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<blockquote data-quote="Rodrigo Istalindir" data-source="post: 2432386" data-attributes="member: 2810"><p>**********Warning: Contains elements of political satire. ***********************</p><p></p><p>Rodrigo Istalindir – Two Score and Seven Years From Now</p><p></p><p> Although at the time it had caused a lot of hard-feelings and name-calling, by 2052 most folks who could remember the election of ’00 felt a little nostalgic. A few hanging chads seemed positively quaint compared to the current fiasco. And unlike the first Bush-Gore election, this one wasn’t going to resolve itself anywhere near as neatly.</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p> “I don’t care who you have to kill to get it, just get it,” Henderson growled at his assistant. “We can’t let the other parties get out in front on this.”</p><p></p><p> “Yes, sir,” the flunky said.</p><p></p><p> Around them, political movers and shakers mingled and made deals. Henderson always threw good parties, and this was no exception. While the muckety-mucks congregated in small groups, the spouses wandered the house, admiring Henderson’s extensive collection of 20th Century Kitsch. </p><p></p><p> “Who are the Neo-Retro-Democrats going after?”</p><p></p><p> “We think JFK. We have an inside source at the FBI that told us the National Archives were broken into last week. Apparently the dress was taken.”</p><p></p><p> “So it really was there? Huh.”</p><p></p><p> “We know the ProgReps are hung up on Reagan. Won’t work. A young one won’t do, and you know how the aging process affects the end result.”</p><p></p><p> “Yeah. Suckers. They should have known better. We know where they got the sample?” Henderson asked.</p><p></p><p> “Not a clue. The Greens are going after Nader, but he had himself cremated and turned into compost. The Social Capitalists are split. Half want Perot, the other half want Streisand. They never agree on anything anyway.”</p><p></p><p> “We need something big. We’re trailing in the polls, and we still don’t have a candidate. It’s less than two years to New Hampshire.”</p><p></p><p> “There is one possibility. It’s a long shot. It won’t be cheap, either,” warned the political operative. </p><p></p><p> “Who?”</p><p></p><p> Michelle looked around to make sure no one was near, then leaned in close and whispered. Henderson stared at her for a moment, then smiled.</p><p></p><p> “You think he can do it?”</p><p></p><p> “If anyone can, it’s him. Do I have a blank check on this operation?”</p><p></p><p> “No. But you do have an untraceable account in the Caymans with $12,000,000 in it.”</p><p></p><p> “That’ll do. I’ll keep you informed of our progress” </p><p></p><p> “You’d better.” Henderson said.</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p> Michelle was worried. When she’d told Henderson she could make this work, she was putting her political future on the line. Succeed, and she’d be some dead president’s chief-of-staff someday. Fail, and she’d be stuck running campaigns for dogcatcher.</p><p></p><p> She rode the elevator to the loft. The music was loud, and she could smell tobacco all the way at the end of the hall. Freaks, she thought. Why they had to smoke that nasty stuff instead of marijuana was a mystery. </p><p></p><p> She approached the door and knocked until it opened. An insanely drunk Rastafarian stared at her, head bopping to a much different beat than that blaring from the walls.</p><p> </p><p> “Hey, blondie, whatcha doin’ out in the hall.”</p><p></p><p> Michelle pushed past him and into the loft. The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the living area, and a hundred people danced and drank and passed out and puked, in no particular order. She waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then started weaving her way through the crowd. </p><p></p><p> She saw her contact at the far end, near a kitchen so small it seemed like an afterthought. The man was tall, lean. He had himself altered to look like an action vid star from the turn of the century. By the way the muscle was starting to fade, he was due for a refresh. (Picture 1) Good. If he had let himself start to go, it meant he needed money. It was always nice to be able to bargain from a position of strength.</p><p></p><p> “Harold? Can we go somewhere private to talk?” Michelle asked.</p><p></p><p> Harold looked right through her.</p><p></p><p> Michelle sighed.</p><p></p><p> “Vin, can we go somewhere private to talk?” she repeated.</p><p></p><p> Harold’s eyes met hers.</p><p></p><p> “This way,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly.</p><p></p><p> Harold led her to a back room and shut the door. