They never got out of town.
Local militia, enraged by direct intervention from “central”, and half-cooked on Blade, started a shootout in the slums. The gunfight spilled into the harbor district. Porter tried to disengage, correctly identifying the chaos as a ploy to pull the police into a bloody dronetown melee. The police didn’t listen. They died in the slums. Porter’s team, without backup, was buried under cascading containers and shaped charges. The entire operation had been a trap, blown from the word ‘go’.
She'd watched from remote view, as the steel cascade fell over Porter’s men. She could still hear the screams and meaty “pops” from the radio. One after another, the feeds went black. Only five managed to pull themselves from the wreckage. Those poor bastards their way out of the corrugated-metal mountain, only to be beset by another band of the local angry militia. This group had, apparently, “mistaken” her team for a corporate recovery unit, and had moved in to claim ransom.
Fourteen dead, six injured, two missing, and a million credits ransom on her ledger. The only reason this wasn’t worse, was because Porter cut the mission early. She had to give him that. She couldn’t have done it. She’d have had too much blood in her teeth. She would have chased bait right into the warren, and died in the ratfuck. Porter had made a good call, but it hadn’t done him much good. He was still on life support, strapped with ventilators and pumps, under constant guard, just in case someone came to finish the job.
She'd watched it all.
From from satellite and helmet cams, through radio and datalink, she’d been right there, and yet safely floating over the Indian Ocean. It was terrifyingly close, and impotently far. She’d wished, more than anything, to simply be there.
Instead, she was stuck, trailing Raschel through a Climate Conference in Kolkata. Of all the useless things. She should have been with Porter. She might have seen the trap. She might have given Porter a better view, or another gun. She might have saved his team. Her team.
In harsh truth, she knew it wouldn’t have mattered. It didn’t help. The “mights” and “could haves” hammered her each morning, the moment she opened her eyes, and remembered where she was. Where she wasn’t.
The Section Chief didn’t berate her, didn’t accuse. He listened to her report, asked what she'd learned, and moved on. She wanted to be berated. Judged. She’d fucked up. She'd sat for hours on the skimmer, stewing in her seat, until Raschel finally told her, “It was a bad call, but it wasn't the wrong call. Know the difference.” After that, he’d returned to reading the local news, and said nothing more.
She supposed it made sense. Comparatively, her botch job was just piss in the ocean. A raid in Thessaloniki had gone so horribly tits up that the entire region stopped taking the Capital’s calls. The local governor had been deposed, and an ad hoc council was calling for secession. The Guard was being drummed up, and there was going to be blood. There’d be a civil war, within the month. Unless Blade ate the city first.
That was the coldest of comfort, to take solace in the idea that secessionists had to worry about Blade, too. Worse was the callous thought: ‘at least we can spare resources, now.’ A major city had just completely imploded, and all she could feel was mild relief. It was all about perspective. Losing a couple dozen people was just a side salad, and the Agency was ordering steak.
Now, she stood, dallying, wasting time, treading water, wondering why she was here, and not out there with her RAST teams, hunting Striker, or pulling surveillance on Berenson's funhouse. That entire bunch was a disaster waiting to happen, no matter what the Chief said. There were too many sharpened knives, too many well-trained, dangerous men with little to lose, and far too many skeletons waiting for them to exhume.
Just once, she'd asked the Chief what leverage Striker possessed - what had scared him, so deeply, that he’d been willing to burn up ASOC. She’d asked, and Raschel had sat down, exhaled, and admitted, “Reyna, I can't tell you that.” She’d tried to protest. He cut her off before she could speak. She could still hear his words. He’d said, “You need to understand, and accept, that long before either of us got involved, our government did something terrible. Everyone involved is dead. There is no one left to punish. But this secret would kill millions, if it got out. I need you to promise me, never ask that question, and accept that some skeletons must remain buried.” She had seen the man angry, she’d seen him amused, and she’d usually seen him smug. She'd heard him bluster, threaten, and charm. A few times, she'd even seen what might have been compassion, if only for a moment. Here, she'd seen something worse. She’d seen conviction, guilt, and fear. Some answers must not be sought. She believed him, if only for the sickened look on his face.
