by Tom Abrahams
“Catherine,” Guilfoyle said, eyeing her without turning his head, “I have always appreciated your candor. Where others feign loyalty, you are true. Where others seek to appease, you seek to advise. I appreciate you.”
Catherine’s stretched face forced a smile. She dipped her head.
“If what you say about the rioting is indeed true,” he added, “I am best to take all precautions. I’ll be sure to return home via the tunnel.”
He took another long sip of the coffee. It was deliciously bitter. This was the blend from Ethiopia, or whatever that far-flung place was called this week. War-torn as it was, exporting coffee was a feat. It was worth it, whatever the price. He let the aftertaste sit on his tongue, leaching into his cheeks.
Catherine, his most trusted advisor, always sat to his right. Next to her was Frederick. Gustav sat at the end. On the other side of the table, Archibald sat to the commander’s immediate left, Joseph in the middle, and Louis opposite Gustav.
“Shall we begin the business of the day?” asked Guilfoyle. “Catherine, you begin, since you seem to have some intelligence regarding the unfortunate escalation of mayhem on our streets.”
Catherine straightened her back. She was, as the top lieutenant, Guilfoyle’s link to the other five. She handled the day-to-day operation of the city-state. While Guilfoyle made the decisions, Catherine provided the basis.
“Yes, Commander,” she said. “I’ll begin with the disorder at our distribution facilities. It appears as though the disruptions are coordinated.”
“How so?” asked Guilfoyle.
“The timing. We reviewed video surveillance of the disruptions at seven different watering stations. On all the clips, it’s clear the time stamp is the same.”
“Is this your work, Frederick?” asked Guilfoyle.
Frederick was in charge of the vast surveillance network, which comprised signal and human intelligence. He had spies everywhere.
“My people,” he answered, his focus flitting between Catherine and Guilfoyle. “They discovered the consistency in timing. Overlays of the video also revealed similar types of disruptions. At the same time, two men shove each other, complaining the other stole a place in line. The dialogue is similar. The actions are identical.”
“Let me see it,” said Guilfoyle.
Frederick tapped a device on his wrist. It was known simply as a Com. A holographic, three-dimensional image appeared, hovering above the center of the table. A queue of men and women stood in front of a watering station. The line stretched beyond the length of the display, which was clear enough that Guilfoyle saw the smudges of grime on the men’s faces as they turned to confront one another.
“Hey,” said one, shoving the other’s shoulder. “You can’t cut in line. All these people have been waiting their turns.”
The one in front squared his body and clenched his fists. His neck tensed and his jaw tightened. He was larger than the antagonist. “Not so,” he said. “In fact, I’ve been here the whole time and I haven’t seen you. You’re the one cutting in line.”
He shoved back; then the two men shouted as they grappled with each other. Neither of them threw punches. Within thirty seconds, TMF guards were on the men and separating them. One of them took the butt of an M27 to the nose. He collapsed to his knees and grabbed at his face, blood leaking through his cupped hands. The men were pulled from the line. When they were gone, the others in the queue promptly filled the gap. In another thirty seconds it was as though nothing had happened, save the splatter of blood droplets on the ground.
“Here’s another one,” said Frederick. He tapped his wrist, and the holographic image changed. “We believe an uprising is imminent, Commander. It could happen at any moment. This is not a hyperbole.”
Two men stood in another watering station line. Again, they argued over who had cheated their way into the queue. They were separated and subdued within thirty seconds.
Frederick shared two more examples of similar activity before Guilfoyle told him he’d seen enough. Frederick tapped his wrist, and the holograph disappeared.
“They fight,” said Guilfoyle, “they’re removed from the line; they get nothing from it. What’s the purpose? Archibald?”
Guilfoyle motioned to the lieutenant in charge of the TMF, the Tactical Marine Force. Archibald was the top military strategist in the city-state, the protectorate’s general.
