This book is not about heroes.

Nor is it about deeds, or lands.

Nor anything about glory, honour, might, majesty, dominion, or power.

My subject is War, and the pity of War.

The poetry is in the pity.

- Wilfred Owen, Untitled (1918)

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

When Hank and Milton ventured forth from the desert kitchen, they found Rio gone. She had left them each a Greek salad, and oven-bake plates holding grilled turkey pitas, all of them stuffed with food. The duo took their dinners into the dining room to eat. Since Rio was a no-show, Hank hoped it would be okay to talk about her further.

"She told me most of the Others she knows want to get rid of people like her to, uh… rule the world, I guess."

Milton agreed. "She works hard to prevent the bad Realities she sees from becoming Real. But she's one against many, and they're on to her. That's why she came to me. I give her a place to hide, so she can do her best to beat the Bad Guys at their game."

Milton leaned towards Hank with a steely look in his eyes. "I'm the only good Other she has ever known, and she's the only Other I've ever met at all, good or otherwise. I'm sure Rio knows a few more, but she keeps their names to herself—to protect them, I suppose."

"To protect them?"

"She says they're not true Others because they don't know what they're doing, but they know they're special. They're like her ace-in-the-hole, I guess, in case something happens to me."

Milton twirled his fork idly, waiting for Hank to finish his pitas so they could start desert. He looked morose for a moment.

"She sees in her mind what the Bad Guys do, and she knows they're winning. Dots are Genius RMers, and Bad Guys were the first to figure that out, so they have a leg up on us." Milton pointed at Hank. "You're a fantastic Dot, and Bad Guys will soon know your name."

"I don't think so," Hank said as he also twirled his fork. "I've never done anything special."

"You saw a dog that isn't real. You followed it to a place no one knows about. You get a machine that shouldn't work to give you whatever you want to drink. But do you know the real reason you're special?"

Because scary Rio says so.

Milton nodded. "She says the Realities you make are bigger than any she's ever seen. Bigger than mine, and mine are pretty big!"

Milton smiled with his eyes while placing one of his red velvet cakes in front of Hank, then taking two for himself. "Yet here we are together. Rio leaves you alone with me. You could take over the world, and turn yourself into whomever you want to be. Or so Rio says, right? She sees the kinds of Realities a person is able to make.

"But what do I know?" Milton added, sensing Hank's skepticism.

Milton examined his cakes before digging into one. He was going to speak again, before noticing his guest was maybe—just maybe—about to say something.

"Okay," Hank began. "I'm going to start by saying—let's say I'm buying some of this crap you're telling me."

Milton urged him on. "Yes?"

"I want you to clear something up."

"You bet!"

Hank sighed. "Just let me talk, okay, and stop me only if I make a mistake."

Milton nodded while eating his cake.

"Others are Reality Makers who know they can can change the world. Some Others are Bad Guys who want to rule the world, or blow it up or something, while Others who are good are too nice—or too chicken or stupid or something—and don't know how to stop them."

Milton prevented Hank from going further. "No," he gasped, talking before swallowing completely. He waved a finger to make Hank wait while he caught his breath. "People tend to think bad things are more likely to happen than not, and Bad Guys use this to their advantage. Dots are people, too, just like everyone else. So they also tend to think bad things are more likely. But Dots are also Geniuses at making Reality, so they can make a lot of people think bad things will happen. Plus, they can change Reality so bad things actually do happen.

"Now, let's think about it for a moment. If I wanted to make a lot of bad things happen to a lot of people, what's an easy way to do it?"

Milton waited for Hank to respond. When he merely shrugged, Milton supplied the answer.

"I'm going to make a lot of Dots feel crappy about themselves, and let them do their stuff. These Bad Guys have it down to a science. Now, they seem to be rounding up Dots, and making them feel as lousy as possible, to get them to make the most destructive Realities they can."

Hank gasped. "Why?"

"To rule the world, I suppose," Milton said, using Hank's own words. "Or blow it up or something."

Hank shook his head to clear his thoughts. "Well, uh… why can't you do something about it? Round up some good RMers and, you know… kick butt. Influence some Dots on your own, and go to war."

"An Other can't very well be a Good Guy and go around killing people, or hurt them and destroy their lives. We can step in and help them cope with the horror, and with the pity of war. But start a global conflict? There's no honor in that."

Hank and Milton pondered the idea in silence, before Milton implored with a heartfelt plea.

"Could you start a war please, Hank? Could you? Would you please? You're the greatest Reality Maker the world has ever known. Would you please send hundreds of thousands, maybe millions, of people off to war, to kill and maim and destroy?"

"No," Hank said. "I can't."

"Me either," Milton said, with equal resignation.

After another moment of silence, Milton relieved it with cheer. "But one thing I can do is destroy this cake!" He dug into his second piece. "Do you want another desert?"

Hank didn't Match Milton's cheer and instead, took his turn at looking morose.