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scrambler. The device would prevent any electronic surveillance. They couldn’t use it for long – the You Are a Patriot, Aren’t You? Act of ’12 had outlawed them, and the police would pick up on it pretty quick.</p><p></p><p> “I understand you can obtain a sample of the individual in question?” Michelle asked?</p><p></p><p> “Yeah, I can get it. It’s gonna cost ya, though.” Harold replied.</p><p></p><p> “How do I know its authentic?”</p><p></p><p> “It’s authentic. My contact was working at the renovation of the theatre when they broke through to a sublevel that wasn’t on any of the plans. When he saw the stains on the chair, he knew right away what it was.”</p><p></p><p> “How much?”</p><p></p><p> “Ten million.”</p><p></p><p> Michelle laughed.</p><p></p><p> “Get real. For that kind of money I could get George or Tom.”</p><p></p><p> “Then get them. You want this one, it’s ten.”</p><p></p><p> “Five up front. Plus another 5 if we win the election.”</p><p></p><p> “Deal.”</p><p></p><p> “Deal.”</p><p></p><p> Michelle handed him a chip. </p><p></p><p> “Here’s the address and passkey. Can you deliver by the weekend?”</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p> Two figures watched from behind glass as the technicians in the sterile room scraped a bit of 200-year-old blood off the chair recovered from the bowels of Ford’s Theatre.</p><p></p><p> “You really think this isn’t just a fad?” Michelle asked.</p><p></p><p> “No, this is the wave of the future, kid. Once the Supremes ruled that the 13th Amendment only applied to clones of people born after 2008, it was only a matter of time,” Henderson replied.</p><p></p><p> “So, we’re going to clone Abraham Lincoln, force-grow him to 35 years old, and try to get him elected President of the United States?”</p><p></p><p> “Yeah. Well, sorta. We can’t go through the normal vat process. We have to do this one in utero. Can’t have a sore loser dragging us into court over the ‘natural born citizen’ bit. Once the lucky mom squirts him out, though, we’ll start the accelerated growth drugs.”</p><p></p><p> “And you’ll be the first man in history to own a president.”</p><p></p><p> “Hardly the first, kid,” he laughed. “Hardly the first.”</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p>Twenty months later, Michelle still had trouble believing it. It was uncanny. On the other side of the two way mirror, a middle-aged Abraham Lincoln sat in an isolation chamber, enmeshed in VR gear. The screen in front of Michelle showed Abe giving the Gettysburg Address.</p><p></p><p>Authenticity was the key. If you wanted the public to vote for a legend, he had to not only look the part. He had to personify history, carry on his shoulders the weight of his progenitor’s legacy, and convince people that he had inherited the brilliance and compassion and steely resolve in addition to the gangly frame and hairy mole.</p><p></p><p>The rapid growth process was hard on the subject, not to mention expensive and dangerous. Producing a 35 year old clone with the mind of an infant wouldn’t do. The debates were all style over substance, but you still had to recognize your own name. </p><p></p><p>It was awkward for Michelle. It was like having a child and watching him grow up in a year. One minute you were helping him learn how to walk, the next you were discussing the trade deficit. Maybe some of Abe’s legendary willpower was genetic, Michelle thought. God only knows how the clone managed to not go stark raving mad.</p><p></p><p>The VR immersions helped. They could stretch subjective time, making the subject experience months of virtual life in a matter of days of real-time. Michelle and Abe had had plenty of virtual time to get acquainted, and had become something like friends.</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p>“It’s a big night -- the first debate. People have high expectations. After all, the Lincoln-Douglass debates set the standard,” Abe said.</p><p></p><p>He leaned back, stretched his long legs, and wiggled his toes. (Picture 2) There was still some residual pain from the growth regimen, and he had to take frequent breaks while on the campaign trail. He’d spent the entire morning speaking and pressing the flesh at some ancient building his gene-parent had supposedly slept in two centuries before.</p><p></p><p>“You’ll do fine,” Michelle said. “It’s just going to be you and FDR.”</p><p></p><p>“What about Clinton? Don’t tell me the NeoRetroDems are dropping out?”</p><p></p><p>“Yeah, and the Feminist Army, too. Drudge is about to post pictures of Clinton in a compromising situation with Susan B. Anthony.”</p><p></p><p>“Huh. Guess not being able to keep it in your pants is genetic.”</p><p></p><p>Michelle laughed.