After War

by Tim C. Taylor

  Her head still radiating disappointment, Silky called out. “Assistant Squad leader Denisoff, what is our mission?”

  “Thank you. Someone had the guts to ask. Most of you have had personal run-ins with the ganglord known as Timberwolf or Volk. It’s a war to the death. We are taking him down or die trying.”

  Cheers and hoots and jeers rang out. The squad was pumped at the idea of mobilizing against our nemesis. This was personal. Even for those who hadn’t known Volk before, they would do this for Magenta, Tang and Walksi. But the cheers were ragged because those of us who weren’t agents were busy checking our Aimees, taking in what scraps Revenge Squad had offered us.

  I couldn’t find my message. I slapped my Aimee hard, but then remembered Silky’s disgust at my fists-first attitude.

  So I rebooted the device.

  Still nothing.

  By now Denisoff had dismissed the others, who were growing rowdier by the moment. They headed away to the Wreck Room giving rapidly escalating descriptions of what they would do to Volk when they caught him.

  That left Silky, me, and Denisoff.

  I had six inches on ‘C’ Section’s leader, but he still managed to loom at me. “You are in breach of contract, McCall. You’re out.”

  “But…” I stopped and looked at Silky. I didn’t want to cause trouble and frakk things up for her.

  “But what, McCall? Agent Sylk-Peddembal is only here because of you? If you’re out, she’s out. Is that what you were going to say?”

  “No.”

  “But you could, you know. Silky is bound to you by marriage. If you ship out and told her to follow, she would have no choice. The Kurlei biology would force her, no matter how much she would resent being shackled to a loser like you. Is that what you want for her?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Then you know what you must do.”

  I did. I squared my shoulders and tried to do the right thing. “Assistant Squad Leader Denisoff, I wish to state for the record that I congratulate Agent Sylk-Peddembal on her new assignment. Although I do not wish to be separated from my wife, nonetheless I urge her to – have success in her career with Revenge Squad, whatever and wherever her posting.”

  “That was very nearly the right thing to do,” said Denisoff. “But it isn’t me you should be talking to.”

  I turned to face Silky.

  Her face was impenetrable. The pupils of her alien eyes so dilated they were invisible against her black patches of skin.

  “Take a chance with Revenge Squad,” I urged her. “I still don’t understand this Kurlei marriage business, but if it helps, I beg you to make a life for yourself with them. If you ever truly needed me before, you don’t now. You have a new family here for you.”

  “I resign,” said Silky.

  The wonderful fool. I knew then that I would ache with her absence if we were ever separated.

  “You cannot,” Denisoff replied calmly. “You signed up for a ten-year enlistment.”

  “Then I’ll desert. You’ll have to put a dart through my brain to stop me.”

  He nodded. “I suppose I will have to do just that. Just explain to me why. You’ve been running for years. This is your chance. Why throw it away for this loser? Do you love him, Agent Sylk-Peddembal?”

  Silky’s pupils returned to normal as she regarded Denisoff. The dark eyes looked both alien and threatening. A vein on Denisoff’s temple throbbed, stark against the icy cool of his skin.

  “No, I do not love him,” said Silky, her head fronds throbbing. “But he comes with me.”

  I grabbed her hand and together we glared at Denisoff.

  She’d said exactly the right thing. I didn’t think I loved her, either. And I shuddered at the idea of ever spending rack time with this alien whose skin was like a dead fish to touch, and whose eyes were those of a ghoul.

  Didn’t matter. When she told me she would rather resign than be separated I knew then that we came as a pair. Team Silky and me. Buddies. Partners. She was my wife and I was her… sidekick? Whatever – hell, I don’t know much about such stuff, I’m just a Marine sergeant, but that meant I did recognize an effective team when I saw one.

  The problem was, that realization had come a bit late for our try out with Revenge Squad. I’d frakked it up. What now?

  I thought the three of us were about to punch things out, but to my surprise, triumph bloomed over Denisoff’s face.

  “In my office,” he ordered. “Both of you. Now!”

