"Yes, Mr. President. How do you feel about beef?"

This caught the president's attention, his eyes flaring. "Steak?"

"I can have it flown in from New Las Vegas. Eight ounces of prime meat, if you wish."

"The last time I had meat was at my inauguration."

"And if I remember correctly, it wasn't much of a steak at all. Not a large portion."

"No. It wasn't. Maybe three ounces. But it sure was good." Then: "You think you can swing this with your connections?"

"Of course." Eldridge went to the coffee table, picked up his tablet, and brought up an image of the steak in question. When the image loaded, he turned the tablet around to show the president. On the screen was a photo of an eight-ounce piece of steak hanging on a hook inside of an empty meat locker. "Look at that, Mr. President. Beef like you've never seen before."

President Michelin stared at the screen. The meat was red and nicely marbled, a prime cut.

"It is from cattle, correct?"

"Verified."

"Then make it happen."

Chapter Eleven.

The cloud rolled its way across space. Its smoky tendrils always reaching forward to take new ground. In the distance, the planet from the third sun loomed large. It held the shades of gray and brown-ugly hues, dead hues, cancerous hues. And its atmosphere was not free, either. Twisted pieces of discarded metals, such as junk and castoffs, circled the planet.

Yet the cosmic cloud had no concerns or prejudices as to what it consumed, touched, or grazed.

It simply was.

As it traversed space, it was perfectly aligned with this planet. Within a day it would lap at the surface of the moon. Hours after that, it would fold over Earth like a blanket. It would pass through its atmospheric shell without contest. There would be no flames to kill it. No obstruction to impede it. It would simply pass through the planet as if it was transparent, touching every electron, proton, and atom. It would regenerate a dying planet, reanimating life when all that loomed was the promise of death.

It was the Second Coming.

And it would be Hell.

Chapter Twelve.

Onboard Air Force Six Day of Liftoff After the earthly ceremonies the governor's casket was loaded onto Air Force Six's lower compartment. The shuttlecraft was capable of global transit on a single charge of a fuel cell and low-level space missions. It was not, however, developed for deep space travel.

The shuttlecraft was equipped with all the accoutrements and luxuries afforded a presidential transport. The interior had silk carpeting throughout, a gymnasium, a conference room with a table made of synthetic Brazilian Rosewood with matching chairs that were upholstered in the finest Italian leather, even though Italy hadn't existed for more than sixty years. On the portside of the shuttle was a bar area stocked with the finest liqueurs imported from the most exotic lands, places like New Brazil and New Belize. The stock alone was worth the salary of a Federation official in New DC.

But today's journey was a vertical shot to the exosphere before leveling off, and then a direct route to Mausoleum 2069. It was a thirty-minute journey, including the amount of time it would take to dock.

Onboard the shuttle there was a headcount of ten people. Besides Michelin and John Eldridge, others included two Elysium senators from New Miami, Andrea Hines and Shawn Newel; the governor's daughter, Lisa-Marie Millette; four armed guards from the president's Detail, and from the Roman Catholic denomination, Father Celestino Gardenzia.

Since this was nearly a direct shot into low-altitude in space, everyone had to be strapped in for the duration of the flight. President Michelin and John Eldridge, however, requested to be sequestered from the others, citing the discussion of personal government agendas.

When the shuttlecraft took off and began its upward trajectory, Michelin and Eldridge did discuss certain agendas. Most regarding his pending shift in power.

"You know the Fields of Elysium are having problems, right?" he stated rhetorically to his chief advisor. "Even with the sterilizations, food supplies continue to dwindle. We'll need to ration our food sources until we can get back to a healthy quantity."

"If the people hear that supplies are low, it may cause a panic, Mr. President. I would suggest that you place this issue on the back burner until the election is over."

"I know that. I'm not a fool, John. I'm merely posing a deep concern. One of many. The other issue is the Wasteland savages. They're becoming bolder by the day, wanting to breach the walls to get inside the Fields. So, as you can see, the problems are internal and external."

"The savages will never get inside. In fact, Mr. President, since they're so emboldened to die, you can kill the proverbial two birds with a single stone."