"Hey," Milton said, to cheer up his guest. "Let's watch a movie tomorrow. We'll eat dinner in the theater, and then have candy and popcorn and stuff."

Hank rose his eyes to look at Milton. "Will Rio be there?" he asked.

"Hmm. Probably not. She works all the time around here." To Hank's silence, Milton implored further. "But come on. I'll turn on the bowling alley, too. We'll throw a few balls. I also have the latest Playbox. You can play video games."

Although the dining room was in the basement, one wall had thin windows running along the ceiling. Through them, Hank could see darkness falling outside. It looked like he'd be spending another night at Milton's.

"Maybe," Hank said. "We'll see. I've got a lot on my mind at the moment."

"I understand. Let's turn in early." Milton started clearing the table. "Tomorrow is another day."

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

The next day, Hank explored the grounds of Milton's estate on his own. He traced the path through the garden that they had walked yesterday, looking at the grasshoppers and bugs while mulling over thoughts about Bad Guys and Reality Making. Next, he explored the perimeter of the property. The river bound it on two sides, taking a gentle curve through a ravine that was deep and choked with trees. The treeline thinned along the property's third line—not enough to allow safe passage but, with autumn stripping the leaves from most of the trees, it was possible to see an industrial district harboring warehouses on that side.

A service drive ran into the estate from the warehouse district, blocked by an electric gate. The drive ended at a carriage house, with eight garage doors on one side. All the doors were locked, but by peering through some windows, Hank saw the building held dozens of expensive automobiles.

On the opposite side of the property, about two hundred yards from the manor, Hank found a concrete bunker hidden in overgrown brush. It was half-buried into a hillside that sloped away from the sunroom. The building seemed impenetrable. It had only slits for windows, which were barred shut from inside. A single door leading in was made of steel and double locked.

Hank tried the door to the sunroom. It was locked as well, so he walked around to the opposite side and entered Milton's manor through the open-air lunchroom. From there, he debated whether to continue on, into the manor proper, or turn around and go home, down the portico path.

While weighing his options, a skittering sound came from the transverse hallway, growing louder by the second. As Hank turned to look, Bumbles barreled in. The dog gave Hank a cursory glance before speeding past, to plop down and sit on the first few bricks of the portico path. It seemed incredibly happy to be in the presence of Hank, despite its obvious intent of keeping him from leaving.

Within moments, Milton appeared as well, from the transverse hallway. Wearing an appreciative smile, he quietly took his place beside the vending machine, resting his backside against the counter. Hank looked away, to the opposite side of the room. He felt sure Milton was lurking in his head, planting oddball thoughts.

"I built this room to test people who found their way to where I live. Just another snack room, like the kind you might find at a PEP Center."

Hank took a good look around. "This place is way nicer than what's at a PEP Center."

"Yeah. I hear the quality has gone down."

"So you and Rio work together?" Hank asked with a hint of contempt. "A couple of Good Guys, huh?"

"I'm an Other, and a good person. Rio's a Good Guy, too. So are you."

So you say. "A good guy at what?"

Milton joked. "Well, you're good at getting this machine to give us some soda pops. Whaddya say? How about we have one, like we talked about doing yesterday?"

Hank raised his eyebrows instead of speaking, making Milton uneasy. Besides wearing a fine-tailored suit, the rich man's attire was accented with gem-crusted jewelry, including a tie pin, rings and a watch. Hank struggled to understand why Milton and Rio always dressed so nice when they never seemed to go anywhere. How a young man in brushed black denim jeans could impress them was a mystery of even greater proportion.

Milton took in a calm breath. "Let's skip over the 'Good Guy' stuff for a minute, okay? You're a nice young man. So let's decide what to do. That's why we're here, right?"

"You came here because Bumbles did," Hank shot back, rivaling the tone the big man often used.

"Ho, ho, so I did! You wanna have a shot at it?" Milton gestured towards the vending machine. "Try guessing what I want to drink!"

"No thanks. You can get something for me, though."

Milton pressed a button. He stuck his hand in the dispenser, then paused.

"Well? What do you want?"

"Surprise me."

Milton produced a Diet Poppsy, apparently for himself. He hit the same button again, and produced an identical bottle.

"Do you want a Diet Poppsy?" Milton asked, holding one out to Hank.

"No thanks. I don't like diet soda."

"Hmm, no. And you don't need to worry about calories," Milton added, eyeing up Hank's frame. He put the bottles on the table nearest Hank. "That's okay! I got caffeine-free, in case I had to drink them myself!"

Milton stood close to Hank, looking deep in thought. "You're really not like most RMers, are you? Not that I'd know, I suppose." He returned to the vending machine. "Oh well, here goes!"

Milton bopped a button with a comic flourish. When he brought the bottle to Hank, he kept it hid in his big hands.

"Well," Hank asked. "What is it?"

