Mayhem: Mean Streets: Mayhem, #2

PART I

CONSPIRING TO INSURRECT

1

GROUND ZERO

DIRTY MONEY

New Wash,

Maryginia

United Westican Territories (UWT)

August 2163

Their voices warbled

as they conspired. Look, you’ll get your money. Just get it done. Both of their comm implants enabled end-to-end encryption and decryption of their conversation. It also disguised their voices. This comprised their only acquaintance with each other besides vaulted access codes for such voxcons and anonymous, extra-continental accounts. They both believed it would stay that way.

Hey, shut up and listen, you pompous politician! I want double. After tomorrow, if I’m still alive, I’ll need to leave the continent. Forever. And our expenses ran far higher than expected to orchestrate this little party of yours.

That is not our problem. He expects results. Disappointment will not be acceptable. Do you want him as an enemy? You know what he does to those who dare take advantage of him.

The connection went quiet. The warbling susurrus of burst-transmission encryption should have provided the caller a stronger sense of security. It didn’t.

All right, fine. But listen, I need protection. Even in the non-extradition haven where I’m headed. I need personal assurances. My crew, however, is on their own.

"That will not be a problem. The proconsul takes care of his friends. But remember, he also finds and deals harshly with his enemies, wherever they may scurry. I trust we have an understanding. And make sure that ridiculous flag is visible during the attack."

Swish.

A BATTLE

The Digs

Under Old Chicago,

Williana

United Westican Territories (UWT)

August 2163

Always the same,

and always different, solitude helped, if he could find it. But solitude proved illusory. Molten knives stabbed Birdman’s eyes, teased of abating, but did not. Closed-mouth screams layered onto whispered shouts of muttered desperation, of professed love, of certain death.

Yes, it all came to him, even the deep-exhale surrenders of those expiring as they crossed the final dark line of that profound transitory event. Strange, but those dark crossings clutched at his pain centers the least, as they, unlike the others, offered a lightness, a final unbounded freedom. But all the others…

She loves me…. That’s a lie…. He hates us!…. The best day of my life…. Cinnamon, sage, boiled cabbage…. I hate you…. Something’s very wrong…. So wonderful.… My eyes—the burning—can’t breathe!.… Please don’t die!…. I’ll do anything… Shots fired/officer down/how many?/aghhhh!

Birdman’s intense yellow eyes looked like they would burn a hole through the glass of the only window in his small apartment. The boy followed his mentor’s intense gaze, only seeing the flame of a huge candle resting on a small table near the cracked and peeling window sill.

Sir? Are you okay? Sir!

And suddenly, those deep-set dark eyes twinkled with warmth and immediacy once again. Like before.

"Sorry? Oh, now where and when were we? Ah, yes. Be patient. You must remain positive and hopeful, even during dark times. This moment is your moment, no one else’s. Now finish your tea and go ask her, like we rehearsed. All right, m’boy?"

He smiled at the shiny young man punishing the few soft chin hairs on which he unconsciously tugged. There were so few young ones.

Birdman also smiled at the wonder of the indomitable human spirit and of innocent adolescent infatuation. But most of all, he smiled because he so needed to cherish this moment, unsure of how many more in which he would be privileged to indulge.

Um, thank you, sir. You’re the best.

"No, thank you, m’boy, for reminding me how precious every breath of life should be, every thought, every emotion. Now forget the tea you’re just pretending to enjoy. Go find her and ask her. Right this moment. Go!"

After a brief homage to his mentor, the boy sprang for the door before he had thoroughly untangled his spindly legs. He tripped on the frayed edge of the ragged old rug upon which they sat. The partially filled teacup at his feet upended with a tinkle and a splash. He stumbled, cast an embarrassing glance over his shoulder at the wide-grinning Birdman, and mumbled, Sorry.… as he grabbed the ancient brass knob.

