Marshall Finds Jocasta
Michael
Saturday. October 13, 1973. Marshall and Morris touch down at Holloman AFB at around 3:30 pm local time; Dave follows in a Marshall-supplied private jet a half-hour later. During the flight (which is loud, being on a transport plane), Morris keeps a cool distance from Marshall, after eyeing his bandage and his eyepatch and asking after his health just the once, before they take off from Redstone Arsenal. I'm assuming both Morris and Dave have been briefed on the mission before touchdown at Holloman and when Dave strides off the tarmac and sees Marshall, his face imperceptibly goes slack with worry, just for an instant, upon seeing Marshall's bandages and eyepatch. He clears that expression off his face quickly, though, and becomes all-business.
"Boss. Everything okay? Are we ready to roll?"
Brant
“Oh, yes. Run-in with a troubled vet. But I’m fine — or will be fine.” Marshall steps aside and gestures to Morris. “This is Morris. Morris, David.” Once introductions are made, Marshall says to Morris: “So: what do you need? My source says this is where we need to be.”
Michael
Morris nods, and says, "If your man is ready to drive, let's grab a pool vehicle and get on the road. I definitely feel like I need to... uh, get off this base and pray a little on this whole thing."
With Dave at the wheel of an unmarked civilian vehicle from the Holloman pool, it doesn't take too long for Morris to become alert from the back seat. "Uh, pull over up there, Dave." Morris is pointing to a lookout spot, a scenic cul-de-sac close to the Air Force base, looking out onto White Sands National Park. "That seems a good a spot as any."
Dave pulls in and Morris gets out of the car. There are no other civilians here at the moment, and Morris gives his usual blessing and begins a quiet prayer. "Lauded be Thy Name, O Lord our God. Thou art in truth the Knower of things unseen. Ordain for us such good as Thine all-embracing knowledge can measure. O Lord, help Thou Thy loved ones to acquire knowledge and to unravel the secrets that are treasured up in the inmost reality of all created beings. Thou art the sovereign Lord, the Almighty, the Best-Beloved. No God is there beside Thee, the Supreme Ruler, the All-Glorious, the Omniscient." Morris's eyelids grow heavy, as he breathes evenly and steps to his feet, addressing Marshall and Dave.
"She's here. In town. She may have even been close by to right here, near the Air Force base. She's had recent contact with … with the spirit world. I think she may have been too exhausted, physically or mentally, to continue. So she's not moving. We should check motels, rest areas, campgrounds for her vehicle, that ambulance. It's here in town too. Lord knows why she kept it if she's on the run. She's … she's haunted." Morris looks at Dave, unsure of what he can say around him, and lowers his voice so only Marshall can hear, "Not in a literal sense, mind you."
"Also," Morris points out to the barren expanse of White Sands with body language that conveys disgust and fear, speaking low again so only Marshall can hear, "that shit out there is definitely harboring the Enemy." Morris then casts an eye at the Air Force base down the road and walks back towards the car.
Brant
Marshall gives Morris an appreciative pat on the back. "That's good work. Good work." Once Morris is out of earshot, Marshall turns to Dave. "We need to find her. Let's drive. See what we see. If you spot a motel, pull over. Or a rest stop or gas station — we can ask there about local places to stay."
Michael
(I was thinking Dave could do a Streetwise roll here, see how effectively he's able to put all this info together and grid-search Alamogordo and environs. I will need to progress Jocasta's vision along a little bit as well, so we'll see how that goes.)
Brant
Marshall gazes out the window as they drive. After several minutes of silence, he says: "Morris — what do you think happens after you die? You believe in a soul, right? What do you think happens to it?"
Michael
"Well, death is another stage, isn't it? Another phase in our soul's evolution. Energy and matter can't be created or destroyed—just changed. The scriptures say that the soul is like a bird in the cage, and that death frees that bird to a new world to explore. It ain't to say the cage is bad, it's just a smaller place to exist in and play. When we pass, we'll see more, we'll touch more, and, if we've lived our lives righteously, with love for our fellow-man, we'll dwell closer to God. Our individuality, our identity, it doesn't go away at death, it isn't recycled or changed or fed back into a new body, it evolves, it sees new sights. Our eyes are more open to the light of the All-Glorious." Morris nods to himself. "I understand that probably doesn't jibe with what your beliefs might be on reincarnation, but that's what the Master, ʻAbdu'l-Bahá, said."
