It's not easy leading some of the most skilled mercenaries on the planet while dealing with personal demons.
Commander Eris of the Proxy--an infamous paramilitary company known for their brutal efficiency--is sick of playing the role of a glorified hitman. She's ready to transform her beloved organization of killers from contractors to citizens of their own--globally recognized--state. They have the resources and manpower but her fellow officers lack Eris' megalomaniacal values.
The last major hurdle stopping Eris from dropping a bomb and spreading her influential plume of smoke are her two personified hallucinations. Eris' first psychological agitator is an eccentric woman called the Rainbow Dancer who has a knack for performing well-choreographed routines right before tragedies. The second tormentor is a horror movie reject named the Faceless Phantom who enjoys popping in and out of Eris' perception.
Eris finds herself in an absurd conflict between mind and matter when her two metaphysical disruptors start finagling with the "real" world.
Perhaps becoming a loving military junta isn't on the wishlist.
A character-driven rollercoaster!
It's not easy leading some of the most skilled mercenaries on the planet while dealing with personal demons.
Commander Eris of the Proxy--an infamous paramilitary company known for their brutal efficiency--is sick of playing the role of a glorified hitman. She's ready to transform her beloved organization of killers from contractors to citizens of their own--globally recognized--state. They have the resources and manpower but her fellow officers lack Eris' megalomaniacal values.
The last major hurdle stopping Eris from dropping a bomb and spreading her influential plume of smoke are her two personified hallucinations. Eris' first psychological agitator is an eccentric woman called the Rainbow Dancer who has a knack for performing well-choreographed routines right before tragedies. The second tormentor is a horror movie reject named the Faceless Phantom who enjoys popping in and out of Eris' perception.
Eris finds herself in an absurd conflict between mind and matter when her two metaphysical disruptors start finagling with the "real" world.
Perhaps becoming a loving military junta isn't on the wishlist.
A character-driven rollercoaster!
Lucifer can't take a joke.
One would assume the ultimate trickster can swallow a taste of his own medicine. I told him God âblessed me with his almighty scrotumâ and he got super jealous as any decent husband ought to. Mr. Morning Star confronted God with condemning words and threats. I witnessed a whole lot of erratic wing flapping and finger pointing. The pretty boyâs hair gel and body oil was flinging everywhere. God said, âI smite theeâ and the angel lost his wings as well as his holy underwear model contract. I divorced him faster than he could crash land on Earth.
The rest is, of course, biblical history.
Iâve moved on to more earthly dwellings since then.
My most recent main squeeze, Spencer Benson, is a real catch. Heâs more wholesome than a slice of Wonder Bread from a pristine White mid-American nuclear family. My precious Spence and I are being chauffeured in an electric SUV with dark tinted windows. Our destination is a high-class restaurant where the chair covers are made from tiger leather and meals are cooked by actual human chefs with published articles in Bon Appetit.
The coastal morning mist and pollution from surrounding refineries blend to form a depressing sepia filter. Sweat beads on my chest and moistens my modest floral dress. The air is metallic, humid, and runs through the respiratory system like a fresh breath of burnt tobacco smoke. These congested streets are adding to the already dense atmosphere. The driver turns on the radio and tunes to the local news. A cheeky reporter asks a climate expert about the failures of clean energy initiatives. The reporter goes on about Regression Era politics, loss of incentives for energy companies to adapt, and people moving inland during the rise of sea of levels.
Humanityâs woes are nothing but a blanket of white noise to me. My sole concern is the fact itâs 32 degrees Celsius in an East Coast city in fucking January. The streets are lively in a bad way. A long-haired cyclist wears a tank top with the face of President Humbert crossed out. He yells passionate gibberish out of his face. I roll the window down as we approach a stoplight to humor him, or rather, myself.
âImpeach Humbert! Impeach Humbert!â he chants.
I rest my chin on my palm and watch the guy cycle over an empty beer bottle. He falls on his ass. Underneath the skin is vein-less synthetic muscle. He curses himself, or rather, the voice projecting out of the thing curses himself. This individual complains about being a cheap-ass and buying an early version of Intratopiaâs SITTM: Stick-it-to-the-man Bot.