The warped portal stuck and creaked as the boy jerked it open against some protest. It was actual wood, a rare commodity possessed of endearing quirks. Wood seemed happiest when being worked. That door remained closed more than not.

Birdman bathed himself in a warm glow as he heard the boy clomp down the narrow stairs, also wooden, also creaking with delight. Like a puppy whose feet were too big, he would be a tall one.

Puppies. A distant memory… from before.

And then it began anew, but with less scat…

What would Birdman say?… I love this place… will I ever be with child?… need a trip to the lower tunnels to fetch water… will you trade a head of cabbage for two carrots?….

TOUGH STREETS

Chicago, Williana

August 2163

Time and crime

mocked Policy Enforcement in this sprawling population center.

The largest regionplex in the United Westican Territories, Chicago encompassed the geographic area from what was once called Madison, Wisconsin to Indianapolis, Indiana, and south of Springfield, Illinois in Old America.

There was every good reason the CED—Chicago Enforcement Department—was the largest policy enforcement organization in the world.

En route to ground zero for one of tonight’s many festivities, CED prowlers screamed close overhead in near silence. However, pedestrians felt the pressure wave on their ear drums while whipping hair and hoods in the whistling hiss of their passing. Still, response times were awful for almost every engagement.

Then, closer to the scene, chirping sirens in the darkness drowned out the crowd’s muffled chanting and lamenting two blocks distant. Add the lightning-littered sky and this night would soon become one great gallery of dashed dreams with a thousand black and blue flickers.

The overwhelming peppery scent of wasabi on steroids permeated and perverted the already-thin air—an astringent that scoured sensitive and healthy lungs alike. Red, orange and blue strobes showered unseen innocents just below with stroboscopic dread. Routine debilitating fear would not loosen its intractable grip on most pedestrians tonight—those with any common sense, that is.

The bad guys were winning. Not just tonight, and not just here.

Yet this was an otherwise

tolerable stormy evening, as long as you wore a mask and protection, except for the stench from the lake. This assumed you were foolish enough to walk in the open after dark. Especially if you still headed south on North Lakeshore Drive in the once-fashionable neighborhood they called the Near North Side a century ago.

Adjacent to the abandoned Navy Pier Park, protesters stumbled or back-pedaled. Some crawled. Greasy purple stains of riot gas residue splattered or soaked their skin and clothes like watery mucous. You could see some were stained with spatters of black in the dim surroundings that turned red in brighter light.

Most choked down their pain—less from their external wounds, more from gas residue entering and burning soft nasal and throat tissue. Some made their way, aided by comrades-in-arms. Some were blinded, stumbled over swirling trash or still-smoking cylindrical neon-yellow canisters marked Riot Dye.

And if you foolishly hadn’t beaten a hasty retreat after witnessing all of this, an apathetic breeze transported billowing smoke from a block away to scrape your eyes. Your nostrils and throat swelled shut. Drawing breath became difficult if not improbable. Breathing was hard enough without all this fanfare.

Some cursed the invasive stench of concentrated wasabi that sucked the already near-toxic air from their lungs, accompanied by noses flowing like waterfalls inside their masks.

Riot die. Unmistakable. Unforgettable. Some thought unforgivable.

If you were still not deterred, venturing yet another block farther south this night meant taking your life in your hands. You would approach the bitter core of the maelstrom, of what began as a peaceful gathering proclaiming its dissatisfaction over social issues aplenty. Take your pick in the sea of unrest.

Exercising the unforgettable artifact of one’s first amendment rights tonight, or most nights, was dangerous, maybe even lethal. Sometimes these peaceful gatherings turned ugly. Like tonight. Often, the reasons weren’t clear. Neither your eyes and ears nor spotty media coverage could be trusted. Politics, policy enforcement and citizenship marinated in the toxic stew of prolonged anger. It had all become just too confusing, a poison to the soul. Who now retaliated against whom? Most had lost track.

Only one of

every ten calls for policy enforcement assistance received timely attention. The level of unrest in recent months had escalated to unimaginable proportions.