"Yeah. And how's that."

"No more mass graves," he said. "Turn the negative into a positive." He attempted to lean forward in his chair for close counsel, but the straps kept him at bay. "The fish count in the aquaponics systems are dangerously low. And the vegetation in the eastern Fields of Elysium have nearly been destroyed by rot and disease, forcing shipments from other Fields to support the loss, which in turn depletes resources from those Fields who have to distribute these goods. What we need to do, Mr. President, is to come up with an alternative. Perhaps one that we won't like, but it'll be one that can sustain the masses."

Michelin turned to him. It had been a solution that was on his mind for months now. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"Look. We cannot sustain a food supply much longer to feed the people. There are too many variables." He started to tick them off with his fingers. "One, fish need nutrition to breed and grow, but the source to feed them is dwindling as well. Two, vegetation is vulnerable to disease, which is happening along the eastern Fields. Three, there's evidence that the employees working the ponics systems are stealing, already taking food away from an already low supply. And four, since the workers realize that the supply is diminishing, they're beginning to talk. So far we've been able to neutralize the rumors with damage control."

"And what's that?"

"Those who have stolen, and those who have spoken out about the fading food supply, have summarily been banished to the Wastelands along with family members."

Michelin nodded his head. "And deservedly so."

"Now with all these variables taken into consideration, we need to come up with an alternative. One known to those who sit on the highest political seats in the land." He hesitated a long moment before speaking. And then: "We need the savages to contribute."

Michelin closed his eyes. Earth was dying. And the Fields of Elysium were dying even slower. Sooner than later there would be nothing left to the aquaponics systems other than empty pools of water, and the dirt and gravel of the hydroponics systems would be as barren as the deserts of the Wastelands.

All the Fields of Elysium had been able to sustain themselves for over a century, but the gluttony that killed the planet was beginning to catch up, and in time, the people would be forced to turn to the only available food source, which would make them no different from the savages that existed beyond the walls, he considered.

"We can process the meats," Eldridge stated. "We can say that the Elysium of Montana has provided us with a bounty of steaks."

"And once those steaks are gone? Once every Wasteland savage is gone?"

Eldridge turned away and stared straight ahead. "Would it really matter at that point and time?"

"No," answered Michelin. "I guess not."

The rest of the trip was a solemn one, both men realizing that desperation was a sign of last resort. And they quietly came to a single and conclusive point.

Reality was a bitch!

Chapter Thirteen.

It had made great strides over the past two days, the cloud mass moving with the leading front rolling forward like the frothy curls of sea waves, always pressing forward.

The mausoleum, one of many geosynchronous stations revolving along with the earth's rotation, was nothing more than a speck against the backdrop of a dirty planet. It moved forward, the mass growing and getting larger on every rotation of its own pass, a four-point-five billion-year cycle. In three hours it would sweep through the solar system touching everything within its path, giving life to inert cells.

In three hours.

Chapter Fourteen.

An automated voice that was feminine came over the loud speaker of Air Force Six: "Please prepare for docking."

Michelin swore under his breath, and then, "Thank God for small favors. I'd have to say that that was perhaps the longest thirty minutes of my life."

As the shuttlecraft hovered outside the bay area, the computers between the ships linked together with the shuttlecraft's computer, allowing the ship to be guided safely into the docking bay by the mausoleum's mainframe.

Once the shuttlecraft settled inside the disembarkation zone, the automated voice came over the speaker system: "Commencing Pressurization."

Outside the shuttlecraft there was an extremely loud hiss as the mausoleum began to seal and pressurize itself.

When the procedure was done, the automated voice, in a clipped and neutral manner, said: "The area is now safe. Please disembark . . . The area is now safe. Please disembark."

When the door to the shuttlecraft opened, everyone onboard took the steps to the bay's landing where they were greeted by Eriq Wyman, who was wearing the company's formal wear, a black leisure suit with red piping around the sleeves and collar, and razor-sharp pleats on the pants. On the left breast pocket was the company logo.

When President Michelin deplaned, he cordially extended his hand in greeting.