  — CHAPTER 55 —

  Silky and I watched Denisoff warily across his table, the one I’d stuffed a stunned Kurlei beneath a few days ago. Holland Philby was there too.

  “We’ve watched you closely ever since you arrived,” Denisoff said.

  “I’ve taken a chance on you,” added Philby. “I wouldn’t have bothered, but Denisoff was persuasive.” He pulled at his beard. “I need my new ‘C’ Section out in the field the day before yesterday. But I’ve waited to play silly games so that you two had a chance to figure out yourselves after you–” He pointed an accusing finger at me. “–punched your partner.”

  The two men enjoyed the surprise rolling off us.

  “Of course, we saw everything,” said Denisoff. “To be fair, we only upgraded our internal security systems after Volk’s attack in the woods. Even the Security Section doesn’t know, so you keep this to yourself, right? We do suspect a traitor, but it’s neither of you two idiots.”

  “Why is everything about Volk?” asked Silky. “Is there something we should know, something personal?”

  Philby scrunched his face up in puzzlement. “It’s just business,” he said. “We’re regional rivals. A fight to the death will be costly but we can’t dodge this any longer, especially not after their attack.”

  “Not to me, it isn’t,” said Denisoff. “It is frakking personal to me. I left three of my recruits behind in those woods. Have you forgotten?”

  Silky wasn’t finished yet. “Director. Assistant Squad Leader. I request that my husband is not confined to the camp but follows me on active duty.”

  Philby waved her into silence. “Here’s the deal,” he said. “It’s the only one I’m prepared to offer. McCall can join you as an acting auxiliary. He’s on probation for one year. No pay. No benefits. He must first swear to obey every instruction you give him without question. And you’d better make damned sure he doesn’t step out of line. You will swear to me that if he does frakk up then you will eliminate him immediately. If you fail in this then I guarantee that you will witness him suffer excruciating agony before I first kill him, and then mount your pretty head on my wall.”

  “You’re a fool,” Denisoff shot at Silky, his words uncharacteristically hot. “Whatever your husband’s attractive qualities, he is a liability. He deserves to be thrown out the airlock. I’m taking a big chance on you, Silky. Frankly, we have no choice but to move on Volk before we are ready. You shall be responsible for a sub-squad. Shahdi Mowad will be your junior agent, and Nardok will be your senior specialist. Make full use of his experience. You will also command your husband and Associate Chikune.”

  Philby loomed over the desk menacingly, placing his fists on its surface like a gorilla. “I will be watching. Agent Sylk-Peddembal and Acting Auxiliary McCall. I remind you of our organization’s name and its line of business.”

  Revenge Squad. Yeah, I got that. Philby would give us more than stern words if we ever crossed him.

  “Do not let us down,” Philby growled.

  “No, Director,” Silky replied.

  Having pointedly talked about me rather than to me, as if I was some green rifleman of no account, Denisoff and Philby turned to me. I endured several minutes of groveling and swearing that I was a bonehead idiot but one who could still learn. I didn’t find that difficult. I’d had a lifetime of that.

  The two of them weren’t making idle threats either. I was going to dance to the tune of an alien officer with the power of life or death over me.r />
  I’d known little else my entire life. But being married to that alien officer – I had to admit that was something new.

  And with my overextended age, I’d take any novelty life was still prepared to throw my way.

  When finally dismissed and marching away over the gravel of the parade ground, I felt Silky’s headlumps throbbing with concern. She grabbed my shoulder and pulled me to a halt.

  “Are you okay, NJ? Is reporting to me going to be a problem?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied, as honestly as I could. It wasn’t as if I had a lot of choice, not unless I wanted to desert. “It depends on you.”

  She looked thoughtful. For a sickening moment, I thought she was gearing up for a speech on how she would repay my loyalty and earn my respect or some such drent.

  Then I was betrayed. It’s the only word for it.

  Bahati lit up the back of my head with excitement. From the depths of despondent decay the sudden prospect of going to war against Volk magnified the strength of her presence many-fold. She’d always been that way. Bahati was ever the one with the right word or touch to soothe and heal, but wave the prospect of a fight or a good meal in front of her, and she was transformed into a savage beast.