Too many nefarious agents trolled emergency services, flooding them with false alarms. Regardless, CED and CFD fielded a response to every voxcon—in time. At least so said the local and Alliance-wide feeds.

In this respect, Chicago did not differ from every other major Westican city. Especially the mammoth regionplexes that sprawled: incorporating, gobbling up contiguous burgs, towns and cities. As if these giant gatherings of humanity huddled together could offer safety.

Commuters in high-speed magnetic levitation transports—for anyone who could afford a private transport or locate a public train—made such population centers workable, at least for the affluent patricians.

Most mag-lev transports and trains still worked—unlike the vast majority of other public works—for those few who still commuted to jobs, about the only compelling motivation for venturing out. That, and groceries, when available. And liquor. Or to protest a plethora of perennial injustices.

Many stayed home to stay safe, especially the poverty-stricken plebeians. Or even to starve. Hard choices.

INCONVENIENT

Old Chicago, Williana

Neither Zaya French

or his wife Sierra Blade had ventured to the surface in months.

With good reason.

Air quality in all the regionplexes harrowed even healthy lungs. All withered without help to breathe. And that said nothing of the invisible but invasive rays that pierced everyone and everything without shielding.

Chicago proper hugged the southern shores of a once-great lake that had grown so polluted and clotted it was unnavigable. And it offended anyone with a working nose. At least Chicago found some relief from the absence of huddled masses to their north.

You dared not catch another person’s eye on the street. Passing within six feet of anyone could prove fatal for the few that wandered the streets anymore. There was hardly a single block that didn’t feature its own dumpster fire or its remains. These smelly affairs had become more common than burglar bars on store windows—that is, on those not already boarded up. Most shop owners taped their windows’ holes and cracks from the inside with plastisteel tape, or just shuttered their windows with solid panels—at least those who had the funds to do so.

As Zaya tried

to explain their shopping mission to his young bride, she interrupted, "What on Earth is a cash register? And nothing about this place spells convenience!" Sierra Blade spotted the faded sign hanging askew, somewhat obscured by the building’s peeling facade as they approached the small store’s portal. She looked like a jittery urban warrior with a blustery but endearing attitude.

Sierra’s husband—Zaya French—was ever the avid historian. A hundred years ago, that portal would have been propped open during the summer to invite in the late-afternoon lake breeze. Not anymore. Their eyes watered from the noxious vapors emanating from the lake.

Like every other inhabited structure these days, they couldn’t afford to allow manicured air to escape. Or more likely in such bottom-tier establishments, like Manny’s Stop-n-Drop, to prevent the stench drifting into the store.

Their masks stayed in place to deliver a slow O2 trickle. Cheap little convenience stores like this couldn’t afford to supplement the stale, thin-air interior with an oxygen blend. Only the small operator’s cube at the back of the store was so treated. An operator incapacitated by hypoxia was of no use to anyone.

Zaya smiled at Sierra hunched behind her mask, under her cowled hood lined with shielding, and behind her omnipresent goggles. She moved like some long-extinct jungle cat trying to hide the impression she was on the hunt. Her eyes never ceased darting about as if trouble lurked everywhere. Neither did Zaya’s, but his more practiced demeanor made it seem natural.

They’d soon need to live off the land, as some used to say. For the past fifteen years, Sierra had grown all her own food in her own biodiverse soil. She bartered with their neighbors in The Digs beneath Old Chicago for other essentials. But they’d be leaving all that behind. As capable as she was, she was an alien up here, poor thing. At least Zaya had lived and worked topside as a journalist and podcaster for decades before meeting Sierra in 2150. His profession had often called for vigorous self-defense.

Zaya recalled how different the year 2163 was from just a few decades earlier, before Sierra’s birth thirty years ago. Politics and pollution and pandemics drove change. Even a few good ones. He caught her staring at him as he held the door for her. She was nodding, as if agreeing with him. He had yet to verbalized his recollections. She did that thing again. He’d never take that for granted.