He wore the scars of many battles on his hardened face. His gray hair was cut high and tight, razor shaved above his ears on his bronzed face. Deep crevices ran parallel across his broad forehead. His jawline was pronounced, muscular even, and his large nose bore the irregular curves of having been broken at least once.
Although his knuckles were swollen, bearing the hints of arthritis, the man was spry. His attitude belied his apparent age and mileage. His voice was soft, measured, and self-assured.
“It’s a classic maneuver, Commander,” he said, his fingers laced together in front of him on the table. His thick eyebrows, wiry and unkempt, danced as he spoke. They appeared independent of everything else on his face.
“They’re testing our response,” said Archibald. “They’re probing. This is a precursor to something bigger. Maybe the Tic is trying to take control of legitimate supply routes? Maybe the Badlanders are seeking to infiltrate. There’s always a threat to our security, sir. It never ends. What this particular game might be, we don’t know.”
Guilfoyle picked up the no longer steaming cup of coffee and drew it to his mouth. He sipped from the cup twice and returned it to the table.
“Probing,” he said, testing the word, seeing how it fit. “Probing. A precursory probe.”
“Yes, sir,” said Archibald. “We’re confident in that assessment. It is absolutely no coincidence that multiple altercations, of a similar nature, occurred simultaneously and with no obvious purpose. They never harmed each other despite the animosity displayed. Their only injuries were at the capable hands of our Marines. The men lost their water rations for the day. They’re tagged in the system. The only possible gain here is to learn how we’d respond.”
“I’m not so sure I buy that assessment,” said Louis. He was the lieutenant in charge of water rationing. He controlled the flow to the protectorates’ watering stations and was one of two logisticians on Guilfoyle’s council. Joseph was the other.
Frederick bristled, his jaw set, his eyebrows melding into one.
“Why is that?” asked Guilfoyle.
“We have skirmishes like this all the time,” Louis said. “As I’m certain Catherine, Frederick, and the good Lieutenant Archibald can attest, this thing is nothing new. Archibald just now said there are always threats.”
Louis waved his hand. The man, younger than the others on the council by two decades, had a head covered in thick curly black hair. He was stout, more flabby than firm, liked to hear himself talk, and was the son of Guilfoyle’s older sister. When his mother had died, she’d bequeathed him the seat on the council, and Guilfoyle hadn’t objected.
“Yes,” continued Louis, “there is the matter of the timing. I’ll grant it’s suspicious. That’s as far as I’m willing to go, however. To suggest there is some organized movement testing our defenses is laughable.”
Louis chuckled and adjusted the tight-fitting shirt he wore atop his girth. The weighty purple fabric stretched at his arms and across his chest.
Archibald eyed the others at the table, avoiding Louis, and sniffed.
“Your thoughts?” Guilfoyle prompted, sensing the TMF leader’s desire to respond.
“Sir,” said Archibald, “with whatever respect is due Lieutenant Louis, I disagree with him. There are always threats to power. However feeble they may be, we must remain vigilant. Vigilant against the enemy who commits its treason out in the open, flaunts it with our tacit approval.”
“The Tic,” said Catherine.
“Yes,” said Archibald, pointing a gnarled finger at the window across from him and behind the three lieuten
ants facing him. “As such, what’s laughable is that we might sit here and deny there are forces out there not actively trying to undo what we’ve so painstakingly built and maintained.”
“You think this is the Tic?” asked Catherine. “This wouldn’t fit their style, would it? As you said, they prefer to hide in plain sight.”
There was no response. The room fell quiet.
Then Gustav spoke up. “Then who is it?”
The lieutenant had remained quiet until then. He was in charge of infrastructure and engineering. He’d designed the Fascio and the Torquemada towers. He’d overseen the reconstruction of the city’s thoroughfares, sewer system, and electric grid. He was a small man with no hair and thick black-rimmed glasses. Although he typically only spoke when addressed, Guilfoyle knew the man’s mind was a machine that never shut off. He was always observing, calculating, and solving for “x.”