  Her excitement was so strong that Silky could feel it. She picked up the exhilaration and fed it into a smile, which only encouraged Bahati more. I felt overwhelmed by this pincer movement.

  Then the final betrayal. Sanaa added her more measured and mellow undertones of satisfaction to Bahati’s high-pitched excitement.

  Congratulations, she said. Worked out well for you in the end, NJ. In time, you’ll grow into the perfect sidekick for your new partner.

  I think Silky could hear Sanaa too at some level because her smile stretched wide far beyond human capability. Her mouth looked like a weapon port in winter camouflage.

  I was surrounded by three wives, living and dead, trapped in an encirclement from which there could be no escape.

  I shrugged. I’d been in worse drent.

  I looked on the bright side. You have to, really. I was going to war, and that meant I would soon reunite with one more of my marriage partners.

  My SA-71 carbine.

  It must be true that absence strengthens the bond of love because I missed my SA-71 terribly.

  I couldn’t help it. I smiled too.

  — CHAPTER 56 —

  So this was what being a Revenge Squad infiltrator felt like: verifying account ledgers at a desk in an air-conditioned office in the scruffy downtown of Tata City. I wasn’t even doing any of the accountancy work. That was a task for the rudimentary AIs provided for me by the target company, which gloried under the name of Universal Agents Inc. My role was to be a cheap set of eyes to double check the AI hadn’t gone insane, or been hacked.

  Even though I’d only been hired as a set of minimum wage eyeballs, I still had to wear a suit. This consisted of shirt, jacket and pants that together weren’t dissimilar in cut to dress uniform, but instead of announcing your place within the unit you belonged to, they signaled a subservience to something else entirely.

  Yes, for the first time my life I had been subjected to fashion.

  Business fashion.

  They’d even made me cut my hair and trim my beard.

  The idea of me taking pride in my appearance was not wholly new, though the two of us had been estranged for many years. For most of my life, I had worn my regimental ink and uniform insignia with pride, and had my personal symbol programmed into the dress settings of my fatigues and combat armor to appear just above the right knee. My symbol was an impala, a spritely quadruped ruminant from Earth with impressive lyre-shaped horns that had been Sanaa’s pet name for me. That was different though. That was about being part of a team.

  In recent years, all my clothes had to do was keep out the rain, keep me warm, and avoid accusations of indecency.

  Fashion!

  I’ve seen insanity in many forms but never quite like this. I mean, who the frakk decided whether my jacket should be this color or that? Should the colors be solid or patterned, and if patterned, dots, stripes, camo or something else?

  “You think this is bad,” said my new office colleague one morning. “A few years back, it was all the rage to wear shirts emblazoned with pictures of historical figures. Can you imagine wearing an image of a general you’d never heard of, or some lickspittle politician?”

  “No, I can’t. Frankly I think you’re speaking out of your butt – in fact, I can hear your cheeks flapping with every word.”

  He got up from his desk and stood alongside me, blotting out most of the light. Yup, he was a big guy. An ex-Marine called Sanjay with the neck callouses to tell me he’d served most of his life.

  He sized me up.

  I started to get to my feet, thinking we were about to initiate violence, but he pushed me back down through my shoulder.

  “Easy, Marine. I have no beef with you. It’s true what I said about the fashion faces, but I reckon I wouldn’t believe me either if I was new to this. And you are new, aren’t you? New to–” He threw his arms wide. “–offices, desks, water coolers, filing systems, corporate healthcare and frakking office dress codes.”

  I tried to laugh. “Guess this takes a bit of getting used to, Chief.”

  His turn to laugh. “A bit? Been deployed to this office for five years, still makes no sense to me.” His demeanor closed in along with his arms as he leaned in close and personal.

  “You lost friends. We all did. They aren’t coming back. Nor are the people you killed. War’s over, pal. We won. Deal with it!”