She has no idea what life is like for more than a few hours outside her precious Digs.

I’ll learn, sweetheart.

Babe, you know poking around in my memories doesn’t come without risk. He grinned at the love of his life, she as tall as he. Taller when she wasn’t slouching so she wouldn’t tower over her man. And hey, I’m secure enough to love a taller woman. That crooked smirk always served him well. He loved that she slouched for him, but it was so unnecessary.

To gaze into those pools of cool green wonder—her inquisitive eyes through those iridescent lenses—also entailed the risk of losing focus. Up here, they both needed to stay sharp.

She acquired answers to her myriad questions with no more spoken words between either of them. Then, as she pecked at another of his more distant memories, he could hear disgust rise in her voice like a musical crescendo of exaggerated astonishment. A bitter bile rose in her throat. Her mask hid the compound effect of the disgusting revelation sculpting her face. "Cash? Really! Oh, now that is profoundly disturbing."

Yeah, babe. They say ninety percent of all cash back in the day was so contaminated, they identified it as a fundamental carrier of global pandemics. Secondary only to viral infections spread by the human breath, by the way. Might have been less offensive to pay for groceries with soiled toilet paper.

Toilet paper?

Never mind. But after most banks and credit companies collapsed, folks who had stashed cash used it to buy essentials. The twenties and thirties were scary times.

Z, I’ve read the stories on the feeds.

For the first seventeen years of her life, Sierra lived with her mother, a corrupt power-hungry politician sent to the Cuban Penal Colony for the rest of her life. In the thirteen years since, Sierra voxconned her mother each month until she passed away two years ago—at the height of their relationship. That Libby Blade survived eleven years in the CPC was remarkable. But then, she had been a remarkable woman, if not misguided on a grand scale.

Alarms sounded

and the turnstile barrier refused Sierra's entrance ahead of Zaya. She looked up and around. What the… ? Spoken by an indignant stranger in a strange land. The store’s biometrics were frustrated by Sierra’s mask, hood, goggles, and gloves, not to mention her goth-grunge olive-drab tunic, tactical belt and boots. She remained a mystery to the system responsible for identifying and qualifying customers for potential purchases.

Even without headwear and gloves, though, she wouldn’t be bio-mapped in any database. The store could not identify her. Not even a voice or an ocular match. To this allegedly infallible but aging piece of infrastructure, she was nothing but an angry vapor. Thanks to friends of friends in high places at one time, and the passage of time underground, she did not exist.

Not mapped, no purchase. Period.

Zaya offered a congenial wave to the skeptical lady in her air-enhanced cube at the far end of the narrow but deep convenience store. Raised his right arm with an index finger pointing downward in a circular motion to flag the two of them as a couple.

The sensors had mapped him in a millisecond, so the store operator released the turnstile lock and Sierra pushed through against her better judgment. Zaya patted her on the shoulder from behind to ease her escalating anxiety.

She averted her gaze from the overhead lights. Zaya knew why. Through her goggles, only she could see the spurious emissions radiating from those cheap rectangular bulbs, not to mention the high-powered electromagnetic rays bolting every which way. Everywhere.

Now Zaya’s level of concern escalated. Babe, we gotta get you more comfortable with this stuff. You know that, right? B-man needs our help.

I know. Let’s do this. Her jittery jazz hands signaled this was not routine for her. Every camera in the place tracked her every gesture, her every suspicious movement. If cams had nerves….

Zaya selected a few items with little check mark waves of his right index finger near the store’s proximity panel next to the menu description of each item he wished to purchase. A conveyor delivered their purchased items and plopped them into the fiber bag they’d brought with them.

Birdman’s daughter Cherry made that bag for them, just for this safari. The last item jammed in the conveyor’s jaws. He tugged it free and it dropped into their bag. More suspicious behavior.