All attention turned to Gustav. He shrugged and pushed his glasses up his thin nose.
Guilfoyle smiled at the engineer. “Excellent question,” he said. “If, in fact, there is a coordinated effort to test our defenses, and it’s not the Tic, then who is it?”
“We don’t know,” Archibald said after clearing his throat. “But Frederick and I need more resources.”
The room erupted into a chaos of conversation. The other five lieutenants dove into their own theories, agreeing with or refuting the one posited by the TMF’s chief. They pounded their fists and gesticulated wildly. All of them fought for Guilfoyle’s attention and for the floor.
Guilfoyle allowed the volume to rise for close to a minute then raised his hands, showing his palms to the assembled. One at a time they appeared to see the signal and quieted. All except for Louis, who was didactic in his assertion that the military and surveillance arm of the Overseer government was paranoid. They sought to consolidate power for themselves by inventing a threat to which they must respond with additional resources and attention.
Guilfoyle motioned to Archibald. “Why do you need more resources?”
“Frederick has a spy,” Archibald said. “That spy is missing.”
“Missing?” Louis sneered.
Frederick cleared his throat. “Yes,” he said. “We don’t know where she is at the moment.”
“She?” asked Louis. “The spy is a woman?”
Catherine leaned into the table, her eyes blazing. “Why is that a problem?”
Louis rolled his eyes. “It’s not, except that she’s missing. They don’t know where she is.”
Guilfoyle slammed his fist onto the table. It appeared to startle all his lieutenants. His cup rattled and almost tipped.
“Enough of the bickering,” he said. “We are on the same team. We are one. Act like it.”
Louis tucked his double chin and apologized to his uncle. Had he been able to genuflect in his seat, it seemed he would have done that. Catherine said nothing. The others pulled nervously at their collars.
“Continue,” Guilfoyle addressed Frederick.
“Our asset is loyal,” said Frederick. “She has been in the system since childhood. We have had her undercover, with the Tic, for some time now.”
“Frederick assures me she has provided invaluable information up to this point,” said Archibald. He nodded when he spoke, evidently hoping this would accentuate their confidence in the spy. Even if she wasn’t technically a TMF asset, Archibald and Frederick were often joined at the hip strategically. Guilfoyle knew this about him. He wasn’t, however, sure of their confidence.
He considered they were saying it aloud to convince themselves as much as the rest of the council. Guilfoyle said nothing, though. He let them continue uninterrupted.
“We’ve searched her home,” said Archibald. “She shared the place with a Tic bootlegger.”
Louis laughed. It was a condescending laugh that bordered on a cackle. “A bootlegger?” he asked. “All of these years undercover and the best you could do was attach her to a bootlegger?”
Guilfoyle shot Louis a narrow gaze that told his nephew to be quiet. “It’s irrelevant,” he said to the room. “What matters is why she has disappeared.”
“We think they made her,” said Frederick. “The bootlegger made a run for it the night before she vanished. As Archibald said, we searched her place. There was evidence of a struggle. We don’t think she went willingly.”
“Could it be staged?” asked Catherine. “Did she turn? Did she leave with the bootlegger?”
Frederick shook his head. “No,” he said. “That is to say, no, she didn’t leave with him. My troops have no reports or sightings. Frederick’s surveillance corroborates that assessment.”
“But she might have turned?” asked Gustav. “How long was she undercover?”
Archibald and Frederick nodded at each other after a brief pause. Frederick lowered his eyes and stared at the table. He sucked in a deep breath and exhaled.
“It’s possible,” Frederick said, lifting his eyes. “We don’t know. She’s been under a while. We can say she’s been providing valuable intelligence as recently as a week ago. So we don’t think she’s flipped. But there’s no telling, honestly.”
“And you’re suggesting that if she did turn,” said Guilfoyle, “we need to be concerned about what else might happen. What the Tic will know about how we operate?”
“Or that they somehow retaliate,” said Archibald. “The spying was a violation of our, well, unspoken agreement to let the other operate without interference.”