Brant
"And peace and blessings be upon him. But do you think They," Marshall uses a particular emphasis on "They" to denote that he's referring to the Red Kings, "can interfere with that process? Capture the birds as they escape the cage? Do you think that is within Their power?"
Michael
Morris sighs, puts his fist into his open hand a couple of times, really chewing that one over. "Whoof. Man. I mean, the scriptures are clear on this, that righteousness is the real determinant of whether you dwell in light or outer darkness after death. There's no room in Baháʼí for being stolen away to Hell or what have you by demons. Ultimately, we're the demons, and if we dwell in darkness after death, it's a choice we've made in life. But could a soul be convinced, tricked, seduced, pleaded to by one of Them to depart from the light? That soul would have to already be hurtin', man. Lived a bad life, or be conscious of how they'd wronged their fellow-man in life and not willing to make the effort to climb closer to God in death. Vulnerable to Their tricks and pomps. But a soul's got free will. If this is what's happening with the dead, I feel like those lost souls would have to choose to go with Them. On some level. This all's on faith, not fact, of course. But if They can do it to the living — lead men astray, I mean — why not to the dead, you know?"
Brant
"A soul's got free will … interesting. That's really interesting, Morris. I hadn't thought of that." Marshall lapses into silence, seemingly lost in thought.
Michael
Dave is driving south down the main drag of Alamogordo, White Sands Boulevard, as Marshall fades into quietude and Morris considers what he's just theorized. Gas stations, tire and auto body shops, tool and die companies, and cheap motels. Morris jumps a little bit at the car hits the 700 North block. "Hol' up, hol 'up, Dave. Marshall." Morris puts his hand up. "There's... something wrong here. Uh, Dave, slow down a little, will ya?" Dave takes his speed down to 25 as Morris peeks out of the rear driver's side window. He says a few words in Danbe at a very low volume to Marshall. "I sensed B. A faint whiff." Morris switches to English as the Classic Inn passes by. "Around there," he says as he points to the motel. "A little bit of slipping and sliding, not much at all, but enough for me to sense."
(I'm assuming the ambulance is parked somewhere that's not immediately visible from the street, Leonard, maybe behind the building on a residential street and not right in the motel parking lot.)
Leonard
(Yeah, seems right. Not viewable from the main road, but close enough she can keep an eye on it.)
Brant
Marshall nods. "Pull over here, Dave. Stay in the car, keep the engine running. Be ready to go at a moment's notice. Morris, come with me." Once they pull over, Marshall will exit the vehicle.
Michael
Marshall and Morris cross White Sands Boulevard towards the cheap motel.
Observation-16?
Brant
>> SUCCESS by 5
Michael
I think even with distance and late afternoon desert sun glare off the front window of the motel office, Marshall would be able to see Jo talking to the front desk clerk.
And vice versa, of course, as mentioned in the other channel.
Brant
Marshall smiles. "Top notch work, Morris. You have a bright future ahead of you, with me and my colleagues. Wait here." Marshall will walk towards the office but won't go inside; he'll either take a seat outside if there's a seat to take, or he'll lean against a wall and wait for Jocasta to emerge.
Michael
I think a bench outside the motel office, right near the pop machine and ice chest, makes sense.
Leonard
… Jocasta steps out of the office into the New Mexico sun and sees a dead man sitting next to the Coke machine. "Of course they sent you," she says in a near whisper. "You son of a bitch."
Brnat
Marshall smiles. "No one sent me. I'm here on my own. Want to take a seat?"
Leonard
"Sure," she says, taking a seat. "Are we talking shop? That clerk has been touched by the Enemy, this whole area is thick with subduction energy, and I just had a vision filled with messages in Sumerian that I'm already starting to forget, though I'm sure you can find them when you have my head scrubbed. What's left of Reinhardt is in the car, I was thinking about cutting its head off. Also I have a weird craving for raisins, but you probably knew that already."