The SITTM bot gets up and rides onto Hamilton Street where the heart of the protests are raging on. Thousands of angry SITTMs chant the words âimpeach him.â They hold up signs reading âWe Are the Damagedâ and posters in Mount Rushmore style with classic male heroes such as Stalin, Hitler, Mao, and the Botox-faced Humbert. The driver makes a left after the light and continues towards the restaurant. Some of the fauxtesters check their wristphones. They jump around, high-five each other, and raise their energy drink cans in the air.
âMy Intra points are skyrocketing, man!â One of them scrolls through his wristphone.
âIâm at twenty-five hundred already,â another adds.
âHell yeah! Letâs keep it up,â a woman says.
They drop their cans on a nearby sidewalk and rejoin the protest party. A nearby storekeeper throws up his hands at the sight of all the trash surrounding his store. Spencer sighs out loud and rests his hand on my shoulder.
âIâm at odds with the world we live in,â he says.
I grab his hand and smile.
âHow so, ЎДŃĐșĐ°?â
I wipe the evil-eyed smug off my face, roll the window up, and turn to my beloved Spencer.
âAt one end,â he says, âwe have Kalawatiâs Intratopia with her chokehold on society. On the other endâŠâ
âOther end?â
âThe Professor and his violent extremistsâŠShift Society.â
I beam at him like a schoolgirl.
âOh,â I start, âyou know me, ЎДŃĐșĐ°. Iâm just simple girl. I donât know about politics.â
âYou donât have an opinion in all this?â
âPeople have ahhâŠright to express opinions.â I shrug. âListen, ЎДŃĐșĐ°.â I caress his cheek with the back of my hand. âYou do enough good for society. I mean, hello? You found cure for cancer. YouâreÂ Đ°ĐœĐłĐ”Đ».â
âKat, I had an entire team of highly talented biochemists behind me.â
âYouâre mastermind behind all.â
âYouâve been so supportive.â He kisses my cheek. âAll of our accomplishments are truly thanks to your love.â
âAww, youâre so sweet, ЎДŃĐșĐ°.â
The driver pulls into the Romanesque restaurant with pillars and shit.
âReady to eat, hun?â He smiles.
âAlways.â
Spencer exits, and I wait for him to open the door for me, like a proper gentleman should. We walk with interlocked fingers to the entrance.
Look at usâthe perfect couple.
The world-renowned scientist Spencer Benson and me, his Russian trophy mate Ekaterina Ivanovna Vinovich. Ekaterinaâwho per pundits on right-wing news outletsâhas the body of a supermodel and the IQ of a wax model. Theyâre right, of course. Iâm nothing more than a brainless hot steaming piece of supportive ass with broken English. Slavic women are the consolation prizes for rich American men, second only to submissive Asians. This has been true since antiquity.
We stroll into the restaurant and take our reserved seats.
âIt was very kind of Pastor Thompson to pay for breakfast.â I watch the male server pour the pure water into our glasses.
âHeâs a humble man,â Spence says.
Spence gazes at meâŠat my outer beauty (since things like âinner beautyâ and âwonderful personalityâ are compensating traits for not having what really matters, zero gag reflexes.)
âThere is problem, ЎДŃĐșĐ°?â I flutter a glance away from him. âYour eyes send shivers down my thighs.â
âSorry. Itâs justâŠgosh. I still canât believe how lucky I am to have met a beautiful woman like you. Those big green eyes of yours are just so mesmerizing.â
âSpence, stop.â My cheeks go flush. âYouâre making me feel like nerdy schoolgirl with glasses and braces.â
âOh, I just adore you when you blush!â
âLetâs eat! I can eat whole salmon with my salad this time.â
We take our time ordering and share unpleasant pleasantries. A singular holo-tv hovers from the corner of the VIP room. Itâs muted, but I can see the news reels below. One reads:
KALAWATIÂ CHAUDHARYÂ SET TO INVEST 25 BILLION INTO NEW âINTRATOPIAÂ BANKâ.