Sometimes, she would wonder what that secret was, what could be so profane, that it would bring down the Chief, but she never asked. He'd assured her of three points: it was over, it was buried, and so long as that held, it was never coming back. That was enough. Let the dead keep their secrets, and the living keep their lives. Striker's leverage would go to the grave with him, and she'd be better never knowing.
But Berenson knew. And he was unpredictable.
That, coupled with Striker's threat, meant more balls in the air, more chaos on the field. Maybe the Chief thought he could swim with the sharks, but Velasquez liked her plays neat, clean, and squared. Under control. Unlike everything else.
“Tea, ma'am?” The waiter asked. He was dressed in white, color-coordinated with the floor and ceiling. She turned from her reverie, from the bent-glass walls and panoramic riverfront. Each time she saw this room, it struck her, it’s alien naturalness. The floors were plasticrete, solid but soft, formed whole from organic molds. The skyport stood like a drop of cream, filled with air bubbles now linked and reinforced with glass, perfect in every nodule and line, flowing from ground to the elevator spire.
She ignored the waiter, and turned back, towards the glass, and beyond, the rolling greenbelt. The conference was being held here because this port was a symbol of new, environmentally conscious technologies. Once, this city had been cloaked in yellow smog so thick, the government had handed out rebreathers for holidays. Once, the river had been so filthy, they'd had to dredge it monthly, to pull out the chem-doped soil. Now, Kolkata was a verdant paradise, adorned with creme and pearl, and jeweled in blue glass towers.
And crowned with fire.
Outside, far below, protesters surged against the cordon. They chanted, yelled, and hurled molotovs at the espos. Beyond them, the white city burned. Not even the purified river was spared. Charred driftwood clogged the filters, until the waters turned black, once more. Thick smoke hunched under the perfect skies, and clutched tightly the hell that reigned below.
Up here, it was near silent, with only the soft music to accompany the distant, tiny riots. Here, the movers and shakers debated the merits and costs of the Zeta EnProCo “greenification” initiative. No one bothered to note that the riots only came when Zeta bulldozed a dronetown arcology to build one of those pretty white spires. No one bothered to see that a thousand families, suddenly and violently homeless, might suddenly themselves give towards violence. From here, the distant rabble might not even exist. Just curious dust on the glass, awaiting the next cleaning cycle. And they wonder, why it burns?
Behind her, she heard the crowd part - waves of swishing fabric and tinkling glass, letting pass some forceful other. In the reflection of the glass, she could see the Chief split from the room, cocktail glass half-empty. He saw her, too, and gave a subtle nod.
When he grew close, he asked, “Do you ever wonder, if those protesters chanting for 'more respect for mother earth' ever realize how much pollution they cause, when they start throwing bombs and spray-painting walls?”
“No, sir. But I was wondering, if the people in this conference were aware of the riots down there, or if they thought it was street theater?”
Raschel snorted, and raised a glass to her reflection. He said, “It's a world of bullshit, Reyna,
remember that. It’s obvious. These idiots just pretend to be oblivious. That's why we're here. We keep the smoke from the eyes of the enlightened, make this go away so that the world keeps turning. Day in, day out. We deceive, they choose to be deceived.” His eyes darted, followed one of the delegates, a local celebrity of some repute, a woman whose dress was particularly revealing. Raschel continued, “They're doing us a favor, by pretending. They act like they can’t see we haven't fixed this. Go on like nothing’s wrong, and wait for us to do our job.”
“What if we fail?” She asked. “What if we can't contain this?”
“Then the world gets a whole lot messier.” Raschel said. “A lot of good people come to bad ends. Maybe I'll sing show tunes.” He shrugged, but his eyes never left the low-cut dress. The woman turned towards the crowd, once more, and Raschel stepped after her. As he passed, he said, “Now, if you'll excuse me, I have some liaising to do.”