</p><p></p><p>“Guess so. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had gotten a decent sample from Jackie’s dress, they’d have had the same problem.”</p><p></p><p>“Anyway,” she continued, “you’ll cream FDR. People aren’t buying into him. They should have given him polio, or at least had him sit in a wheelchair. They’re screwing up their own image.”</p><p></p><p>“I’m glad they didn’t. I’d start to worry you all were going to have me shot.”</p><p></p><p>“That’s not funny, Abe. I’d never let them do that to you. Now come on. One more hour of kissing babies and shaking hands, then you can take a nap before the debate.”</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p> Michelle sat with Abe and Henderson watching the returns. Abe was well ahead, and it appeared he would be the 50th President of the United States. Since the abolishment of the Electoral College, votes were tabulated electronically and a winner declared at midnight Pacific time. The swearing-in would come the following day.</p><p></p><p> “Well, I’m going to bed,” Henderson yawned. “Make sure you have the inauguration speech I had written for you memorized, Abe.”</p><p></p><p> “Yes, sir.”</p><p></p><p> “Tme for me to head home, too,” Michelle said. “I’ll meet you here in the morning, Abe, and we’ll go over your speech one more time.” </p><p></p><p> Abe heard the door close, and sat alone watching as the final results were displayed on the screen. He switched off the vid, then pulled out a computer tablet. He pulled up a document, and started writing.</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p> Michelle was awakened by the vidscreen blaring the high-pitched warble indicating a priority incoming call. Sitting up in her bed, she brushed her hair from her eyes and acknowledged the call.</p><p></p><p> “What the hell is he up to?” Henderson shouted.</p><p></p><p> “Huh? What are you talking about?”</p><p></p><p> “Abe, the ungrateful little bastard. I made him the most powerful man in the free world, and this is how he repays me? He’s my property – I’ll destroy him piece by piece,” he raged.</p><p></p><p> “Slow down, Mr. Henderson. Start from the beginning.”</p><p></p><p> “He left with the Secret Service before dawn. Told them that I was to remain under house arrest. Then I found this.”</p><p></p><p> Henderson held a computer tablet up to the vidscreen. Michelle grabbed the remote and had it zoom in so she could read it.</p><p></p><p> “Oh. Oh, my.”</p><p></p><p> “He thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t even play in the same league as me. Does he really think he can’t be replaced?”</p><p></p><p> “What do you mean?”</p><p></p><p> “Do you think I’d take a chance on something happening to him? I have a half-dozen Abes squirreled away just in case. Some of his Secret Service agents are on my payroll. I’ll kill the freak and substitute one of the others.”</p><p></p><p> “Sir, don’t do anything rash. I’ll be right over.”</p><p></p><p> Michelle disconnected the call and scrambled to get dressed. Hopping in her speeder, she raced to Henderson’s mansion in Georgetown. She leapt from the vehicle and raced up the walk. She waved her credentials at the Secret Service agent.</p><p></p><p> “I’m sorry, ma’am. But President Lincoln has ordered us to secure the premises.”</p><p></p><p> “He said Henderson couldn’t leave – he didn’t say anything about other people going in, did he?”</p><p></p><p> “Well, uh, no.”</p><p></p><p> She stared at him.</p><p></p><p> “Ok, ma’am, I guess you can go in.”</p><p></p><p> She stormed past the agent and into the house. She heard Henderson ranting and raving in the study. She found him sitting in his easy chair, back to the doorway. An empty bottle of Scotch lay on the floor.</p><p></p><p> “Sir, let’s discuss this. We don’t know for sure that…..”</p><p></p><p> “Too late, Michelle. I already gave the order. He’ll be dead before he takes the oath, and #2 is already en-route.”</p><p></p><p> “Call it off. Dammit, Henderson, you can’t do this.”</p><p></p><p> “I can and will. I own him. It’s perfectly legal.”</p><p></p><p> “Sir, please.”</p><p></p><p> Michelle picked up a knick-knack from the shelf. It was heavy, an ugly little ceramic gnome from the 1990s. She crept up behind Henderson.</p><p></p><p> “Knock it off, Michelle. You know, you’re way to close to him. Maybe this was your idea. Consider yourself fired.”</p><p></p><p> With a cry, she brought the figurine down on Henderson’s head. (Picture 4) There was a sickening crunch as his skull fractured, and he pitched forward from the chair. He lay on the carpet, a bright red pool spreading on the floor.