Zaya remembered

when delivery services still operated, but even then, they couldn’t have located their low-profile refuge—a near-mythical subterranean labyrinth to outsiders. Few even knew of The Digs’ existence. By intent. They grew food in their own nurtured soil, mined their own water and enjoyed a rich oxygen blend harvested from their lower-tunnel mini-farms with a distillation process of Sierra’s invention. Everyone contributed, everyone benefited. Unlike topside.

Can we go now, Z? Please? The noise… I’m… It’s just too much for one day, okay? I’ll do better another day. I promise.

Clenching and unclenching her fists garnered more unwanted attention than they deserved. They were on the verge of being auto-detained, so they beat a hasty departure after the prox panel debited his purchases on his implant.

With a curt nod to the store operator, they wheeled on their heels. Zaya projected a stiff right arm out front as if he were running interference. Pushed open the door. In his artificial left hand dangled the small half-full bag of items with the few essential items not available in The Digs. To Sierra’s great relief, they headed for their sanctuary.

He needed to get her below before something bad happened.

GENTLEMAN’S SPY

New Wash, Maryginia

Before Edmond Blake

became a career executive at the UWT Alliance Intelligence Agency, he distinguished himself as Eddy Blake—one of their finest investigators and intel aggregators. The AIA knew no finer spy-slash-cop. He even looked like the mythical James Bond of legend, but older, taller, broader and more severe. Since he’d jettisoned his few extra pounds, he looked like a cross between two of the old-time celebrities who played Bond in retro vids—Sean Connery crossed with Daniel Craig, but with an ivy league accent instead of a Scottish brogue—that was Edmond Blake. There was something else, but what? Boyish charm? A lethal kindness? Undeserved humility?

The case that earned him his elite agency’s second-highest office—that of Executive Director of Operations—broke during his tenure as Executive Special Agent in Charge at the Alliance’s largest field office in Chicago.

Though that tenure spanned less than three years, as ESAIC—pronounced E-sake—he grew to love that city, even though several assignments abroad earlier in his career also held special places in his eidetic memory.

In 2150 he broke the Grandy conspiracy in Chicago that would have otherwise decimated the planet’s magnetosphere with apocalyptic implications. That singular case provided him notoriety sufficient to penetrate the fragile New Wash political ionosphere at AIA Headquarters after twenty-two years of exemplary service to the agency, and to the Westican people.

In short, solving that case earned him this desk.

For that definitive break, he owed an inestimable debt of gratitude and loyalty to CED Captain Judge Miners, now that mammoth city’s policy enforcement commissioner. And to Detective Lionel Smith, now CED’s chief of detectives. Plus, how could he forget that incorrigible rogue reporter and podcaster, Zaya French? Edmond would never forget that trio and their little entourage, especially that telepathic ex-priest, Lamatte Foliére, with whom he shared a certain… skill.

Edmond thought often, and with fondness, of the stunning Judge, pudgy Smitty, feisty Zaya, and cerebral Lamatte. He had not seen that meddlesome foursome for years, although he’d voxconned her at least quarterly. They all still lived in Chicago—ground zero.

He worried for their safety, maybe something else too, if he were honest with himself. He worried most about Commissioner Judge Miners. But they were both busy professionals with no time for personal lives.

Or are we?

Edmond looked

around his new office. Nobody needed raised paneling of actual wood to adorn a space the size of a small ballroom, much less decorated with artwork that would feed hundreds of families for a year. What a waste. He clenched his lips, puckering his cheeks in subdued guilt at the flagrant opulence. And this obscene desk! The monstrosity must weight at least two metric tons.

Edmond dwelled on the misery from which so many Westicans suffered every day. Sixty percent lived on wages that peered up at poverty level, absent of any hope for their future. Eighty percent of all children under the age of ten went to bed hungry every single night. In his Westica! And if the color of your skin was anything other than white, well, despite the deniers, all bets were off, especially after dark.