“No, sir.” She said. She reached out, and snagged the edge of his suit coat, and held him fast.
He turned, irritation rising red around his collar. He didn't raise his voice, but she could hear the anger at her insubordination. He asked, “And why is this?”
“You tapped me because you wanted a second set of eyes, because you know that Striker has analyzed your behaviors, and adapted to counter. You wanted me to call you out, to put you in line, and come at things from a different direction.” She counted out her points, on her fingers. “You have a problem with liaising.”
Raschel straightened his vest, indignant. “That would be true, if I thought of them as people.”
Asshole. She grimaced, trying not to rise to his verbal poke. He continued, “I've been in this service for decades. I can keep professional and personal completely separate, and you will not discuss this with me again-”
“Sir, Striker knows you, he knows your vices, and he will use that against you. So, stop liaising.” She commanded.
Raschel flushed. He twisted his neck, as if to gather breath, then froze. He blinked, just once, and laughed. He said, “I’ve got half this damn party-” he stopped himself, took a breath, and continued, “I’ve got half this damn city ready to suck my dick and tell me it tastes like fucking rainbows, and you’re putting me in time out? Have I ever told you that I appreciate you? I'm pretty sure I have, but… it needs said.”
“Yes, sir.” She said. She seized on his sudden, good humor, and asked, “Now, sir, can you please tell me why you've felt the need to drag me here? I need to be on the ground.” She pointed to the fires below. “You can keep these party circles to yourself, sir, I have no interest in them. The fight isn't here, it's down there.”
Raschel was suddenly all business, once more. He said, “Indeed. The fight is down there. But the problem is up here.” He tilted his empty glass towards the milling crowds and chamber musicians. “Remember that skeleton I mentioned? The crowds down there have an answer for it. Fire. The people up here? They have no response. They have paralysis. Hand-wringing. Guilt. Useless feelings.”
He glared at the crowd, and grew quiet. After a moment, he said, “But, it's not about the idiots up here, or the idiots down there. It's about the huddled masses between them. The ones who wake up at the same time every day, struggle through, and pass out, hoping that tomorrow is a little less shitty. They're sad, maybe a little pathetic, trudging through their days in a fantasy, but god damn it, they are why we're here. We have to keep that pleasant little daydream running.” He shrugged, and watched a water cannon blast the crowd. “Of course, we're here for them… but we’re not here for them.”
Velasquez caught the change in emphasis. She asked, “So why are we here?”
“Persephone.” The Chief whispered.
“Sir?” She asked. She couldn’t help but whisper, back.
“You heard me. I need to get you keyed to Persephone, but do that, I needed to get both of us, physically, to the damned thing. To do that, I needed to get a couple thousand klicks out of the Capital, without setting off every fucking alarm in Striker's horror palace.” He made a lazy whirl with his glass, and added, “Which means we get to pull security, and put in appearances, at some blindingly naive “conference for kumbaya and hemp”. We spend an evening, kiss some dignified ass, and try not to embarrass ourselves with the nice silver. There are three ways to pass the time here, Commander: pick up the local news, enjoy the local scenery, or stew in your room.”
She nodded. “Fine. I'll mingle. But I won't like it.”
“That's why I liaise when I'm doing this. I can do all three at once.”
She started to raise her finger, to unleash another barrage of points. Before she could, he threw up his hands in surrender. He said, “But, no. I chose the lieutenant who has an opinions on these things, and I foolishly promised to listen to her. So, if you need me, I'll be hitting the cocktails and trying not to hate some overdressed hippie to death. Let's hope they don't storm the gates while we're still inside, right?”
He was gone, and she turned back to the crowds below. A molotov burst over the police line, and the puffs of teargas spread. She watched, and tried to shake the fear that this job would eat her soul, as surely as it had devoured Raschel's.
Extrapolation 0010
“Our irrationality - the asymmetry of our threat - is our greatest asset. I have come to realize, when playing an opponent as adept as Tiberius, that the most successful move is often obscure, random, and suboptimal. When all the best options have been predicted, it is better to be unpredictable.