</p><p></p><p> Michelle dropped the gnome and sprinted for the door. She whipped it open, intent on alerting the agent to the threat to the President. She was just about to blurt it out when she saw he wasn’t alone. Another agent had appeared while she was inside.</p><p></p><p> “Can I help you, Miss?” the new agent asked.</p><p></p><p> “You’ve got to get word to the President. Someone on his security detail is going to try and kill him.”</p><p></p><p> The agent looked at her.</p><p></p><p> “Yes, I know,” he said, and with one fluid motion he drew his pistol and shot the other agent in the chest.</p><p></p><p> “Inside. Now,” he ordered.</p><p></p><p> Michelle ducked back inside and slammed the door before the agent could enter. She took the keycard Henderson had given her and quickly secured it. She knew it would only be a moment before the agent used his override. She dashed to the back of the house, and out the door. She nearly tripped over the body of the agent who had apparently been guarding the back entrance. </p><p></p><p> She rummaged through his pockets until she found his security card, then quickly swiped it through the scanner at the door and locked it down. Hopefully, she thought, the other agent’s override wouldn’t work.</p><p></p><p> She sprinted across the lawn and climbed over the wall into the neighbor’s property. She crossed the yard and jumped over the small hedge. Opposite from her was a public park, perfectly manicured and with almost no place to hide.</p><p></p><p>She was about ready to panic when she spotted a crowd of people waiting to get their picture taken with one of the mounted Park rangers. He was standing beside the genetically engineered squirrel whose adaptability to the urban environment had made them the perfect replacement for horses.</p><p></p><p>She pushed her way through the crowd and edged close to the beast. The ranger was distracted by a bunch of snotty little brats pushing and shoving. Halfway through the 21st century, and DC still attracted rubes who acted like they’d never experienced civilization before.</p><p></p><p>She knew she had to act fast. She reached out, pretending to pet the squirrel, and took hold of the reins. With a swift motion, she leapt into the saddle and shook the reins. </p><p></p><p>With a giant bound, the neo-squirrel cleared the crowd of tourists and headed for the street. (Picture 3) The ranger, taken aback, reached vainly for the reins. In seconds, Michelle had left them behind and was galloping towards the Mall.</p><p></p><p>Minutes later, she had reached the spot near the Capitol where the inauguration would be held. She climbed down from the squirrel and tried to blend into the crowd. She had to reach Abe to warn him, but she had no idea how she was going to get past the Secret Service.</p><p></p><p>She was still trying to devise a plan when someone grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear.</p><p></p><p>“Secret Service. Come with me, ma’am.”</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p></p><p>Twenty minutes later, she was locked inside a room in the Capitol. She was frightened near to tears, and any minute expected a Secret Service agent to come in and shoot her.</p><p></p><p>She panicked when she heard someone unlock the door. She frantically searched the room for a weapon, but there was nothing but a few ornamental books and some throw pillows.</p><p></p><p>The Secret Service agent from Henderson’s house entered. Glaring at her, he pulled his pistol from its holster and flicked the safety.</p><p></p><p>“You are a pain in the ass, missy.”</p><p></p><p>Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. </p><p></p><p> She heard the sharp crack of the pistol, and nearly fainted before realizing she hadn’t felt anything.</p><p></p><p> She opened her eyes to see the agent lying dead on the floor. </p><p></p><p> “It’s ok, Michelle. Everything is under control.”</p><p></p><p> She whirled. An agent stood in front of cleverly disguised panel. Behind him, a tall gangly figure stooped low to avoid banging his head.</p><p></p><p> “Oh, Abe. Thank God.”</p><p></p><p> The tall figure moved into the room. Another appeared at the secret entrance, and then another. Soon, there were six identical Abraham Lincolns in the room. </p><p></p><p> “Ok, what’s going on here?” she asked. “And which one of you is the President?”</p><p></p><p> Abe – her Abe – stepped forward.</p><p></p><p> “That would be me, Michelle. And what’s going on here is an attempted coup. Fortunately, my brothers were more loyal to me than to Henderson. They contacted me as soon as he tried to activate his little plot.”</p><p></p><p> “I’m sorry you were in danger. I sent loyal agents to your house, but I didn’t know you’d gone to Henderson’s until it was too late.”