Eriq took it and gave it a hardy pump that was fueled by an inward hatred for the man. Obviously Michelin didn't remember him as the one who led his team of superior combatants, The Force Elite. "Mr. President," he said evenly.

"Good to be onboard your ship, Mr. . . ." he led him.

"Wyman. Eriq . . . Wyman."

The president's smile faded immediately, recognizing the name. "Eriq Wyman? The unit command leader of the Force Elite?"

"Up until two years ago, Mr. President. Right up until the moment you dismissed me . . ."

"Thaaaat's a discussion for another time, Mr. Wyman. As you can see, we're pressed for time here. So if you'll lead the way."

Eriq stared at the man for a moment with indifference before speaking. "Of course."

From the shuttlecraft's loading bay, the governor's coffin was loaded onto an antigravity sled, an airborne platform that hovered four feet off the ground and maneuvered by coordinates typed into its GPS programming.

Since the freight elevator could carry no more than 2500 pounds per transit, two trips to the Observatory level had to be made. Eriq Wyman and President Michelin chose not to ride on the same trip.

When the VIPs gathered at the burial site, the stars above the Observatory were in full-stargaze mode with the universe representing itself as an eternity of glittering gold specks. The scenery was spectacular.

"This is amazing," stated Elysium Senator Andrea Hines, eyes skyward.

"For 750,000 Elysium dollars," returned Senator Newel, "it should be." Then he laughed as if he had just said the funniest thing ever.

Senator Hines rolled her eyes before sidling up next to Michelin. "Mr. President."

Michelin turned, surrendered a false smile, and extended his hand. "Senator Hines. How good to see you again. Too bad it wasn't for better reasons."

"Mr. President, if I may. The bill I'm proposing to the Senate regarding--"

He cut her off by raising his hand and patting the air. "Hold on there," he told her. "This is not the time or place to be discussing political matters. We're about to begin a ceremony here."

"Mr. President, I've been trying to reach your office for more than six months now. I've been leaving messages--"

"Senator Hines, please. Out of due respect for Governor Anderson--"

"Honestly, Mr. President, I don't even know her. I've never spoken to her. But it seems that I have to go to such lengths just to get an audience with you. I need to discuss--"

"You will discuss nothing with me, Senator. Not when there's a mass to be held." When the president turned to walk away, she attempted to follow, but a member of his Detail, a large and beefy man, spoiled her effort by blocking her path. The look on his face was enough to curb her anger.

"I'm sorry about that, Father," Michelin said as he took his place by the governor's tomb. "Some people just don't have respect. None whatsoever."

Father Gardenzia gave a barely perceptible nod while flipping through the pages of the Book of Common Prayer. Though slight in stature, the priest had an indomitable way about him. A good listener to those in need, he also had the ability to cull those who were truly plastic from the fold because he knew some people were unable to find God in their heart. And Michelin was one such person. This he could feel at the deepest core of his soul. "Whenever you're ready, Mr. President."

"Yes. Of course."

Those in attendance gathered around the tomb as the sled maneuvered into position above the opening. Slowly it began to descend into the opening of the sarcophagus, the sled a perfect fit as it gently lowered itself until it was seated.

The governor's daughter, Lisa Millette, suddenly burst into a racking and uncontrollable sob, which drew a mortician's expression from Michelin, that of a false veneer of woeful misery.

From a distance Eriq silently clicked his tongue and shook his head in disgust. Michelin, he considered, was still a man of revulsion. And standing beside the president, a man Eriq didn't recognize, stood John Eldridge, a mousy-looking individual who had his hands folded in front of him. At least he stood in the manner of showing respect, whereas Michelin continuously glanced at his watch during the sermon.

" . . . In sure and certain hope of the resurrection to eternal life through our Lord Jesus Christ, we commend to Almighty God our sister Michelle Anderson, and we commit her body to the ground, earth to earth, ashes to ashes, dust to dust. The Lord bless her and keep her, the Lord make His face to shine upon her; and be gracious unto her, and give her peace. Amen."

"Amen," whispered Michelin, who gave the sign of the cross even though he didn't have a religious bone in his body.

And that was when everything began to change.