The next headline reads:
RENOWNEDÂ CRISPRÂ SCIENTIST SPENCER BENSON SET TO SPEAK ATWOOD CHURCH WITH PASTOR PAUL THOMPSON.
A picture of Spence is at the bottom right corner. The man is certainly no looker. Heâs got like five internal bumps on his ginormous Greco-European nose. And bushy eyebrows. He rocks half bald, greying hair, with a beer-belly (even though he doesnât drink) that requires him to lift the fat just to see his cock, even when erected. I bullshit not: He canât see his erected four-inch pecker standing straight. What Spencer lacks in length, he makes up for in girth with a cock wider than a Campbellâs soup can. I often reevaluate my life decisions as Iâm sucking him off and his lionâs mane of pubes grazes the tip of my nose ever-so-subtly.
Iâm even more reflective when Iâm shouting pornstar clichĂ©s in Russian while heâs fucking me fat-Elvis-pelvis-pump style. To his credit, however, Spence doesnât lock himself inside a NueroPod and use a perfect avatar in lieu of his actual self.
âI think Iâll have an organic salad as well.â He taps his finger on the gold-lined menu.
I spit up water in laughter.
âOh, ĐĐœĐ”Â Đ¶Đ°Đ»Ń.â I rub my chest. âWent down wrong pipe.â
âI need to get back in shape.â
He forces me to swallow a rush of laughter because of his key word âbackâ in shape.
The server returns with a sliced baguette as we order our salads. I pick up an organic, gluten-free, carb-free, pesticide-free, high fructose corn syrup-free, non-genetically modified, cage-free, and free-range piece of bread and take a bite. It tastes like freshly printed copy paper.
At least its fluffy.
âI just love cell bread!â I chew in inauthentic glee. âYou get fluffy of bread and no fatty carbs!â
âI really need to develop your palette.â Spence inspects the bread. âMaybe Iâm just old-fashioned.â
âOr just old.â
âKat, câmon,â he frowns.
âJust kidding!â I say with smiling eyes.
I catch a glimpse of people through the glass double-door walk into the restaurant. A white haze floats behind the group. Iâm thinking my eyes are blurry, so I rub them and blink several times. The server brings our salads and sets down the plates. In front of me is an inch-thick Alaskan-style lab-grown salmon filet resting on a bed of spinach and kale.
âSalmon for breakfast.â The waiter announces. âThe breakfast of champions!â
âRiiight,â I nod.
The waiter gives me a stupid cheerful look. I stare at him for exactly four seconds and twitch my lip which translates to âdude, get your stupid-ass out of hereâ.
âGuess Iâll be on my way then. Enjoy your meals!â He turns and leaves.
I side-eye him and see that white air-smear once more. âThe fuck is that?â I say under my breath.
âWhat was that, hun?â Spence leans in.
âSpence, do you see hazy white object there?â I point toward the entry, near a podium.
âErr, well.â He takes out his bifocals from his button-up pocket and puts them on. âNo, nope. I canât see what youâre describing.â
I must be fucked in the head.
Well, this is a first for me. Is that a goddamn ghost? Did I just say ghost? As curious White people say in horror-thriller flicks, âI must investigate.â No, no. What am I thinking? Iâm going to walk in the restroom and get my left areola ripped off by a monstrous and possessed Japanese girl.
âAnyways,â I wave off my anxiety, âshall we dig into this salad?â
âOf course! By the way, Kat,â he points at my plate with his fork, âis it just me, or does your plate look a bitâŠâ
I try to focus on what heâs saying but I canât.
Someoneâs staring at me.
My fucking temple is on fire. I can feel the eyes like a goddamn sunray. Some phantom stands at the entry. My peripheral vision confirms it. I thrust my head to the right and see it. Itâs some figure wearing an ankle-length and deep hooded white coat. The coat has a big golden nautilus spiral as a logo in the center. Its head is sunk into the hood, so I canât tell the gender. The cryptid freak then walks, or rather, hovers into a restroom.