</p><p></p><p> “Speaking of which, you might be relieved to know that the traitor will survive long enough to be tried and hanged,” he finished.</p><p></p><p> “Good. I guess. Very sloppy, leaving that tablet where he could find it, Abe.”</p><p></p><p> “What do you want, Michelle? I’m only two,” he grinned.</p><p></p><p> “Now, if you’ll care to accompany me, I have a short speech to give.”</p><p></p><p>▪</p><p> Michelle stood in the front row as the Chief Justice administered the oath of office, a chill running through her as Abe recited ‘… and defend the Constitution of the United States’.</p><p></p><p> As the applause died down, Abe stepped towards the podium and began to speak.</p><p></p><p> “Fellow Americans. As my distant ancestor was reknowned for his brevity, I shall endeavor to follow in his footsteps in that regard as well. Accordingly, I now make a new ‘Emancipation Proclamation.’ From this day forth, let all men and women, natural born and clone alike, share in the same rights and privileges to which all citizens of this great nation are entitled.”</p><p></p><p> Abe paused as a thunderous roar of approval came from the crowd. </p><p></p><p> “Bet Henderson wishes he’d gone for Nixon,” Michelle thought.</p></blockquote><p></p>
[QUOTE="Rodrigo Istalindir, post: 2432386, member: 2810"] **********Warning: Contains elements of political satire. *********************** Rodrigo Istalindir – Two Score and Seven Years From Now Although at the time it had caused a lot of hard-feelings and name-calling, by 2052 most folks who could remember the election of ’00 felt a little nostalgic. A few hanging chads seemed positively quaint compared to the current fiasco. And unlike the first Bush-Gore election, this one wasn’t going to resolve itself anywhere near as neatly. ▪ “I don’t care who you have to kill to get it, just get it,” Henderson growled at his assistant. “We can’t let the other parties get out in front on this.” “Yes, sir,” the flunky said. Around them, political movers and shakers mingled and made deals. Henderson always threw good parties, and this was no exception. While the muckety-mucks congregated in small groups, the spouses wandered the house, admiring Henderson’s extensive collection of 20th Century Kitsch. “Who are the Neo-Retro-Democrats going after?” “We think JFK. We have an inside source at the FBI that told us the National Archives were broken into last week. Apparently the dress was taken.” “So it really was there? Huh.” “We know the ProgReps are hung up on Reagan. Won’t work. A young one won’t do, and you know how the aging process affects the end result.” “Yeah. Suckers. They should have known better. We know where they got the sample?” Henderson asked. “Not a clue. The Greens are going after Nader, but he had himself cremated and turned into compost. The Social Capitalists are split. Half want Perot, the other half want Streisand. They never agree on anything anyway.” “We need something big. We’re trailing in the polls, and we still don’t have a candidate. It’s less than two years to New Hampshire.” “There is one possibility. It’s a long shot. It won’t be cheap, either,” warned the political operative. “Who?” Michelle looked around to make sure no one was near, then leaned in close and whispered. Henderson stared at her for a moment, then smiled. “You think he can do it?” “If anyone can, it’s him. Do I have a blank check on this operation?” “No. But you do have an untraceable account in the Caymans with $12,000,000 in it.” “That’ll do. I’ll keep you informed of our progress” “You’d better.” Henderson said. ▪ Michelle was worried. When she’d told Henderson she could make this work, she was putting her political future on the line. Succeed, and she’d be some dead president’s chief-of-staff someday. Fail, and she’d be stuck running campaigns for dogcatcher. She rode the elevator to the loft. The music was loud, and she could smell tobacco all the way at the end of the hall. Freaks, she thought. Why they had to smoke that nasty stuff instead of marijuana was a mystery. She approached the door and knocked until it opened. An insanely drunk Rastafarian stared at her, head bopping to a much different beat than that blaring from the walls. “Hey, blondie, whatcha doin’ out in the hall.” Michelle pushed past him and into the loft. The furniture had been pushed to the edges of the living area, and a hundred people danced and drank and passed out and puked, in no particular order. She waited until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, then started weaving her way through the crowd. She saw her contact at the far end, near a kitchen so small it seemed like an afterthought. The man was tall, lean. He had himself altered to look like an action vid star from the