“The Internal Security Agency has put forward its player: Section Chief Michael Raschel, the shadow-hand of the Director. He will play a very good game, but his strategy cannot defeat a grand master. He knows enough to be controlled. His moves will be solid, but they will be predictable, and he lacks the vision to flip the board. In contrast, a novice, swinging wildly, might win, almost by accident, because the grand master cannot tell mistake from intent. This novice, shepherded by a hidden master, might possess the greatest chance at victory.
“Tiberius has a blind spot. His game is too perfected. He will never consider ASOC a threat, because it is broken and unguided. He will not consider me a threat, because I have no resources, or optimal moves, left to make. He would not contemplate us forming an alliance, because that move is too erratic, too irrational. He would not make that move. He and I are the same. It would stand, then, that I would not attempt this approach, either. By exploiting this cognitive gap, we give ourselves a powerful range of options.”
“So, why did you change your mind? About us?” Firenze asked. The hacker sat on the edge of the motel bed, assist box beside him, goggles on, hands flashing through empty air as he hammered out hard-code.
“In what way?” Berenson asked.
“Well, we were just numbers, right? The 'logical move' was throw us away. Why not just get with Raschel, get another unit, and go again? Why come back for us?”
“Well, Raschel is… rather displeased with me. I did, after all, burn up his best team.”
“You expect me to believe that? I don’t think he could even slow you down, if you didn’t want to be.”
“Why, thank you.”
“That wasn't an answer.”
Framed through the hovering green text, Firenze saw Berenson grin. The supersoldier said, “You are a smart man, Mister Firenze. Be careful you don’t find yourself in smart problems.” He paused, laughed, to a joke no one understood, and said, “You caught me. I was deflecting, because I was uncomfortable. I owe a debt to a man I cannot repay. He made an illogical move, revealed a hidden paradigm. Once applied to my reasoning, I saw another level to the metagame, a level to which, Tiberius is blind. That blindness is the source of our opportunity.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t explain much.”
“But it is the answer.” Berenson said.
“Do you think it’ll work?” Firenze asked.
“Perhaps.” Berenson replied. He shrugged, and took a moment, before he said,
“I am taking a very large risk, depending on a great number of variables. The gambit is… difficult, but, it has potential.”
“And if it works?”
“You get your lives back. All of you. Society is stabilized. Tiberius dies. History continues.”
“And you?”
“What about me?”
“You think the Agency is just going to let you walk away? After what we pull?” Firenze asked. He pointed a gloved finger at the open air, where his holographic code hung.
“Oh, I have a plan for that. I assure you. Once I slip their surveillance, I will to escape, to where they have no jurisdiction.” Berenson said. He gave his 'I'm smarter than all of you' smirk. Firenze had learned to recognize that particular grin, early on.
Firenze paused. He broke his thought-chain, away from the code, and parsed Berenson’s statement. Somewhere the Agency has no jurisdiction? Where would-
“The colonies. Jesus Christ, you're going to the colonies.” Firenze said. The words spilled out before he understood what he’d put together. “How the heck are you going to get to Celeste- no, never mind. I don't want to know.”
“And I would not tell. To answer that question would spoil the show.”
#
The evacuation of South Banton had spread from dronetown. It claimed the inner beltway, and pierced the lower Olympia Terrace. Blade cut through the streets, left remnants of barricades and jammed tollways with dead cars. Broken doors hung open to looted shops. Wires dangled from streetlights. Blackshirt patrols moved through desolate canyons, always in pairs. Civil Protection pushed the addicts back to warrens. On the tower-side viewscreens, the media played the fiddle, while the warehouse district burned. It was a battlefield without a war. It was a tragedy in slow motion.
It was useful.
Clausen was well-experienced in clandestine operations. Whether he was tucked down in a swamp, a hovel, a hut, or some shit hotel, he was comfortable. It all drew from the same handbook: asymmetric warfare, and its attendant black magic. It was a curious mental place, one revolved around visibility, opportunity, judgment, and violence.
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