âI think I see someoneâŠŃŃĐŸÂ ĐżĐžĐ·ĐŽĐ”Ń.â I get up and grab my purse. âBe right back.â
I open the glass door and pursue the spy with a fast power-walk. Upon entering one of the last bastions of liberal policy, a gender-neutral restroom, I spot the attendant and two transwomen.
âAye, white figure walks in here?â I fix my eyes on the stalls. âYou see?â
âEveryone in here is a white âfigureâ, including me,â says the butch attendant. âYou might wanna be more specific before throwing out an insulting term.â
âNo, you Food Network reject.â I tap my fingers on my thighs. âTall person in long-ass white coat. No way you could miss it.â
âYouâre crazy, lady,â one of the urinal chicks says, zipping up her leather pants.
âAnd youâre walking ball of confusion.â I push open one stall after another. âWhere hell is it?â
âWho the hell are you calling an âitâ, huh?â the other bitch says.
âHey, hey, take it easy!â the attendant reaches out to grab me.
My kneejerk reaction for when Iâm unexpectedly grabbed is to chop a motherfucker in the throat, which I do to Ellen Degenerate here. She drops to the floor while holding her neck and coughing up blood. The first urinal hoe grabs my shoulder to accomplish I donât know what, and I end up head-butting her or they or them in the jaw. She backs into the other they-person finishing up her tinkle.
âEĐ±Đ°ĐœŃŃŃĐč, пОзЎаŃ!â I punch one of the elegant mirrors and crack it, cutting my knuckles in the process. âĐĐ»ŃĐŽŃ! Fuck! Argh!â
Itâs not the pain that has me stricken, itâs the fact I must take out my frustration on an innocent mirror and not on the faces of these oblivious people. I leave the restroom and grab a well-placed and timed bottle of vodka off a counter near the kitchen. Back inside the restroom I go, pouring a bottle of cheap Russian water onto my hand and taking several swigs in the process. The two identifiers have recovered and are calling out to the unresponsive attendant whoâs still on the ground. They donât yet recognize it, but the dear restroom hostess has choked on her own blood and is glossy-eyed dead on the ground.
Iâm not super strongâbitch must have had a preexisting condition.
How pathetic.
âMaâam, maâam, are you alright?â They urge, shaking the attendant.
Itâs a matter of time before they recognize homegirl is dead. And itâs a matter of time before more people come into the restroom. I need to make a move and fast. The last thing I need right now is for news headlines to read: Ekaterina Ivanovna Vinovich, girlfriend of famous scientist, Spencer Benson, murders a lesbian restroom attendant in upscale restaurant. Theyâll lynch me for such a âhateâ crime. Itâll be at this point where I must confess to everyone and say, âIâm not a homophobeâ and âIâve eaten plenty of pussyâ to clear any misunderstandings.
I make one of the smartest and most well-thought-out decisions in my life: Remove a three-inch pocketknife from the stocking underneath my dress and slice the throats of the two survivors. The shock takes them by surprise, and they begin squirming around like vermin while holding their necks. It seems like theyâre Intratopia Ava users because last time I checked humans donât bleed blue or have shiny aqua-colored neck flesh. After their last gasp, I drag each corpse into separate stalls, prop them up on the toilet seats, and shut the flimsy doors.
âNothing to see here,â I mumble, locking each stall, âtheyâve got bad case of diarrhea.â
I remove my hair pin and unleash my wavy locks as I exit into the hall. The end of the pin is a fingernail size device which I place in my ear then tap twice. A tingle wrings through my head as I send a thought-call.
