The Dead Slam: A Tale of Benevolent Assasination

by Bright,R. F.

  “The kid who found the body.”

  “You took him with you?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How’d that work out?”

  “Couldn’t have been better.”

  “Glad to hear that,” said the Commander.

  Max’s grin nearly swallowed his face.

  It was early evening in late winter when Max came rumbling into Pastor Scott’s basement. He was certain his dad would be there waiting for him. He set both gun cases on Pastor Scott’s desk, without a word. Fred nudged closer. Max spun and grabbed him in a thunderous bear hug. “Take your pick, dad. Which one do you want?”

  “Which what? What you talkin’ about?”

  “Just pick one. It doesn’t matter which one. Just pick one.”

  Fred tapped the corner of the larger of the two cases. Max flipped its latches and slid it over to Fred so he could open the lid for himself. Inside, Fred found the Beretta Cheetah, a laser scope, a night vision scope, three 40 round 9mm clips, and a battery charger, all nestled perfectly in their cushy slots. “What’s this?”

  “The frozen guy, Arthur. Arthur’s daughter, Camille, gave it to me. They were arms dealers, back when dinosaurs — like you — roamed. Look. Look at this one.” Max popped the second case and raised the huge Smith & Wesson Magnum 50.

  Pastor Scott gasped. Even he recognized this weapon.

  Fred stared blankly. Max handed the big gun to him. Fred took it, weighed it, gripped it, aimed it, and broke out in a silly little dance.

  “That one’s for you, dad.” Max squeezed each word out, trying not to tear up.

  “Holy Moses on a Moped,” yelped Pastor Scott.

  Fred held the outsized chrome revolver to his chest. “I’ve seen a few of these. Not this model, the black one. The automatic.”

  “The Desert Eagle?”

  “Yeah. Desert Eagle.”

  “Saw one of those, too,” said Max. “Guess who had one up his sleeve?”

  Fred watched his son, his love, his heart, and heard something like the boy’s voice going on about the guns, but his thoughts were of a younger, less worldly boy he once knew. He so was proud of Max for going out in the world and coming back to their insignificant little village with a treasure he himself could never imagine. But the gift beyond treasure was written on Max’s face, in a script only a father can read. The excitement and joy pouring from Max was not about guns. It was about having brought something home. It was about giving something of unimaginable value — to his father.

  An all-consuming wave of relief folded over Fred. He’d come to the end of something. He had achieved the most important thing he could. He’d created a good man.

  He could die in peace.

  14

  It was dark by the time MacIan arrived at the Bedford Barracks; he couldn’t tell the parking lot from the forest. The forest is in constant stand-by, he thought, waiting to take back every insult we’ve visited upon it. The forest is patient. A trait he hoped to someday develop. He parked his Peregrine near the loading dock and ran inside. Cassandra and Commander Konopasek pounced on him — yelling over each other. Cassandra prevailed. “Camille Gager called about three minutes ago, in a panic.”

  “She OK?”

  The Commander jumped first. “She’s fine.”

  Cassandra cut him off with a scathing look. “She said something about a system failure and a warning and she needs you to call her.” She lifted the phone and a questioning eyebrow.

  MacIan nodded anxiously.

  While Cassandra dialed, the Commander put his hand on MacIan’s shoulder. “How’d it go up there?”

  “Arthur Gager was hired by Harbinger to find Tuke.”

  Cassandra put her hand over the mouthpiece. “Got her.”

  “Put her on speaker,” said MacIan.

  “Go ahead, honey.”

  “MacIan?!”

  “What happened?”

  “After you left, I gathered all the files and names and anything I thought might help us find Tuke. I started to search articles and news stories about him, on my computer. MacIan! This guy’s more than I ever thought. Not just a tech-weenie genius.”

  The Commander gave MacIan an I-told-you-so smirk.

  “The articles mentioned several dark-web sites where I thought I could find a lead. So I pulled up one with a forum for people who were developing things for The Massive.” She paused to take a breath. “All of a sudden, my whole computer system went down — the screen turned acid-green, then black, and it restarted. Rebooted from scratch. I thought the power had gone off, but all the clocks in the house were right. It was just my computer.”