She looks off in that familiar thousand-mile-stare Marshall saw so often in 'Nam. "Anyway. You're looking good."
Brant
Marshall waves away the shop talk. "Yes, Morris picked up some questionable vibes at the Air Force Base. Here, too. But we'll get to that. I'm actually just here to check up on you. Are you driving all the way back to California?"
Leonard
"I don't know. I was thinking about it. I don't, uh, I don't really know what I'm doing right now. Or … " She trails off with a bitter laugh. "I was going to say 'I don't know who I am', but look who I'm talking to. None of those words mean anything."
After a glance back through the window at the clerk, Jocasta looks back at Marshall. "I don't want to give you another sad story. People pay you lots of money to tell you theirs, all the time. It's all so … so stupid. Can we just skip to the part where you solder my parietal cortex, or send me off to live with a nice farm family upstate? I don't want to tell you my diary-of-a-mad-housewife shit any more than you want to hear it."
Brant
Marshall turns and looks Jocasta in the eyes. "Don't presuppose what I want to hear. If I didn't want to talk with you, I wouldn't be here." He looks away and is silent for a moment. "That's one of the luxuries of being me, a man, in 1973. I can do what I want. But women ... women are expected to occupy certain roles. Wife. Mother. You know. Those roles are limiting, of course. But they give people purpose. Meaning. What is your purpose, Jocasta? How do you make meaning in this world?"
Leonard
Jocasta returns the look. She chews the inside of her lower lip and considers if she wants to talk any further.
"I don't, Marshall," she replies. "I don't. I'm not a person. I'm just a body and a brain that people took hold of before I could even make my own decisions, and filled full of stories and lies so they could point them in the direction of whatever ideas suited them at the moment. Everything that's ever happened to me was engineered by that hunk of cigarette ash in the back of the ambulance, or someone like him. Everything I thought was real was just part of a story someone else was telling, just like Mitch always says. And every time I got close to figuring out what was happening, they either burned the whole thing down or they sent someone to explain to me why what I thought was real was just another lie, why I was wrong again. I'm not even a puppet. I'm a wind-up toy.
"They took everything away from me, and when it was gone, they brought me in and turned me into a spy and a killer. They sent me to spy on you and I couldn't do it right, so they did it themselves, and there was no one real for me to kill, so I just turned into some fragile girl from the typing pool. Now even that's gone. And I've seen the future; I turn into some useless old hag raising money for politicians to do parlor tricks, and I die anyway-- because of, not despite, getting rid of Colonel Horse Cock back there.
"I don't have a purpose, Marshall. I don't make meaning. I just swab up blood for one conspiracy after another until they're bored with me. I'm nobody. I'm nothing."
Brant
"Hm, yes. I suspected you were our mole … but you did a good job. I could only suspect. Then they sent Charley, and the whole point became moot." He crosses his legs. "Well, you're free now. Or you could be. No more Reinhardt, after all. And our relationship with the CWG is different now. Everything will be in a bit of chaos for a while. You could slip away. And you're rich, right? Have something like $2 million in a credit union checking account somewhere? Buy a place in La Jolla, take up writing. Whatever. Live on your own terms. What do you think of that?"
Leonard
"They don't let people be free, Marshall," she says, like she's explaining to a 12-year-old that Santa Claus isn't real. "All that stuff is based on me being a person with desires and ideas. I don't have any. You don't need me, they don't need me, Ch...nobody needs me. And I told you, I've seen the future. It's trash and it ends with Reinhardt's little devils massacring me and a house full of my empty-headed rich 'friends' for what I did to him. "Do you remember, you told me about those monks? The ones in country? You said they burned themselves because they were already free. That's the only kind of freedom left for me."
Brant
"Oh, sure, they don't let people be free. But we could make arrangements. We could make that happen. If you wanted. But you don't, that's fine — people like you and me aren't made for that kind of lifestyle." He lets out a heavy breath. "It's tough because there is no purpose to it, you know? All this." He gestures around with one hand. "Or freedom. Even after what I did in that room, I'm still not free. I'm still without purpose. But I played the game and I won." He shrugs. "It felt good, knowing I'd beat them."
