. Recently he had been making efforts like that rather often.

“Yes, inspector?”

“We’ve finished inspecting the place. No signs of a breakin. No prints anywhere. No doubt we’re dealing with a team of professionals. There must have been at least three of them. Maybe even four. And I think . . .” Kelly paused as if emphasizing the significance of what he was about to say, “I think they got some help.”

He lowered his voice and looked around.

“You know,
inside help. Someone had to turn off these cameras.”

“Certainly,” said Gorton, just to say something. “Have you already questioned everyone?”

“Everyone who’s already in. The branch manager just got here.”

“Keep talking to them as they arrive,” said Gorton, knowing full well that his directive was completely useless.

“Will do. What do you think about my theory?”

I think it’s just as dumb as all your other theories, Gorton wanted to reply. And I think you can take it and—“Very plausible,” he heard his own voice. “And why do you suppose there were three of them?”

Kelly livened up even more.

“Well it’s very obvious if you think about it. It’s not like this bank is in the middle of nowhere. This is 2

“I see. All right, you can go now.”

Asking Kelly why the robbers needed a personal driver was too much of an effort. When you’re in your late twenties and your fierce enthusiasm is rivaled only by your equally fierce idiocy, you have an answer for every question. For anyone else, this combination would have been a serious career inhibitor, but when your uncle happens to be the mayor, you’re getting a free pass on many things. As for your desire to make a name for yourself and your tendency to come up with grandiose theories that have more to do with Hollywood than with real life, they only make you more original.

Gorton sighed and discovered that Kelly was still towering next to him.

“Anything else?”

“You wanted to speak with the manager,” Kelly reminded him.

Gorton waved him away.

“Not anymore. I’m sure you can take care of this. In an hour, check who didn’t show up for work. Then give me the name and run a background check.”

Kelly looked puzzled.

“Why are you so sure someone won’t show up?”

“Intuition,” replied Gorton sourly.

Making efforts had become too hard.

*

“David Borovsky,” Kelly reported an hour later. “Forty-six years old, nineteen years in this bank. In fact, in this branch. Loan officer. A very dedicated and reliable employee. Quiet, but sociable. Always comes to work on time; moreover, typically he’s one of the first employees in the office. We tried calling him at home, but no one is picking up the phone.”

“Married?”

“Yes. His wife is also in finance, works in Prudential. They have a grownup daughter. She’s getting her master’s from some LA college.”

“I’m impressed,” said Gorton, surprised by the appreciative tone of his own voice.

Kelly smiled proudly.

“It wasn’t too hard. They all know everything about everyone. And Borovsky’s been here forever. Everyone says that if he didn’t call, something must have happened.”

“True,” Gorton agreed. “Something happened. I take it the branch manager is still here?”

“Yes. But I already spoke with him. Nothing useful. You said—”

“I know what I said. Everyone else had already showed up, right? Hand me your notes, please.”

*

“No,” the branch manager repeated for the third time. “This is impossible. Anyone but him. Borovsky couldn’t do it.”

He was fanning himself vehemently with a large white envelope. Drops of sweat glistened on his bald head despite the low humming of the air conditioner.

“Of course, it’s easy for you to suspect him—you don’t know him like I do. But this is ridiculous. A bank robbery? Borovsky wouldn’t steal a penny! He’s quiet and shy, and he’s a great employee. He just got sick. Can’t you get sick these days without becoming a suspect?”

He stopped fanning abruptly.

“You just want to close the case, don’t you? That’s what you’re after. You just need a scapegoat, right? But you know what? A scapegoat is not enough in this case. I need my money back. I don’t think you really understand the situation. My safe got cleaned out! Not a dime was left. Last night, this place was full of cash. This morning—nothing. So how’s declaring my employee a robber going to help me get those bills back?”

He resumed fanning with even greater vigor.

“By the way, your assistant—that nice young man over there—he’s talking about a gang of robbers. A gang . Now, that’s the direction I would expect your investigation to take. That would be so much more useful than suspecting a faithful, dedicated employee who’s been working here for ten years longer than I have!”

“Are you done?” asked Gorton.

The manager snorted derisively.

“We’ll give the gang theory all the attention it deserves,” Gorton assured him. “But in the meantime, I need to know more about Borovsky. Please tell me what you know about his interests, hobbies, habits and anything else that may be relevant.”

“Relevant . . .” For a moment the manager had a look on his face as if he was about to roll his eyes. “You’re wasting your time. But sure—why not? It’s your job, I guess.”

He heaved a sigh.

“He likes sports. I mean he’s a fan. He’s got a decent-sized collection of football stuff. Hobbies . . . well, Borovsky has been really into fishing recently. He’s been talking to everyone at the office about it. I’m sure he’ll tell you more when you speak with him.”

“Is he a good employee?”

“He’s a
great employee. Very dedicated, very diligent, a good team player. He’s always willing to do more—and that includes things he’s not responsible for. His customer satisfaction numbers have been great for years. He’s a very quiet, very dependable man. Certainly not the kind that causes trouble.”