Prologue: The Sicilian Defense
November 17, 1989
11:04 A. M.
St. Sophia’s Home for the lost, Portland, Oregon
If you are reading this, then congratulations. You are reading the words of a dead man.
Now, don’t be a wimp and drop this book here. That would simply be insulting to my memory, besides the fact that I didn’t have the chance to touch every copy of this novel before I passed, though I honestly would have tried if I could. No, this is as much my ghost talking to you as a voice from the dust, as dusty and dirty as the orphanage in which my story begins.
So let’s back up a bit, shall we? Roll the clock back to the now infamously titled 1989, a time before you were apparently allowed to put patents on years, to an era in which Oregonians actually bothered to wear suits when they went to work. Here was a time of great change and excitement. George H.W. Bush had taken office after a good run by Reagan and setting up several programs that would help me become a true captain of industry a bit further down the line.
Of course, I’d get some historian crawling down my grave to wake me from the dead if I didn’t mention that this was the very month that Germany would tear down the Berlin wall, the sign and hope for a better future in what was supposed to be the continued slow death of communism. Now, they even celebrate tearing down the divider on the 17th, the day in which our story starts.
I didn’t choose that date for that reason. In retrospect, it certainly seems like the powers at be were setting me up in advance. No, November 17th is special for an entirely different cause; the day that I was to become a Sears, the heir of a growing empire that had recently branched out into the arms industry.
The day Caesar begins his conquest.
It certainly seemed like the appropriate weather for such a fateful day, though my memory may have simply morphed the otherwise normal day into that of legend. Whatever settlers established the city of Portland must have placed a curse upon it, for of the 365 days a year god grants man to live his life and learn to love it, natives of this dreadful city must spend 330 of them dropping under the weight of rain laden parasols. Great for my father’s business, a bad time for anyone who wants to live their life with a complexion darker than that of a zombie with vitiligo.
Good thing I liked the rain. Molly… not so much.
“Huh. Why is it our parents had to die here of all places. Couldn’t we have gone to Hawaii first or something? Maybe even Florida.”
“Yeah, because our parents decided they would die here in advance. Let’s go to Oregon kids! That way we can get in a car crash and abandon you in a rainy wasteland!”
“Sarcasm isn’t nice.”
“Neither is insulting our dead parents, but at least they aren’t living to complain about it.”
I’m not entirely sure if cracking jokes about our unfortunate situation was a coping mechanism or an early sign of my somewhat cold disposition, though if forced at the end of the day to give an answer I would just say yes. Here we were, a brown head lad of ten and a cute, chubby little tyke of six stuck in the house for those that society couldn’t find a way to love, abandoned both by the government, relatives, and even the general public. Sure, the adults told us that someone would come adopt us eventually…
Yet we all knew we’d be stuck there, save a miracle of miracles. That’s a reference to Fiddler on the Roof, by the way; at St. Bartholomew’s we actually watched good movies instead of crap like Annie, because we don’t believe in rubbing salt in the wound.
Because it wasn’t a hard knock life. That would imply we knew one outside of the boring, stale existence that we now lived. This was simply all that we had; you can’t complain about what you’ve never known, for that is what is called dreaming, not wanting.
Unfortunately, for my age, I was the exception. I was more than familiar with the later.
Fortune did favor the bold, for at that moment as I sat upon the bed of my younger sister, we children wasting away at the home of the abandoned were alerted to a knock on the door, about an hour earlier than we anticipated in what should have been a call to lunch. Many of us, wondering if there was an emergency, leapt out of our beds and lined up at the foot of them, while the young toddlers under six simply remained playing away with whatever donations the half caring had submitted or thrown away in the years past.
As to be expected, the kindly if not bumbling halfwit of an old geezer, useless now to the Catholic church due to his aging form save for making sure it’s children were dressed and fed. The man stumbled in with his crackly walker, producing a rather annoying screech with every step he took. The surprise, though, was the tall and menacing man that followed, dressed in a suit that was probably worth more money than our parents made in a year.