turn of the century. By the way the muscle was starting to fade, he was due for a refresh. (Picture 1) Good. If he had let himself start to go, it meant he needed money. It was always nice to be able to bargain from a position of strength. “Harold? Can we go somewhere private to talk?” Michelle asked. Harold looked right through her. Michelle sighed. “Vin, can we go somewhere private to talk?” she repeated. Harold’s eyes met hers. “This way,” he said, his voice deep and gravelly. Harold led her to a back room and shut the door. He opened a desk drawer and pulled out a scrambler. The device would prevent any electronic surveillance. They couldn’t use it for long – the You Are a Patriot, Aren’t You? Act of ’12 had outlawed them, and the police would pick up on it pretty quick. “I understand you can obtain a sample of the individual in question?” Michelle asked? “Yeah, I can get it. It’s gonna cost ya, though.” Harold replied. “How do I know its authentic?” “It’s authentic. My contact was working at the renovation of the theatre when they broke through to a sublevel that wasn’t on any of the plans. When he saw the stains on the chair, he knew right away what it was.” “How much?” “Ten million.” Michelle laughed. “Get real. For that kind of money I could get George or Tom.” “Then get them. You want this one, it’s ten.” “Five up front. Plus another 5 if we win the election.” “Deal.” “Deal.” Michelle handed him a chip. “Here’s the address and passkey. Can you deliver by the weekend?” ▪ Two figures watched from behind glass as the technicians in the sterile room scraped a bit of 200-year-old blood off the chair recovered from the bowels of Ford’s Theatre. “You really think this isn’t just a fad?” Michelle asked. “No, this is the wave of the future, kid. Once the Supremes ruled that the 13th Amendment only applied to clones of people born after 2008, it was only a matter of time,” Henderson replied. “So, we’re going to clone Abraham Lincoln, force-grow him to 35 years old, and try to get him elected President of the United States?” “Yeah. Well, sorta. We can’t go through the normal vat process. We have to do this one in utero. Can’t have a sore loser dragging us into court over the ‘natural born citizen’ bit. Once the lucky mom squirts him out, though, we’ll start the accelerated growth drugs.” “And you’ll be the first man in history to own a president.” “Hardly the first, kid,” he laughed. “Hardly the first.” ▪ Twenty months later, Michelle still had trouble believing it. It was uncanny. On the other side of the two way mirror, a middle-aged Abraham Lincoln sat in an isolation chamber, enmeshed in VR gear. The screen in front of Michelle showed Abe giving the Gettysburg Address. Authenticity was the key. If you wanted the public to vote for a legend, he had to not only look the part. He had to personify history, carry on his shoulders the weight of his progenitor’s legacy, and convince people that he had inherited the brilliance and compassion and steely resolve in addition to the gangly frame and hairy mole. The rapid growth process was hard on the subject, not to mention expensive and dangerous. Producing a 35 year old clone with the mind of an infant wouldn’t do. The debates were all style over substance, but you still had to recognize your own name. It was awkward for Michelle. It was like having a child and watching him grow up in a year. One minute you were helping him learn how to walk, the next you were discussing the trade deficit. Maybe some of Abe’s legendary willpower was genetic, Michelle thought. God only knows how the clone managed to not go stark raving mad. The VR immersions helped. They could stretch subjective time, making the subject experience months of virtual life in a matter of days of real-time. Michelle and Abe had had plenty of virtual time to get acquainted, and had become something like friends. ▪ “It’s a big night -- the first debate. People have high expectations. After all, the Lincoln-Douglass debates set the standard,” Abe said. He leaned back, stretched his long legs, and wiggled his toes. (Picture 2) There was still some residual pain from the growth regimen, and he had to take frequent breaks while on the campaign trail. He’d spent the entire morning speaking and pressing the flesh at some ancient building his gene-parent had supposedly slept in two centuries before. “You’ll do fine,” Michelle said. “It’s just going to be you and FDR.” “What about Clinton? Don’t tell me the NeoRetroDems are dropping out?” “Yeah, and the Feminist Army, too. Drudge is about to post pictures of Clinton in a compromising situation with Susan B. Anthony.” “Huh. Guess not being able to keep it in your pants is genetic.” Michelle laughed. “Guess