âOperator,â says a familiar female voice, âwhere may I direct your call?â
âOh, shut the hell up, Retina!â I yell in thought. âI need assistance A-fucking-SAP.â
âAye, pobrecita! ÂżQuĂ©Â tienes, maestra? You can no longer handle all of Spencerâs love handles?â
âThat too. But, besides that, I need you to lockdown a restroom in, fuck, whatâs this goddamn restaurant called again?â
âYouâre in Roma, pendeja.â
âYeah, that place. I need you to override the locks and force some sort of out of order sign in front of theââ
âItâs done. Anything else?â
âOh,â I widen my eyes, âalready?â
âMhmm.â
âErr, yeah. Send a clean-up crew too if you donât mind.â
âTheyâll be there in twenty.â
âMarvelous.â
âHow else may I be an accomplice to your fuckery?â
âJust work on your alibi.â
âIâve already got it covered.â
âWhat is it?â
âQuĂ©? Lo siento, officer. No hablo inglĂ©s. SĂ, señor. Soy inmigrante.â
âPerfect.â
âThanks. See ya, maestra. Retina out.â
I wrap some toilet paper around my knuckles, take out a pair of decorative yellow gloves from my purse, and notice the holographic âout-of-orderâ appear in front of the restroom. The server bumps into me and flinches.
âWhoa,â he flails his arms, âyou alright there, maâam?â
âTotally fine.â I fake a smile. âThanks.â
He notices something off about me and yanks me by the arm into a nook in the hallway.
âEris, you crazy goddamn dame,â he darts his eyes around, âI heard that commotion in thereâŠwhat the fuck was going on?â
âMinor altercation.â I slap his hand off me. âRetina, has it taken care of already.â
He makes a move into the womanâs restroom.
âAye!â I snatch him back. âDid I say make a formal investigation, Inspector Gadget?â
He does a spin move like a point guard in the NBA and enters the restroom.
âOh,â he twists around and face-palms, âJesus fucking Christ, Eris, can you go a day without killing someone and putting our operations in jeopardy, you psycho?â
âThey were being little cunts.â I point at the corpses in complete defense of my decisions. âGah, youâre such a fucking drama queen, Goodnight.â
âIâm getting tired of putting up with your shit all the goddamn time.â
âAww,â I squeeze his shoulders, âyou poor thing, donât worry, my little princess. Daddyâs gonna buy you a cute little dollhouse for you to play in.â
âReal funny, bitch.â He shoves me and returns to âwork.â
I leave the restroom and return to the table. Spence notices my new state and stands in concern.
âYou took a while, sweetie,â Spence says, âeverything alright? Youâve got some blood on your dress.â
âYeah, my bad. I just got my period and a bloody nose. Double whammy. Fuck me, right?â
He widens his eyes at this new voice.
Woops, get back in character, Eris.
âOh, Kat.â He sighs. âLetâs get you back home after we eat so that you can change your dress.â
âNo, no.â I clear my throat and sweeten my tone. âItâs fine. Iâve got ahhâŠstain remover in my purse.â
âIf you say so.â
Before eating, I clench and release my damaged hand under the table.
âHowâs your salad, ЎДŃĐșĐ°?â I maintain a perfect awkward smile.
âLacking meat, to say the least.â He looks at the greens on his fork.
I grab my fork and dig into the salmon salad. It tastes rubbery and artificial, âlab-to-tableâ as they say. I notice my plate is tilted forward for some reason.
âHmm, whatâs this?â I reach behind plate.
âSomething special.â Spence stands up.
I pick up a small velvet box with the words Cartier written on top. He gets on one knee, opens the box while itâs in my hand, and says âKat.â He hesitates. âThis past year with you has been the single greatest moment of my life. AndâŠIâŠwish to continue to share this feeling with you forâŠ,â he swallows hard, âfor the rest of my life. Ekaterina IvanovnaVinovich, would you give me the greatest honor in being my wife?â
Iâm floored.
âErr, блŃĐŽŃ.â I scratch my head. âI mean, yes. Yes! I would love to be your wife!â
âReally? Oh, Kat!â
He reels me in with his fat arms and kisses me. Kissing him is the closest thing to bloodless torture as it gets.
âIâm so excited!â I exclaim, releasing my grasp of him.
Manufacture tears. Manufacture tears. Câmon, ErisâŠyou can do it.