That was something I dreamed of, though the man before me was certainly real, my lusts made manifests. Though I apply the negative connotation, he was no devil at the time that he appeared, but rather an angel sent to help some blessed soul.
I wonder if the same can be said of Lucifer. How many people did he help before he was cast out?
My thoughts turned to the present as our head caretaker spoke, a soft voice that caused those of us paying attention to lean in with attention. “Boys, girls… I want you to meet Mr. Gary Sears, a devout follower of our savior Christ and the CEO of Products for Patriots. He’s been the one paying for your beds, your food, your clothing, your education… pretty much everything outside of a few toys.”
“Though I don’t want you all thinking you owe me anything for it. Like yourselves, I was once an orphan too; I had a dear uncle to help me through the rough times though, which I guess was more than you all have. Just trying to help out, where I can.”
Stern sounds, though the words certainly seemed sweet at the time. Already I found myself respecting the man, trying to keep my expectations in check as thought about what I had heard. Though I had never met him, this Gary had visited more than once in the past few years; Molly and I simply hadn’t been around long enough to meet him yet.
Though, I do distinctly remember that his rich chocolate brown eyes locked on me for a moment as he spoke, as if to judge me for what I was. I may be egotistical, but it didn’t take a genius to determine that I was much for presentable than my fellow mates. My hair was combed, grown out to be stylish without looking like one of those idiotic hippies that litter the grounds of our once great city. I bothered to tuck in my uniform shirt when my roomies did not; my shorts were devoid of the food stains which they so playfully incurred.
I was better than them, though that prideful view might have been because they tried to bully Molly when we first arrived. Though I had driven them away, causing us to be the outcasts as so called heroes typically are, it may have left a bitter mark on my soul that still makes it hard for me to forgive others after so many years.
Peter, being the head master, gave a slight cough as he moved a few steps forward. “Anyway, as Mr. Sears has to travel for the wonderful week of thanksgiving, I thought I would allow you children the chance to give your appreciation. Children…”
A yearly ritual then. Some of the older children simply didn’t care, blowing him off as they went back to their beds. The politer ones were nearly just as childish, still lacking in concepts such as respect and rank as they simply said “Thank you Gary” or “Thanks Boss”, one particularly annoying boy uttering “Thank you Mr. Moustache.”
I knew, though, how to play it to my advantage. As his eyes began to sweep around the room, his long and fat nose helping direct his attention, I waited until they came my way. When it paused, those piercing eyes so capable of expressing emotion in an otherwise serious face, I bowed my head and gave an earnest reply, a mixture of honesty and need.
“Thank you, Mister Sears.”
“You’re welcome.” I heard him reply, his words thoughtful as I began to take shape. Was I the opportunity or the son, the investment or the legacy? What was I to hi
m, as I made my intention clear? What am I now, even as he rots in the grave which I now enter?
“Anyway, like Father Peter said, I’ll be soon heading out on vacation… though I decided that I would take someone with me. A chance of a lifetime, to see the East Coast. I’ve been invited to survey some new air carriers put into commission, see a few museums, even meet with the FBI.
“Of course, it’s going to be awfully boring for those without the love of history. Anyone here just absolutely fascinated by it like I am?”
Most of the kids had already blown him off, though a few hopefuls still looking for an escape immediately raised their hands, including that rat who dared insult our wealthy guardian angel. I myself added to that group, though with a measure of calmness and politeness that is becoming of a young gentleman. No jumping around, or anything like that.
Molly was eying me, a bit too young to understand the game at play, while the Catholic priest found himself too old for such trivialities. “Well, I’ll leave you too it. Let me know when you’re ready to depart, Mr. Sears. A few of the nuns would love to meet a famous man like you.”
“Well, I’ve never been famous for anything good father peter. Surprise they want to meet me at all… I’ll stop by on my way down. Thank you.”
The old priest gave what sounded more like a choke than a chortle. “Only one deserving thanks here is you. Take care.”
