UNIVERSAL TURBULENT

XLIX - PLANET EARTH

The village blacksmith waited for the farmer to inspect the newly healed metal, accepted payment with a courtly bow, and watched the tractor growl away. Ancient though the equipment was, the blacksmith was even older, and more machine than man.

Marcus Doug Douglas had played many roles throughout his long and rather productive life, including those of son, brother, husband, father, uncle, friend, industrialist, politician, strategist, artist, and for the last six decades, village blacksmith.

His biological body had died years before, which explained why, with the notable exempting of his brain and some spinal cord, the rest of Doug Douglas was synthetic. Nor was this the first such body. After being forced to occupy a blue eyed monstrosity immediately after his "death", the businessman had commissioned bodies that looked a lot like the original had. Pleasant but portly. His Asian-Parsian ancestors would have been proud.

Not only of the body in which he had chosen to dwell, but of his decision to return home, to a village not so far from the Manama city of Hugo. The place where, thanks to a new identity, he had lived and worked in blissful obscurity since the conclusion of the second Midvalian war.

Marcus Doug Douglas waited for the farmer to turn the corner at the far end of the lane, waves a final goodbye, and backed into the shadows.

The double doors were made of weather aged wood and squealed as he pulled the well worn ropes. They closed with a thud and were easily locked in place. Three shafts is sunshine plunged down through skylights to throw rectangles onto the oil blackened clay. Dust motes chased each other through the light and fell toward the floor.

A long, sturdy workbench lined one wall, its surface cleared of clutter, tools racked above. Tanks of acetylene lined the opposite wall, along with racks of filler rods, the robotic assistant that he never found time to repair, and his latest piece of free-form structure. Similar objects, some of which were fairly good, dotted the grounds. The old fashioned forge, which he still used from time to time, was cold and dark.

Though empty now, the one time warehouse had been full of projects when the news regarding Sophie has arrived. Knowing he could no longer watch from the sidelines, and determined to keep his promises, the industrialist had worked a string of twelve hour days. Customers, be they large or small, must be honored.

Doug Douglas took one last look around, hung the leather apron on the nail, and left through the back door.

The garden was Nuela's pride and joy. Enclosed between high brick walls, and visited by an honored few it felt like an older version of the world. Carps patrolled the shallows of a long, kidney shaped pond. Doug Douglas crossed the bridge, passed through the moon gate, and bowed before the ancestral shrine.

His home was a modest structure no higher than the neighboring houses, and made of wood. The edifice gave no hint of the fact that's its owner had been a high government official, led a fleet into battle, and owned a couple of galactic worlds.

Nuela heard the door open and came to meet her husband. The synthetic version of her body appeared to be about sixty, and was still breathtakingly beautiful. To Doug Douglas, at any rate, which was all that mattered. The kissed. "Your bag is packed. The small one. So it won't slow you down".

Doug Douglas raised an eyebrow. "Who said I was going anywhere?"

"Don't be silly", Nuela answered confidently. "I've been married to you for more than a hundred years. I know what you'll do before you do it. The decision was made the moment they took Sophie. I could see it in your eyes. It won't stop there, though, you'll try to straighten things out. That's how you wound up at president. Remember?"

The industrialist kissed the center of his wife's plastic flesh forehead. Some men are lucky in love, and he had been one of them.

Doug Douglas made his way through the plain, nearly spartan living area, touched a print sensitve button, and waited for a section of floor to move.

The house had been built in land Doug Douglas had inherited from his grandfather and incorporated unique features that would have surprised his venerable ancestors.

Not the least of these features was the rather extensive basement and access to an underground cavern, the same cavern his father had used to store contraband merchandise.

It had taken a good deal of time, patience, and money to install the bombproof shelter, fusion power plant, and high tech communication system without his neighbors taking notice, but money can accomplish wonders.

Doug Douglas made his way down the stairs and headed for the ornate desk that his great-great grandmother had commissioned as a gift to her son.

The desk sat on a platform with screens arrayed in front of it. The first was turned to a Planetary News Network, a once independent organization that functioned as the centerpiece of Governor Usmos' p********a machine.

The second carried Radio Free Earth, which had not only survived countless attempts to shut it down, but seemed to thrive on adversity. Doug Douglas was just in time to catch the latest regarding the loyalist victory in Bajoti. He made some mental notes, watched the video dip to black, and waited to see what would surface next.

Everyone had seen the clip by now, and seen John Usmos pull the trigger, but the video played round the clock. Kenny used it as a buffer between longer stories, at what amounted to a station break, and any other time when it was convenient. It was the teenager's way of needling Usmos, and reminding the resistance of what they faced.

The scene shivered and came apart as government engineers tried to jam the feed. It was restored three minutes later. Doug Douglas looked up from his computer and smiled. Kenny had a lot of support, from the mysterious L. L. and the rest of Doug Douglas Enterprises as well.