âThis feels so right.â I break down. âHow romantically original of you to propose at expensive restaurantâŠâ
âIâm so happy, Iâve lost my appetite!â He stands and wipes away authentic tears.
I notice my surroundings and see some of the restaurant staff applauding the scene. A few women approach the restroom and turn around frustrated after reading the âout of orderâ sign. Three men dressed as plumbers enter the restaurant and glance around searching for someone specific.
They see me. I wink at them. The crew enters the restroom with several big black duffle bags.
Success.
âOh, Spence!â My mouth quivers and I transform into a babbling crybaby. âThis is so surreal! All my lifeâŠIâve wanted to marry sweet, tender, romantic, chivalrous, gentleman like you ever since I wasâŠI wasâŠĐŒĐ°Đ»ŃŃĐșĐ°Â in Moscow playing with my Digi Barbies. Weâll be perfect couple!â
âIâm so glad I can make your dream come true, my love.â
âI have something for you too, my precious man.â
My favorite waiter brings Spencer a small silver tray and opens it. Itâs a golden apple with the words âto the kindest of them allâ in cursive.
âThis is gift from me.â I blow him a kiss. âFor kindest man I knowâŠâ
âYouâre the sweetest, Kat.â He takes a big bite. âMmmâŠhoney!â
He finishes my sweet treat, and we start to gather our things. Spence hands the server a hundred-dollar bill as a tip. The man studies the paper money like he dug up an artifact. We get up and head back to the entrance.
I can hear the sizzling of flesh, and itâs not coming from the kitchen.
Commander Eris has had enough of her organisation being used to carry out covert missions by various nations. She has a great vision for the Proxy: "To become an independent nation of nationless individuals." She wants to give her organisation of over 2,000 employees independence and freedom. This doesn't sit well with everyone in the Proxy. Things get complicated when Eris starts to have strange visions of a Rainbow Dancer and a nightmareish Faceless Phantom, who no one else can see. Not only does she need to make her vision for the Proxy a reality, she needs to figure out what's going on with her mind, too. "I need my 2,000-plus personnel of Proxy agents to believe I'm crazy, but not insane."
Chaos in Harmony is packed with action, set in a dystopian America. While it's described as being 'absurd', it's easy to follow and not too different to other sci-fi of the genre. It has a great cast of fun characters who bring the story to life.
The story flows well, with detailed worldbuilding. While the world is very different from our own, it feels believable. Androids and AI have left many unemployed, climate change has forced the population to migrate to congested cities, and the rich have further separated themselves from 'regular' people through technology. Eris and Void's visit to New Fine City was a particular highlight, a fully autonomous city with its own 1960s-style DJ. There are lots of references to pop culture throughout the book, from musical interludes to road signs to mentions of Brave New World.
Commander Eris is violent, vulgar, a drug addict, a little crazy and a real bad ass. She's an impressive sniper and the brains of the Proxies, agreeing what contracts to take. She is a real wild card - making lots of unexpected choices throughout the book. The rest of Eris's officers - Chaste, Regina, Void, Cyrus, and Goodnight - are an electric mix of both human and android. Each has their own skill that they bring to the Proxies. They are a 'found family', and despite their bickering, there's obviously real care behind it. Scenes where they are together are very memorable - their meeting with President Humbert and the 'skit' at the end is particularly great! The dialogue and banter between the group flows easily, and any scene with Eris and the gang is a lot of fun.
There are a couple of typos and grammar errors throughout the book. For example, the wrong they're/there/their used, "that's my queue," "messy up-due," and some commas are missing. But this didn't interfere with enjoyment of the story.
This is a fast-paced dystopian read with an interesting premise that's filled with pop culture references. Commander Eris is a multi-faceted, bad ass main character, and any scenes with her Proxy crew is a highlight. Chaos in Harmony is one I'd recommend to fans of Tank Girl or the Bubbles in Space series by S.C. Jensen, which has a similar cyberpunk feel.
Trigger warnings: Lots of violence, death, recreational drug use and sexual references