Archibald shot Frederick a glare that told Guilfoyle they weren’t necessarily of the same mind on this. There was a division.
“And we worry this might not only affect our protectorate, but the others,” said Frederick. “Maybe the Badlanders get involved. They’re always looking for a fight.”
Archibald pulled back his uniform sleeve and pressed the device on his wrist. He tapped it and then swiped until a new three-dimensional hologram appeared above the center of the glass table. This image was not video, however. It was a map.
Archibald began. “This gives reference for all the thirteen protectorates, or city-states, that exist in—”
“We know what it is,” Louis snarked.
Guilfoyle shot Louis a look that shut him up. He sank back against his ergonomic seat with a huff. The man was a child, Guilfoyle knew. He had no choice though; the man-child was blood.
“Separating all the existing protectorates are the Badlands,” Archibald went on. “You’ll see the areas where we believe Badlanders have large encampments.”
“You mean the unwashed?” Louis asked.
“I mean Badlanders,” Archibald said. “The ungoverned tribes who roam the Badlands.”
“The unwashed,” Louis repeated.
“Let him speak,” said Catherine.
“Yes, please,” Frederick chimed in. “Let the man finish, Louis.”
Louis folded his stubby arms across his flabby chest, the purple fabric stretching and bunching in unflattering places.
Archibald tapped his Com, and clusters of colors highlighted circles in various spots within what he’d identified as the Badlands.
“We know the Badlanders stay to themselves,” he said. “They prey on those who threaten their vague territory by encroaching on their lands. They attack without question. But…”
Archibald manipulated the image to show clusters of color surrounding some of the other, smaller protectorates on the map. “We have seen instances, as modeled here,” he said, “of the Badlanders creating barriers around some of our more moderately sized brethren. We have intelligence that tells us they were working with someone. I’ll ask Frederick to relay that information.”
Now Frederick was the one at center stage. The head of surveillance leaned forward on the table with his elbows.
“Our communication with other protectorates is, at best, spotty,” Frederick began. “As you all know, our relationships with them are shaky. Up and down. So our intelligence about what happened in t
hese instances you see modeled before you does include some guesswork.”
“Then what good is it?” asked Louis, his mouth curled into a frown.
Frederick glanced at Louis but ignored his question. “Our guesswork is based on years of experience with such things. I’ve had my best people working on this. Archibald has as well. Our reconnaissance teams are among the best.”
“We know this to be true,” said Guilfoyle. “I have every confidence in you.”
“We’ve seen the Badlanders providing passage for the Tic in ways they haven’t before,” said Frederick. “They’re not as aggressive as they’ve been. And we’ve seen this around several of the protectorates.”
“It could be the Tic is paying them,” said Archibald. “That is a real possibility. It may mean nothing more.”
“A bribe,” said Catherine.
“Sort of,” said Frederick. “Maybe. We don’t know. This may be a red herring. But we do think it’s cause for greater resources. We need more men, more weaponry, more vehicles. Even if all of this is nothing, it can’t hurt. Remember, the Badlanders are anarchists who refused to join the safety of the protectorates when the Dearth took hold. They’re nomadic tribes who can move anywhere at any time.”
Guilfoyle shifted in his seat, the wood creaking at its joints, and looked past the lieutenants to his right to the view beyond the dust-caked window.
This protectorate was all he’d ever known. He’d risen to power, grabbed it from those who didn’t deserve it, and held steady the city-state’s course toward a more productive future. The people had enough food. They had enough water. There was no gluttony among the citizenry, there was equanimity. His was an egalitarian state wherein all were equal. Some were more equal than others, as the great psychic philosopher Orwell had once written. But that was the way of the world. His world.
He blinked from his momentary reverie and directed his attention to Frederick. Before he could say anything, Catherine spoke.
“How much more?” she asked. As the right hand, she controlled the purse strings. She knew the budget, its constraints, and where it could be stretched.