The Alliance’s infrastructure languished past the point of crumbling. Maybe in part because just three Westican trillionaires commanded more wealth than nine hundred million less-connected citizens not prepossessed of bulging off-planet accounts. His Alliance had gone to shit. That explains the odor.

People had been taking to the streets for decades with a dogged determination to exercise one of their few remaining rights still guaranteed by the Alliance’s constitution, despite its nonstop re-codification. They clung to their right to peacefully assemble and to speak their minds even though they were being attacked with unprovoked brutality for exercising those rights. Now they were retaliating. En masse. They claimed their beloved constitution was now nothing more than an ancient piece of digital parchment on the verge of cracking into insignificant scraps from brittle corruption by the patrician class. What a powder keg. This could consume our beloved Alliance if we don’t do something.

Over the last few days, his agency discovered troubling chatter. Chicago had become the Alliance’s ground zero for anti-federal sentiment. Half of the city protested against neutered or squabbling Alliance leadership who did nothing for them, other than tax them. And the other half found itself pock-marked with starvation and street riots—pungent cesspools of violence instigated by opportunistic criminals.

The worst? An army of agitators—a lot of them—in the various communal feeds, once called social media, flooded policy enforcement with false calls, among other cyber violations. The common term for such criminals was trolls. They spanned the spectrum, so nobody knew what information to trust. Edmond saw this as the primary battlefield, with every vocal citizen or official now an ill-informed combatant or victim.

How on Earth have we come to this?

Now he watched

his agency’s budget and influence tumble toward obscurity. The current administration’s tenure was merely a capstone to the ineffectiveness of a dozen previous administrations. The skirmish that raged in the pit of his stomach these days demanded… what? Something must change.

His boss was about to be fired by the Department of Judgment for inaction—in other words, disloyalty. Since Edmond flew below the radar, as they used to say back in the day when they still used that now-antiquated technology, they’d likely appoint him as acting director. The last mutt standing. Perhaps that would be his window of providence. In the meantime, he’d offer his friends a low-key assist, even though it might cost him the directorship.

"Commissioner Miners!

I always look forward to hearing your voice." And he meant it.

Judge Miners huddled in her lush but cluttered office at 22 Policy Plaza deep within the heart of Chicago. She could ill-afford the time, but it was him. A friend in high places.

EDO Blake, this is an honor. Haven’t heard from you in months, although I see you on the Alliance-wide feeds. Seems you are a rising star. But to be blunt, why the voxcon now?

Ha! Well, to be equally blunt, your creative assist during that Grandy affair gave my career a timely boost, and I still owe you an immense debt of gratitude. It’s time I offered you something in return, other than the occasional titillating repartee. I’m worried about your city. How can I help?

"Honestly? The contingent of Alliance agents the administration sent here to help causes far more problems than it solves. To be clear, neither the governor, the mayor, nor I invited that alleged assistance. They only know how to escalate already incendiary situations. They’re soldiers, not peacekeepers. Not their fault. That’s their training. Can you get someone to call them off, Edmond?"

I thought it might be something like that. I’ll see what I can do. And I thank you for your candor.

A five second

pause announced the conversation had run its intended course. Then Blake addressed her in an unexpectedly personal tone, using her unusual first name.

"Judge, how are you? It seems your plate overflows."

"Yes, Edmond. We’re managing. But all these troops, all that armament, their bullying tactics, and their illegal seizures make our job harder, not easier. It’s universally pissing off everyone here, including civilians in the streets. I appreciate your offer to help with that. So to your question, I’m managing. How are you faring inside the New Wash beltway?"

His response seemed only to offer cursory reciprocity in response to her refreshing candor, but veered toward boilerplate. So obvious—outside his comfort zone. Blake cut the call short.

Another pressing matter, he said.

Miners wondered

if anyone outside her own small circle of confidantes knew of Edmond’s remarkable telepathic abilities, so rare in his circles. Most of those folks head for the hills (or the tunnels).