Leaving us the tall middle aged man with greying brown hair, my future in forty to five years if I were able to live that long. Stepping forward, looking left and right, he found himself in the sea of children as he went up to the prepubescent twit who made fun of the, admittedly, bushy ferret that covered his upper lip as he knelt down and asked
“So, what’s your name?”
“Tommy Lance, mister.”
“Tommy… who is the first president of the United States?”
The kid, smart enough to resist picking his nose in front of the adult, wasn’t exactly brilliant enough to have bothered memorizing that answer within the last eight years of his life. “George Bush?”
The rest of us, save me of course, began to snicker as the businessman kept himself composed, reaching up and scuffing up the child’s mess of black hair as Gary tactfully told him off.
“No, but you’re half right. How about studying up for next year?”
The child obeyed, taking the loss rather well as he went off to play with someone else, the man in a rich suit dusting off his knee as he went over to the next person with his hand raised. Perhaps the only moment that day when I began to panic, I found myself biting my lip as he approached a twelve-year-old by the name of Santiago Cabrera, an illegal immigrant taken in by the church instead of being sent back to his native country of Guatemala.
No idea where my bigoted rivals got the idea that the Spanish are a bunch of lazy, idiotic gas station workers. I nearly wound up penniless thanks to the intelligence and dedication of one.
“How about you, hijo?”
“I speak English sir, though I know Spanish just as well. My name is Santiago, though you can call me James if you would like sir.”
“Please, call me Gary… now, let’s make it a bit tougher. Who was the president to end slavery and presided during the civil war?”
“Abraham Lincoln.”
Easy enough, though the next one even had me searching.
“On the night he was killed by John Wilkes Booth, one other person was grievously injured, a target that lived. What was his name and position?”
“Secretary of state William H. Seward, famous for helping buy Alaska from the Russians.”
“Can you say from who or how much?” Gary asked, verifying now that the funds he pumped for education weren’t going to waste. While we were simply discussing trivia at this point, it impressed even me as the Guatemalan answered correctly.
“1867 for seven point two million.”
Well. That’s it. It’s over. I was to remain an orphan until I was sixteen, where if I was lucky I’d get promoted to be the manager of a Burger King once I had gotten my GED. No hope, nothing to look forward to, end the book right-
“Can I ask you a question now, sir?”
Huh.
“Of course. What do you want to know?”
“For how long will you be traveling?”
What were you doing, man? I began to breathe hard as I suddenly noticed him looking in my direction, glancing at me in my nervous state before he turned his attention back to the adult in front of him. Both of us children listened hard as the elder replied
“About a month, maybe two. Will that be a problem?”
“Well, sir. I have friends here. I don’t want to leave them… you should take someone else with you. Someone like Seth.”
Remember where I said I don’t have any friends? I take it back. All fifteen million people in Guatemala are my friends, including any immigrants scattered around the rest of the globe. I look forward to meeting Tecun Uman in the next life.
For now, I’ll simply show you the blessing granted me. With a pat on the little Latino’s head, I found myself starring as the suited arms dealer began to approach, his shiny shoes and sparkling cuff links catching my eye as I remembered to stay composed, reciting the Lord’s Prayer and the Hail Mary over and over as he grew and grew like a giant in front of me.
Ironically, I’d be nearly seven inches taller than him before he died. Shouldn’t have pumped me so full of vitamins, should you’ve Gary?
“So, you must be Seth, if I’m not too presumptuous.”
“I am. My name is Seth Kaiba, Mister Sears.” I respectfully replied when I heard the bed behind me bounce, a golden haired monkey making her way forward.
“And I’m Molly Kaiba! His sister and best friend.”
Molly, I hate you.
“Your… your sister?”
I held my breath, unsure whether I should apologize or play it off, when I saw the man become thoughtful and even a bit sad, his eyes beginning to squint as if forced to witness some kind of tragedy. I was completely off guard because of it, this being the first time when he betrayed the appearance of his earnest soul. The youngster behind me just kept on talking away, unknowing of how close we were to getting out of there.