  Her trio of listeners hung on every word.

  “They had control of everything. I couldn’t think. Then a message popped up, ‘This is the Tuke Massive. We know everything about you and your father. Our condolences. We had nothing to do with his death.’

  “I nearly peed my pants,” cried Camille.

  “I like this girl,” mumbled Cassandra.

  Camille continued, “There was a reply window, so I typed in > ‘What should I do?’

  “An answer popped up, ‘Do nothing. We have business with your friend, MacIan.’”

  MacIan looked shocked.

  “They know everything,” said Camille. “And I didn’t know enough to put together even one simple question. I just sat there with my mouth hanging open. But I wasn’t afraid. They said to do nothing and that’s exactly what I was willing to do. But then, another message popped up, ‘Tell MacIan to look on the front seat of his Peregrine.’”

  MacIan burst through the doors and bounded down the steps toward the loading dock, yelling, “Secure! Secure!” But the Peregrine did not respond. MacIan skidded to within ten feet of it and the cockpit dome opened, on its own, but the warning lights that would have normally flashed didn’t. The Commander rushed up from behind and he put his arm out to stop him. The Peregrine was now a hydrogen land-mine. MacIan approached to within an inch of the driver’s seat. He looked in and could see a shiny rectangular object sitting on the passenger’s seat. “It’s a computer.”

  “Is it safe?”

  MacIan took a deep breath, knowing how deadly the Peregrine was when protecting itself, then reached in and removed the computer. Nothing happened. He stepped back and suddenly the Peregrine went into secure mode; lights flashed, three beeps. It was back to normal and in his control.

  MacIan showed the computer to the Commander, and said, “It’s safe — for now.”

  “What’s happening?”

  “Someone sent us a message.”

  “What message?”

  “They can take my Peregrine anytime they choose.”

  “How can that be?”

  “There’s an override protocol to retrieve a Peregrine if anything happens to its pilot. Only top command has access. They call it the Big Red Box. Maybe two or three people on the whole planet have their own Big Red Box.”

  “Bad guys?”

  “No. They’re friendly, but way up the NPF chain of command.”

  “How do you get that?”

  “This kind of shit only runs downhill. They gave the Peregrine back to me, and threw in a computer.”

  MacIan and the Commander dashed back into the barracks and headed for the conference room. As they passed Cassandra, MacIan pointed at the phone.

  Cassandra nodded.

  “Camille?” said MacIan.

  “Yes.”

  “They dropped off a computer. As soon as we have a look at it, I’ll call you back. OK?”

  “Don’t make me wait.”

  “Never.”

  He hung up, trotted after the Commander, and, looking back at Cassandra, said, “You coming?”

  MacIan and Commander Konopasek rushed into the conference room a step ahead of Cassandra, but she shoved her way to the head of the table, motioning for MacIan to hand over the laptop. “Gently,” she said. The Commander sat next to her, seconding the motion. MacIan slid the computer to
her and watched over their shoulders.

  The blank screen fluttered into the back of a man’s head and noisy office chatter filled the conference room. The head spun around and a kindly face greeted them. “Oh, there you are,” he said, adjusting himself in the frame.

  The Commander’s chin nearly hit the table. “Levi Tuke?”

  “Yes, sir. Commander Konopasek.” Tuke had the doughy demeanor of most techies and the buoyancy of most billionaires, but he sounded like a man with far too much on his mind.

  The Commander gasped. “You know me?”

  “I’ll never forgive you!” he said, with a playful glint in his eye.

  The Commander’s eyes narrowed.

  “You destroyed my sister in the tenth grade spelling bee. You look just the same.”

  “He is a good speller,” Cassandra admitted.

  MacIan winced as the Commander suddenly answered a question no one had asked. “I’m OK. You?”

  Tuke shifted from kindly to concerned. “You should be worried. Very worried.”

  “I’m worried about my Peregrine,” said MacIan.