She also wondered if he sensed the electric thrill that jangled her whenever she heard his voice. Both of them chalked up their quarterly tête-à-têtes to networking, a straightforward liaison between municipal and Alliance officials. But recently, something changed. Edmond had taken a tremendous political risk by offering to help her troubled city. Why? Was it all business? Or something else?

2

AMBUSH

OFF THE BOOKS

Rawlings,

Maryginia

Jonas Faulk

(the third) monitored every feed reporting protests and riots in Chicago, Fort Dallas and elsewhere. Scandalous! Only he could see and hear the compilation his clipping service provided to his implant as his guest arrived on the porch.

He tapped his left temple to pause the briefing as he rose to greet this chiseled chunk of aging granite. Faulk’s aide closed the portal between the cabin and its glassed-in porch where this most private encounter would take place—as close as the proconsul cared to sidle up to nature.

Faulk’s half-whispered tone seemed conspiratorial. Have a seat, Mr. Stacker.

Without preamble,

eager to contribute, and before he had completely settled into the ridiculously low chair offered to him, Jump Stacker blurted, "Proconsul Faulk, as a friend, I will tell you your obvious concerns are not unfounded. Those New White House wimps can’t buy a clue how to fix this clusterfu—, he drew a deep breath, this problem. Sir."

He did not need to expound on his reference. Neither would he wonder what was on this powerful man’s mind. Why else would he be here?

Nobody knew of this meeting other than the two of them and the proconsul’s aide, the oily Sterling Maas. He had arranged this discussion at Faulk’s lake cabin, a short low-altitude drive from New Wash between votes on the Assembly floor.

Faulk reveled

in the delicious irony of such a discussion taking place in such a bucolic setting. They sat side-by-side on the spacious porch of this twenty-two-room cabin overlooking the lake and a few actual trees down near its shore.

Dust motes swirled in the almost-still air, rich with costly whole-house O2 that circulated even when the expansive retreat sat empty, which was most of the time.

A ribbon of smooth river rock separated their perch from the private hundred-acre lake. That water used to be ice cube clear once upon a time. But an invasive species of milfoil now clogged its steamy shores to within a few dozen yards of the lake’s geographical center.

If not for the porch’s antique glass enclosure, the stench of those rotting aquatic plants would have overwhelmed this pair of conspirators. Even the strongest defoliants that now flooded these offensive waters surrendered to their onslaught.

This manse and its token viewscape had been little more than a prestige purchase for Faulk. Besides, the archaic notion of a view? Its time had passed into exurb legend. Nobody sat outside any more. At least not here. Or most anywhere else, for all he knew, or cared to even try.

Randolf (aka Jump) Stacker owned a company that once bragged they were the government’s largest military contractor. He offered their services as both a military provider firm, or MPF, and a military consulting firm, or MCF.

Several larcenous affairs spanned several theaters of operation around the globe on behalf of their largest client, the Westican Alliance. As a result, they had lost contracts and restructured. Now Jump scrambled for work.

"Thank

you for driving out to take this meeting, Jump. I may be able to throw some business your way. What would be your current ability to scale for a big contract?"

"Well, sir, you likely know we draw our workforce from a database of over fifty-two thousand former defense, policy enforcement, and other professionals. From that data, we identify every relevant skill produced in the armed forces and public safety sectors. That is the foundation for our aggressive recruiting strategy.

Depending on your timeline, specific theater of operations, and skills required, I’m sure I can offer you a mobilization that will fit your needs. Falling short of a full-scale invasion, that is.

Jump’s gratuitous chuckle sounded like a series of pig snorts that resonated from within that huge throat behind that ridiculous block-and-slab jaw as he sucked air in through his gaping mouth. Damn mouth-breathers got under Faulk’s skin. And this one was no friend, only a useful acquaintance. But it made no sense to piss off the amiable thug.

"Sir, also keep in mind we still provide