“Yeah. Seth and Molly, just like our mommy and daddy. Big Bro has been taking care of me for the last eight months since our parents got in the car crash. They died, but big bro says we can see them again in heaven if we’re good. Does Santa live in heaven?”
Molly, I love you.
“Yes… I actually think he does.” The elder man answered, the savagery of death confronting him as he glanced away for a moment. I tracked his vision, finding him glancing down at a solid gold ring that had to be a wedding band, immediately asking myself the question of what had happened to his wife.
I didn’t know it at the time, but she herself had passed on only six months earlier in a wreck similar to our own, claiming both the departed Mary and their own son Gonzalo. No wonder he was looking for company on the trip to the east; he needed the love, the affection…
A replacement.
“Well, that’s good to see you’re teaching your sister what matters, Seth. Your parents would be proud.”
“I hope so, sir. I try to be everything they wanted me to be.”
“Which is?”
“A good Catholic, son, and American. In that order.”
Did you know I wrote the book on brown nosing republicans? I would call it Semper Fi, but I find myself selling more to the Air Force than the Marines these days. Maybe I’ll just have to go with Ammo and Prayer.
“Well, you’re certainly witty enough, though a politician proves you can be quick in the head without being that smart. Ready for your test?”
“Of course.”
“Which president established the national bank?”
Oh, now that’s just playing dirty. Furrowing my blue eyes in thought, I found myself beginning
to talk even before I could cultivate my words into something more respectful as I blurted out
“That’s cheap. The first national bank was proposed by Alexander Hamilton and signed into law by George Washington in 1791, but that went out of commission and is no longer in use today.
“We don’t even have a national bank; US Bank here in Portland isn’t even ran by the government. Can’t say there was a president who established a bank if there isn’t one.”
That was almost far too direct, my mind failing to realize my error until after I had spoken. Molly, of course, was simply smiling at what she thought was her genius brother; Gary, a bit surprised at my vigor, couldn’t help but scratch the heavy mustache that must have weighed down his mouth and nose.
Yet he began to chuckle, clearly fine with my behavior. Seemed he liked a little fire.
“Well, I think it’s safe to say you passed. No more history, because if we keep this up I’ll wind up being wrong.
“Tell me a bit about yourself. What’s your favorite thing to do? Like books, games-”
“Chess, sir.”
All old men like chess, though that wasn’t an answer just to buy his trust. Chess really was my favorite thing to do, though I didn’t really have anyone to play with that would put up much of a challenge. When I could get the bookish saint Santiago to stop his training as an altar boy, I could at least provide myself with some light exercise; otherwise, it was simply a test in how quickly I could put down a buffoon.
“I’ve been known to practice. Not much of a champion, though I do better than most men my age. If I were to move to E4, where would you play as Black?”
“I would move a pawn to C5. The Sicilian defense.”
Another chuckle from the elder, his attention and affection all but won. If this were a match, this would not have been the opening salvo; this would be the closing of a friendly match, with one last trick play used by the rich business man as I closed in on him.
“Okay. Popular move, but why that? Why not stop me at E5?”
“If I move to E5, I put you in a standstill. If I move to C5, I bait you; you have the chance to move more pawns in to your left, but not without letting me attack first. The best defense is a good offense, and the one who wins in Chess is the one quickest to the kill. I am dragon like that;
“Decimate and eradicate until there’s nothing left to eat.”
“Violent, but apt. You and your sister will certainly enjoy the business aspects of the trip; you’ll get to see the latest and greatest the United States has to offer the world in terms of weapons, even as our Cold War draws to a close in our favor. History in the making, and you’re getting a front row seat Seth.”
Except I wasn’t planning on sitting in the theater. I was the director, guiding the actors all along as my life as the simple Seth Kaiba ended… and my time as Seth Sears began.
The first of two deaths in what was quickly going to be a hat trick.