  “Trooper MacIan. I’m on your side. I have several of my own.”

  “Do you have a Big Red Box?”

  Tuke aimed a dismissive grin at MacIan, and continued, “Unfortunately, we’ve come to the turning point a little sooner than we’d predicted. Things are moving quickly. So I’ll be brief.”

  Someone yelled, “That’ll be the day,” and the room erupted in laughter. Tuke laughed, too. “A revolution is upon us. It brings the potential for paradise. The paradise you all know in your heart of hearts we can build. You know it’s doable.

  “For decades, certain . . . people outside the walled cities have been making things out of sight, and out of the hands of the corporate state. Amazing things. Things that will make humans hundreds of times more productive. In the end, productivity is all that matters, if providing sufficiently for humanity is your goal. But! If these technologies fall into the hands of the corporate reptiles, all that productivity will be siphoned off for their extravagance. Unfortunately, these technologies cannot mature until they scale to a global dimension. Uncorrupted by big government and big business.”

  “And what’s your part in all this?” asked MacIan.

  “I’m a kind of gardener, I guess. I wish. A game-theory permaculturist. Focus on the soil, and everything else takes care of itself. But my game network morphed into a digital infrastructure for collaboration on a massive scale. The Massive has gone virtually unnoticed, because it started out as a gaming network. But now it crosses every border and runs all the way down into the deepest parts of the darkest webs. Billions of players. The largest single grouping of people on earth. Young, educated, vital people with a keen interest in the future, who are no longer willing to sit on the sidelines as it all goes for naught. They’re not interested in ideology. Just results, corrections, more results. People who grew up after the Eternal Debate, who’d rather try and fail than perpetuate a half-century stalemate.”

  Cassandra laughed. “You just realized the game is rigged?”

  “We’re gaming each other all the time, so the primary function of government should be making the game fair, but that would mean taking away that advantage — that distortion. A distortion that’s the cause of all our problems. A distortion that causes advantage to accumulate. Their phony representatives’ only function is to preserve that advantage. But now this top-heavy game is about to topple over. Allowing them to continue is suicidal.

  “But! If they discover what we’re up to, or if we revert to violent tactics from their playbook, we’ll end up right back in their pockets. So! We must deploy before they sense a threat.”

  “Too late,” said Commander Konopasek. “They’re looking for you. We have a case involving one of them.”

  “Arthur Gager?” said Tuke.

  “You know Gager?” asked MacIan.

  “No. But I know he visited the Chinese Factory. You’ve seen it?”

  “Yeah, I saw it,” said MacIan. “He tracked you to Lily.”

  “Did he?” said Tuke. “That just goes to show you how foolish they are. I’m not worried about them finding me.”

  “What do you worry about?” asked Cassandra.

  “Variables.”

  “Variables?”

  “Variables. Wildcards.” He took a deep breath and exhaled with mild exasperation. “People like you.”

  15

  Night had fallen ever so softly in the tiny Village of Lily, as it does at winter’s end, surrendering a few shadows each evening. So no one noticed the shiny black troop transporter roll into the Church’s parking lot.

  Inside their cozy basement, Pastor Scott and Gina were wrapping up an argument about the upcoming mushroom harvest. Tensions were high and positions strongly held, until they heard a noise.

  Footsteps fell on the stone stairs, the side door opened, and two men in black fatigues entered and took up positions of their own.

  Pastor Scott and Gina fell silent.

  The men’s eyes were blurred by wrap-around face-shields that reflected the room in a chrome-smudge as they snooped here and there. They stopped at a mid-distance and mumbled something inside their helmets.

  Gina squeezed her eyes into mere slits. She’d been here before. It had been a while, but she coolly transformed into a simmering tumor of hate. “Can I help you?” she said with friendly vigilance, as though she had them right where she wanted them.

  They eyed her suspiciously.

  A third man stepped in and stood next to the door as the sound of others started down the steps. The small insignia they wore over their hearts were nearly impossible to see in this light; a black heart one shade blacker than their fatigues was riveted to the chest pocket flap.