"I can't offer you a way out of what you're feeling. And I can't offer you a purpose. But I can offer you revenge — I can invite you to the game. The game of SANDMAN. If you're interested. I bought us time with the CWG, but there's a lot that needs doing with them still. Gottlieb and Stanton have to go. West, too. We're still sussing out Merrick ... I'm hoping he's not compromised, but we'll see. And I could use your help making all that happen. But only if you want. You wouldn't be working for me; you'd be working with me, for them. Because I don't think they have what it takes to do what we need to be doing now. You see."
Something about Marshall's intonation of the word "them" suggests to Jocasta he's referring to the Club.
Leonard
Jocasta says nothing for a long moment.
"Yeah," she ultimately replies. "That's why I came out here. Trying to draw down some leads on the rest of the … the CWG. What a bloodless acronym. Track down Butler, maybe, and whoever did all that shit to Charley. Alpha Leonis. Mitch's doubler. Make them all dig their graves. I think Archie thinks things have really changed, and maybe he's right — at any rate, better him in charge of this wreck than West and Gottlieb and the rest of those creeps. But he doesn't understand. He doesn't get that they'll never stop until they're back on top and he's dust. Even Mitch … the reason Mitch can do what he does is exactly why they won't let him live.
"Doing what needs to be done means they were right, that I'm just some savage animal they trained to bite on command. It doesn't feel good to know that's they way things are. But … it's all I could think of. It's all I can think of. It's all there is for me, knowing I can make them pay for treating us like shit."
She looks out into the low desert again. "You read my files. Maybe you're the only one. You know how it is with me, that when I get lost, when I don't know what's real and what isn't, I latch on to someone I think is smart enough to help me find my way out of it. And you know, when they inevitably leave me, what that does. And you did it anyway, right in front of me. You motherfucker," she says, her voice dropping like a slab of lead.
"But it turns out, it's because you get me. You know what I am. You worked the angles, just like he did," she concludes, nodding her head towards the ambulance. And then, with a light high pitch in her voice that rarely comes out, she laughs for a good minute.
Brant
Marshall holds out his hand. “Hold my hand a minute.”
Leonard
Jocasta, still bare-handed from the motel clerk, does so.
Brant
Marshall is quiet for a moment, gazing out at the low desert with Jocasta. “Yes, I know that feeling. I know what it’s like to have been — well, used by men. I guess. After a while you realize, though … maybe it’s not you. Maybe it’s them.” He closes his eyes and smiles. “It’s nice out here, you know. Dry air.”
Leonard
"It's beautiful. It's like another planet. Maybe that's why the UFOs like it."
Brant
“Ha!” Marshall laughs. “Maybe.” He lets go her hand and stands up. “Anyway, don’t have to give me an answer right now. Think about it. In the meantime,” he looks around, “what needs doing? I have Morris and Dave with me — I’d like to spare Morris the gruesome details, but otherwise …”
Leonard
"Morris seems like a good one," Jocasta muses. "The things faith can do. I really should have paid more attention to the priests." Jocasta will give him a basic run-down of what's happened, with the caveats that she's been, well, a little off her game the last few days, mostly focused on:
- the vision she saw when she shook the clerk's hand and how he has had some History B contact
- what the clerk said about the Solarans
- the acid flash in the hotel office, specifically the Sumerian tattoo and whatever he was saying (if she can remember it)
She'll also offhandedly mention the rest of the acid vision and what Reinhardt said about JFK, although she thinks that may have just been her cracking up, and will ask what Marshall thinks what they should do with his remains given the meme they're crafting. "Oh, and, uh, I may have sent Pat Price out looking for Butler."
Brant
“Ah, good — he’s on my list anyway. Well,” he looks at his Rolex, “I think you could probably use a quick rest. I’ll book some rooms and we can crash here. Tomorrow, after you’ve got some sleep, we can see what there is to see at White Sands.”