so. Wouldn’t have mattered if they had gotten a decent sample from Jackie’s dress, they’d have had the same problem.” “Anyway,” she continued, “you’ll cream FDR. People aren’t buying into him. They should have given him polio, or at least had him sit in a wheelchair. They’re screwing up their own image.” “I’m glad they didn’t. I’d start to worry you all were going to have me shot.” “That’s not funny, Abe. I’d never let them do that to you. Now come on. One more hour of kissing babies and shaking hands, then you can take a nap before the debate.” ▪ Michelle sat with Abe and Henderson watching the returns. Abe was well ahead, and it appeared he would be the 50th President of the United States. Since the abolishment of the Electoral College, votes were tabulated electronically and a winner declared at midnight Pacific time. The swearing-in would come the following day. “Well, I’m going to bed,” Henderson yawned. “Make sure you have the inauguration speech I had written for you memorized, Abe.” “Yes, sir.” “Tme for me to head home, too,” Michelle said. “I’ll meet you here in the morning, Abe, and we’ll go over your speech one more time.” Abe heard the door close, and sat alone watching as the final results were displayed on the screen. He switched off the vid, then pulled out a computer tablet. He pulled up a document, and started writing. ▪ Michelle was awakened by the vidscreen blaring the high-pitched warble indicating a priority incoming call. Sitting up in her bed, she brushed her hair from her eyes and acknowledged the call. “What the hell is he up to?” Henderson shouted. “Huh? What are you talking about?” “Abe, the ungrateful little bastard. I made him the most powerful man in the free world, and this is how he repays me? He’s my property – I’ll destroy him piece by piece,” he raged. “Slow down, Mr. Henderson. Start from the beginning.” “He left with the Secret Service before dawn. Told them that I was to remain under house arrest. Then I found this.” Henderson held a computer tablet up to the vidscreen. Michelle grabbed the remote and had it zoom in so she could read it. “Oh. Oh, my.” “He thinks he’s won, but he doesn’t even play in the same league as me. Does he really think he can’t be replaced?” “What do you mean?” “Do you think I’d take a chance on something happening to him? I have a half-dozen Abes squirreled away just in case. Some of his Secret Service agents are on my payroll. I’ll kill the freak and substitute one of the others.” “Sir, don’t do anything rash. I’ll be right over.” Michelle disconnected the call and scrambled to get dressed. Hopping in her speeder, she raced to Henderson’s mansion in Georgetown. She leapt from the vehicle and raced up the walk. She waved her credentials at the Secret Service agent. “I’m sorry, ma’am. But President Lincoln has ordered us to secure the premises.” “He said Henderson couldn’t leave – he didn’t say anything about other people going in, did he?” “Well, uh, no.” She stared at him. “Ok, ma’am, I guess you can go in.” She stormed past the agent and into the house. She heard Henderson ranting and raving in the study. She found him sitting in his easy chair, back to the doorway. An empty bottle of Scotch lay on the floor. “Sir, let’s discuss this. We don’t know for sure that…..” “Too late, Michelle. I already gave the order. He’ll be dead before he takes the oath, and #2 is already en-route.” “Call it off. Dammit, Henderson, you can’t do this.” “I can and will. I own him. It’s perfectly legal.” “Sir, please.” Michelle picked up a knick-knack from the shelf. It was heavy, an ugly little ceramic gnome from the 1990s. She crept up behind Henderson. “Knock it off, Michelle. You know, you’re way to close to him. Maybe this was your idea. Consider yourself fired.” With a cry, she brought the figurine down on Henderson’s head. (Picture 4) There was a sickening crunch as his skull fractured, and he pitched forward from the chair. He lay on the carpet, a bright red pool spreading on the floor. Michelle dropped the gnome and sprinted for the door. She whipped it open, intent on alerting the agent to the threat to the President. She was just about to blurt it out when she saw he wasn’t alone. Another agent had appeared while she was inside. “Can I help you, Miss?” the new agent asked. “You’ve got to get word to the President. Someone on his security detail is going to try and kill him.” The agent looked at her. “Yes, I know,” he said, and with one fluid motion he drew his pistol and shot the other agent in the chest. “Inside. Now,” he ordered. Michelle ducked back inside and slammed the door before the agent could enter. She took the keycard Henderson had given her and quickly secured it. She knew it would only be a moment