  I guess he was all right, this Sanjay. He was trying to help, but he left me feeling just about ready to cut my throat.

  I chuckled. If I ever did put a blade to my throat it would have to contend with the most bizarre part of my outfit. Around my neck was a double loop of linen cloth that was allowed to dangle down the front of my shirt, an article of clothing that was utterly without function other than to constrict my breathing. It wasn’t even smartfabric that would obey its programming to conform to its program’s shape and texture and color. This was dumb textile.

  It was called a cravat.

  Sanjay caught me fingering my cravat with a deep frown, and tried to apologize for this monstrous constriction by explaining its military origin. He claimed the neck cloth was first worn by human irregular soldiers from the 1600s who were not dissimilar from the modern-day Wolves.

  I thought I heard the sound of flapping butt flesh once more.

  “All true,” he insisted, looking the picture of innocence. “Look it up.” His expression hardened. “Hang in there, buddy. Most days I question what the frakk I’m doing here, and on those other days I long to be back in the military. The war didn’t always make sense either, but at least you could pretend it did. I survive by telling myself that one day all this will seem worthwhile.”

  I admired the guy’s optimism. Really. Sometimes psychotic levels of optimism are what you need to pull yourself out of the darkness. If I worked here for real, I would go properly mad.

  Luckily for my state of mind, I was a spy, an infiltrator in Volk’s legitimate corporate front who would die a horrible death if discovered. I preferred it that way.

  I turned back to my work and the two smartscreens on my desk: a huge screen on a stand for my eyeballs to play over, and one flat on the desk for use as a keyboard. The two days’ intensive typing coaching had raised my skill level from one-finger to two-finger typing. My résumé said I was an expert typist, but you only had to look at Sanjay huffing and cursing at his keyboard to know I wasn’t the only one who had lied.

  Even a rudimentary AI would make my overseeing work easier, but they didn’t want AIs to check up on other AIs; they wanted people. Nardok the Typist had explained this was to make hacking their systems more difficult, but if Universal Agents had anything to hide, three days of my scrutiny had turned up nothing. The one thing I’d found was a legitimate bookkeep
ing mistake for the cost of air-conditioning servicing. And that had only been for a few shillings. I was actually helping Volk run his money-laundering operation.

  Nardok had warned me not to expect quick results, and never to expect dramatic ones.

  With my auxiliary memory constructs broken, I stopped using my inner journal to record my thoughts and started using it to note down names of suppliers, the dates and values of regular payments in and out. The theory was that the more we knew how Volk ran his legitimate fronts, the more adept we would become at assembling nuggets of uninteresting data into fragments of patterns. These tiny pieces could then be assembled (by people far more patient than me) into models, and combined with spying on the individuals concerned to build up possible avenues of attack for blackmail, kidnapping, or cyber-attack. In other words, a huge stockpile of boring little details had to be assembled before Revenge Squad would not just kill the bastard, but take down his entire organization too.

  And guess who Denisoff had assigned to glean the most boring details of all.

  I understood the theory. But the minutiae I passed onto my handler were so mundane I began to fear I wouldn’t last till the end of the month, finished off by prolonged exposure to boredom.

  My handler for my true employer – well, non-employer seeing as they weren’t prepared to pay me actual money – was a white-skinned humanoid with sooty eye patches like week-old campfires, who would have displayed squid-like lumps on her head if she didn’t keep them permanently covered under a black faux-silk headscarf. And if Silky made more sense of the little data nuggets I fed her when we ‘accidentally’ brushed past each other in offbeat parts of the city, then being told about our progress was beyond my paygrade (don’t get me started on pay again…).

  The whole sub squad was embedded in Universal Agents Inc., and the ease with which we were admitted told me Revenge Squad had already infiltrated the organization.

  Somewhere.

  The building was a labyrinth of tiny little rooms housing a handful of office workers. I think they kept us separate to disguise the fact that everyone there was an admin clerk. No one made anything. No one sold anything. I understood that Universal Agents was a legitimate front to a very illegitimate criminal gang, but even so the corporation must do something, surely?