It was a plain bottle of water. It didn't even have a label. Surprisingly, it was exactly what Hank wanted. He took a drink as Milton strained another of his white wooden chairs by sitting down in it.

Hank sat across from Milton at the table, watching idly as Milton slugged down most of his first bottle of pop in a single gulp. The men sat in silence for a while, until Milton spoke.

"Rio figured out Dots were RMers long before I ever did. She didn't say anything about it, not even to me at first, because all the Others she's ever known were always bad. But here's the real reason why I know you're a good person. She would wring my neck if she heard me say this, but I'm trusting you. I took a chance with her a couple years ago, and I'm doing the same with you."

Milton weighed his next words carefully, as Hank stared into his eyes. "Rio and I, we've worked hard, trying to figure out where these great Realities she saw were coming from. She sees good things happening for so many people, and it cheers her heart. She was certain this RMer had to be an Other, for who could do so much good without knowing what they're doing? So I came up with this idea about a dog and a blank white vending machine, to get this Other to walk in, and prove to us who they are."

Milton laughed. "Oh, ho, She did not like that! But if Bad Guys are ganging up and going to war, then we have to gang up too, and go after them."

Milton met Hank's gaze with his own. "We're the Good Guys, Hank. And we are getting together. We are going after them, and we're going to win. But the only way to tell if a RMer is good is to trust them totally. Like, with your very life."

Milton clamped his mouth shut, as if to force himself to stop talking. Hank shifted in his seat, wondering what in the heck was going on now. Milton then blurted out what he'd been holding back.

"So we've been living in your Reality ever since yesterday."

Nonchalantly, Milton turned sideways, leaning back to nearly finish his second bottle of soda. Noticing Hank's mouth hanging open, he paused to clarify.

"Well, I'm with you in there, anyway. I Realed up Bumbles to find people like me, so we could live together in one Reality." Milton pointed at Hank with a finger from the hand holding his soda bottle. "Your Reality," he added.

"My Reality? Why? I'm just a guy who stocks shelves."

Milton didn't answer. He examined his bottle instead, picking at the label while talking to it.

"Before I figured out what I was, it was horrible. I thought I was possessed, or insane or something. I made things happen by believing I could! People would do what I wanted." Milton cast an eye on Hank. "Do you know what they call someone who thinks their thoughts can control other people? They call that person crazy. A schizophrenic. Nuts.

"Then I realized that I wasn't crazy, and I wasn't God. I could somehow influence the way the world works. I knew there had to be more like me, but I had no idea where they were. I still don't get how Rio does it. How she finds people like me."

Milton calmed the tone of his voice. "But now I know I'm an Other, and I'm a Good Guy, too. And Rio trusts me enough to live in my Reality." Milton assessed the quiet demeanor of his unusual guest. "And not only does she trust you enough to leave you alone with me, she also trusts you to let you make my Reality."

Milton leaned into Hank further, moreso than at any other time in their conversation. Hank could smell the soda on his breath, mixed with aftershave. The big man was so beefy that Hank thought he felt the table give way, under the weight Milton placed on it while getting close.

"You've always known you were kind of a freak," Milton said with benevolence. "Just like I knew about me. You're different. The odd one out. You predict things. You know what someone wants, or what they might do. Or what they'll say or when they'll show up. You can tell what someone needs before they know they need it, and you can help them get it."

Hank had been giving serious thought to going home, since he'd already spent two days at Milton's, when he should have gone to work. He thought about how he could tell when someone was coming to Asok's, and what they might buy. He thought about how he stocked the shelves with everything everyone needed. Finally, he thought about Anna, and how he knew she might soon round the curve on the boulevard when she came to shop.

I did that? Hank asked himself, not believing it for a second.

"Milton?" he asked meekly, leaning back so Milton's face wasn't so much in his. "If I've always been great, why aren't I more like you?"

"You could be," Milton said, mindful of the fact that Hank was coming to grips with an awesome amount of knowledge. "You don't feel the need to, I suppose. It's one of the things about you I never anticipated, and why you're such a surprise."

Hank took a drink of water to wash that fact down. "Okay," he then said. "But why is it I'm not happy with my life? I mean, you know, why would I make a Reality for myself where I'm unsatisfied? Why don't I like the way things are?"

"You're just too nice a guy, you know? You're so busy making people as happy as they can possibly be that you don't spend enough time on yourself. I mean, come on—I thought I was insane until I figured out I was an Other. Remember, we're people, too. And people often expect…"

Milton let Hank finish. "Bad things to happen," Hank said.

Milton turned to sit sideways in his chair, giving Hank some space to come to grips with what he was thinking. "Don't get me wrong," Milton said towards the vending machine. "I made myself rich and powerful during that period of time. But now I know about RMing, and my life is comfortable. And I make as many people as I possibly can as happy as I can make them. It just makes life easier, wouldn't you agree?"

"Yes," Hank said with conviction, staring at the vending machine with Milton.

The Book of LIBERALITY - Chapter TEN

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