before the agent used his override. She dashed to the back of the house, and out the door. She nearly tripped over the body of the agent who had apparently been guarding the back entrance. She rummaged through his pockets until she found his security card, then quickly swiped it through the scanner at the door and locked it down. Hopefully, she thought, the other agent’s override wouldn’t work. She sprinted across the lawn and climbed over the wall into the neighbor’s property. She crossed the yard and jumped over the small hedge. Opposite from her was a public park, perfectly manicured and with almost no place to hide. She was about ready to panic when she spotted a crowd of people waiting to get their picture taken with one of the mounted Park rangers. He was standing beside the genetically engineered squirrel whose adaptability to the urban environment had made them the perfect replacement for horses. She pushed her way through the crowd and edged close to the beast. The ranger was distracted by a bunch of snotty little brats pushing and shoving. Halfway through the 21st century, and DC still attracted rubes who acted like they’d never experienced civilization before. She knew she had to act fast. She reached out, pretending to pet the squirrel, and took hold of the reins. With a swift motion, she leapt into the saddle and shook the reins. With a giant bound, the neo-squirrel cleared the crowd of tourists and headed for the street. (Picture 3) The ranger, taken aback, reached vainly for the reins. In seconds, Michelle had left them behind and was galloping towards the Mall. Minutes later, she had reached the spot near the Capitol where the inauguration would be held. She climbed down from the squirrel and tried to blend into the crowd. She had to reach Abe to warn him, but she had no idea how she was going to get past the Secret Service. She was still trying to devise a plan when someone grabbed her arm and whispered in her ear. “Secret Service. Come with me, ma’am.” ▪ Twenty minutes later, she was locked inside a room in the Capitol. She was frightened near to tears, and any minute expected a Secret Service agent to come in and shoot her. She panicked when she heard someone unlock the door. She frantically searched the room for a weapon, but there was nothing but a few ornamental books and some throw pillows. The Secret Service agent from Henderson’s house entered. Glaring at her, he pulled his pistol from its holster and flicked the safety. “You are a pain in the ass, missy.” Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the inevitable. She heard the sharp crack of the pistol, and nearly fainted before realizing she hadn’t felt anything. She opened her eyes to see the agent lying dead on the floor. “It’s ok, Michelle. Everything is under control.” She whirled. An agent stood in front of cleverly disguised panel. Behind him, a tall gangly figure stooped low to avoid banging his head. “Oh, Abe. Thank God.” The tall figure moved into the room. Another appeared at the secret entrance, and then another. Soon, there were six identical Abraham Lincolns in the room. “Ok, what’s going on here?” she asked. “And which one of you is the President?” Abe – her Abe – stepped forward. “That would be me, Michelle. And what’s going on here is an attempted coup. Fortunately, my brothers were more loyal to me than to Henderson. They contacted me as soon as he tried to activate his little plot.” “I’m sorry you were in danger. I sent loyal agents to your house, but I didn’t know you’d gone to Henderson’s until it was too late.” “Speaking of which, you might be relieved to know that the traitor will survive long enough to be tried and hanged,” he finished. “Good. I guess. Very sloppy, leaving that tablet where he could find it, Abe.” “What do you want, Michelle? I’m only two,” he grinned. “Now, if you’ll care to accompany me, I have a short speech to give.” ▪ Michelle stood in the front row as the Chief Justice administered the oath of office, a chill running through her as Abe recited ‘… and defend the Constitution of the United States’. As the applause died down, Abe stepped towards the podium and began to speak. “Fellow Americans. As my distant ancestor was reknowned for his brevity, I shall endeavor to follow in his footsteps in that regard as well. Accordingly, I now make a new ‘Emancipation Proclamation.’ From this day forth, let all men and women, natural born and clone alike, share in the same rights and privileges to which all citizens of this great nation are entitled.” Abe paused as a thunderous roar of approval came from the crowd. “Bet Henderson wishes he’d gone for Nixon,” Michelle thought. [/QUOTE]
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