  “What can we do for ya?” said Gina, calm but assertive.

  A fourth man entered who appeared to be in charge, but was only the Driver. He ran interference for a much older man who entered with a confidence that unnerved Pastor Scott.

  Gina was immune.

  The older man was certainly in charge of the group, but not of their sort. He was average height and dressed in expensive civilian clothes: midnight-blue suit of the finest Scottish wool, matching turtleneck — pure cashmere. His heavy silk scarf was an unusual tartan plaid, held fast by a shiny pin. On his head sat a luxurious fur hat, a rare black badger version of those worn by the Russian Ski Patrol — extremely practical and the most expensive thing in the building.

  The intruders scanned the room incessantly, but the dapper old man’s attention focused squarely on Pastor Scott and Gina. He moved about in high spirits, and chuckled when he stumbled on the uneven floor, showing a light-footed athleticism for a man of his age. He smiled and sat in the chair across from the desk, gesturing for his hosts to have a seat.

  They declined.

  He removed his hat respectfully, placed it very carefully on his lap, then said with an affable smile, “Good evening. My name is Efryn Boyne. How are you?” Every word dripped charm and deceit.

  “We’re good . . .” they mumbled, a tick or two out of sync.

  Efryn Boyne’s voice puzzled Gina. It was an odd mix of some very distinct accents — Baltimore/Philly, maybe Boston/New York, and something more exotic. She knew he was faking this accent to cover his real accent.

  Pastor Scott didn’t notice.

  “We were passing through your lovely village,” said Boyne. “Absolutely lovely. This is the real America.” The troop grumbled in the affirmative. “And you two are a hallmark of her glory.”

  Gina embraced only two principles concerning silver-tongued strangers. Kill them. If you can’t kill them, placate them, until you can kill them. “Love springs eternal,” she said, wondering if a gun were handy.

  “That’s what I love about the highlands. Its beauty breeds beautiful souls.”

  Pastor Scott nodded. “How can we help you folks?”

  Boyne spoke right up. “It’s a m
atter of the spirit, Reverend.”

  “Pastor!” corrected Pastor Scott.

  “Sorry. But might I bend your ear for a moment, Pastor? Pastor, is it?”

  Pastor Scott played along. “And what is it that troubles you, my son?”

  “First, let me apologize for my ignorance. Calling you Reverend. I am myself a Quaker. Thirty-six generations. We don’t have a clergy, of course. And I confess, I’m too lazy, and too old, to learn all those hierarchies and titles.”

  “I understand,” said Pastor Scott. “Thank God for the consolidation. Now there’s only one Church, one hierarchy.”

  Boyne bowed his head grudgingly — obviously not a fan.

  “You have a question?” probed Pastor Scott — he could feel Gina’s radioactive attention zeroing in on him.

  “Yes, yes indeed.” Boyne stretched his lips as though he were about to ask a favor. “One of our flock. Leviticus Tuke? You’ve heard of him?”

  “Of course,” snapped Gina, pretending to be insulted. Cracking out of turn, by failing to acknowledge a local hero, would prove she was lying. “He’s a local hero.”

  “He’s an international hero to my people. I’m sure you know he’s gone missing?”

  The seemingly hapless couple nodded and tried to hide their suspicion.

  “We’re searching for him. He might be hurt. He might be in danger. Kidnapped? You know he has a lot of money. And one of our brothers, Arthur Gager, he too . . .”

  Gina seized the opening. “So you only want to help him? He’s a local hero, you know.” She dangled the bait.

  “He’s a Friend and Fellow Traveler,” said Boyne, fondly. “I’ve known him since he was born. We are of the same Meeting.”

  “You don’t want to hurt him?” she asked, poised to set the hook.

  “We only want to help. We’re Quakers.”

  “You don’t want to hurt him?”

  “No.”

  “You sure?

  “Yes. I promise.”

  “You’re absolutely sure?”

  “Absolutely!”

  “You swear?” She raised her right hand.

  “I swear!” said Boyne, thoughtlessly raising his right hand.