by Joe Jarvis
Drake needed to strike a balance. After his speech people needed to be alarmed enough to only discuss what he had said, ignoring other news items that would pop up.
Taking advantage of the distraction, Drake intended to send Agent White to lead an assault against Atlas headquarters. Of course the assault would be blamed on drug cartels, but some people would obviously see the connection between Drake’s desire to monopolize New England’s security forces, and the destruction of the only remaining adversary to NESA’s control. But if properly framed, Drake knew he could make the attack on Atlas headquarters into the smoking gun he needed, killing two birds with one stone.
If he initiated, and quelled, an attack on his own NESA headquarters as well, Drake assumed he would successfully throw off the trail. Then, if the right targets at Atlas Protection were taken out, the two agencies could "come together" to finally once and for all "stop the cartels." After all, once they were both attacked, it would seem as if they faced the same enemy, and the public would eat it up if NESA and AP joined forces for the greater good. But this was not going to happen with Kitt Atlas calling the shots at AP.
Agent White had remained in the same bar until the sun came up, drinking his worries away. Despite his training and professional demeanor, White could not shake the sadness that accompanied the death of his longtime partner and only friend. Not that he generally did much talking, or sharing of feelings, but the one person on earth that he could truly open up to was now gone. White didn’t want to go back to the house that the two agents owned far north in New England. He didn’t want to step foot back into the adap that the two kept near the coast, or the adap they shared in south central New England. If he went home alone, it would just compound the sadness. So far he could keep the worst feelings at bay with alcohol.
Some people in his position – having lost the most important person in their life – might feel anger, but his logical brain fought these emotions. White’s philosophy was that if you play with fire, you’re going to get burned. He had been burned before, but now he felt charred. Stumbling out of the pub with light poking over the horizon, White squinted at the sun, as if trying to discern if it really was morning already; he didn’t think to put his sunglasses back on. After swaying to the left and grabbing a railing for stabilization, he lunged right and started meandering along the sidewalk, periodically touching the brick building for support as he swayed.
Agent White took the conveyors as far as they would bring him, and then continued walking like a zombie without any destination. He smelled strongly of alcohol, and drew judgmental glances from anyone that passed – though relatively few people were out and about due to the events that were unfolding.
White still wore his "drug cartel" disguise, except he had discarded his sweatshirt in order to change his appearance slightly. He took the most rural road he could find, and started walking. Maybe it was ten minutes or it could have been two hours, but finally he found a tempting field, and influenced by the booze in his system, he cut off the road and wobbled toward a hilltop, bare of trees. Agent White sloshed through the runoff in the ditch at the edge of the street, filled with weeds, mud, and stagnant greenish water. He managed to get over a very old barbed wire fence with only some minor scratches, and continued stumbling through the long grass toward the hill. The sun had not yet reached its peak and there was still dew weighing down the grass.
The expression on his face had remained blank since he left the bar, except for an occasional squint, or wetting of his lips. He looked and felt like Trix did when he took the drug to induce apathy – but White wasn’t on any drugs, except alcohol. He got to the top of the hill, and slowly spun around, looking out across a field, then toward the road, gazing over the forest to the west, and seeing buildings in the distant east.
After a couple rotations he stopped when the sun was to his back, and in one fluid motion that was more graceful than a collapse, he laid down on the moist grass with his arms outstretched. For a while he watched the clouds, which might have been spinning a bit extra from the alcohol still coursing through his veins. After a half hour, his eyes started to close, but would periodically shoot open again. Finally, as noon approached, he fell asleep, and there he remained until Drake woke him up with a call to his sunglasses, which had remained tucked in his pants pocket since entering the bar the night before.
Agent White heard the beeping first. Jolting his head up, he looked around, forgetting where he had fallen asleep. The sun had just set, and darkness was beginning to close in. On the western horizon a bright orange glow could still be seen, that reminded White of the fire from the night before. It told him that the darkness closing in on him would not go away with tomorrow’s rising sun. His eyes were still adjusting as he reached for his sunglasses, and put them on to answer the call.
His voice was low and hoarse as he first tried to answer, so White cleared his throat and then repeated, "Yeah?"
"White, I need something else from you." Drake said before adding as an afterthought in a concerned tone, "Are you okay?"
There was a short pause while White drew in a breath and let it go, then cleared his throat once more before answering, "Yeah I’m fine. What do you need?"
Drake paused in turn, deciding if he should continue or if White had been through enough. Drake really didn’t have anyone else to go to at this point however, so he continued.
"I need another drug cartel attack. This time at Atlas headquarters. Can you scrounge together a few guys who look the part? Take them with you? And send a few to NESA headquarters as well… more incompetent ones though, maybe harder drug users, that no one will miss."
"I can do that. Any targets? How do you want it done?"
"It just needs to look like an attack designed to shut down the central office of AP so that they can’t control their street units. It would be great if Atlas was killed in the process. But just destroying the equipment, making sure they can’t function normally will be sufficient… obviously if you get Atlas, there will be a bonus, say a hundred grand worth of ContraCoin. And at NESA headquarters, I just need them to get in the front door and I’ll take care of them." Drake paused again and then added, "After you finish, take a vacation. I’d say you earned some time off."
White signed off without another word.
Agent White heaved himself to his feet, and brushed off some grass and twigs that were on his pants and the back of his shirt. He started walking down the hill in the direction of the road, activating the GPS on his glasses to find his location. He was 4 miles from the nearest mag tunnel. He started walking, the same expressionless look on his face he wore that morning when he was walking down the smooth ceramic road in the other direction.
While he walked he contacted some people he knew that would join him on a job for the right price. Remembering the trouble he and Agent Orange got themselves into the night before, White decided to get a bigger gang together. He could afford to pay them well and still have the majority of the reward for himself. Then he found three useful idiots to storm NESA headquarters, offering them enough money to make sure they were interested: they would never be able to collect anyway.
White figured that once this job was done, maybe he’d shoot out to the west coast on a mag pod to clear his head. Heavy drinking coupled with minor drug use and anonymous sex might make him feel better. New England winter loomed, and hanging out on the beach sounded appealing. He hadn’t taken a real vacation in years – it distracted him from his work, which he admittedly loved, until last night.
Now his thoughts were jumbled, and his attention to detail compromised by the distractions from Agent Orange’s death. They say you don’t know what you’ve got until it’s gone. Agent White just now realized how much Agent Orange truly meant to him. They worked together in the day, and went home together every night. White asked himself how he could have been so stupid not to appreciate the life he had, destroyed in one fell swoop.
As he dwelled on it sober, his sadness d
id turn to brief anger, but not at Officer Themis who had fired the fatal shot; at Drake who had given them the assignment. I’m a skilled agent, he thought, not some jackbooted thug. But he could have said no, and he knew it. White had made his bed, now he had to lie in it… alone.
Drake was preparing for his third televised address of the day. His plan was to comfort supporters, scare dissenters, and keep everyone else distracted and in debate. Not the true debate – is it NESA or the drug cartels to blame for the instability in New England? – but the debate which he would implant in the people’s minds: are Drake’s ideas good or bad?
Instead of letting people discuss, "is it better to be free, can we trade freedom for security, and can initiating force ever be moral?" he would change the discussion to, "is one currency good or bad? Will using blanket force benefit me or not?" People would be distracted from the philosophical implications of the actions they accepted from NESA, and instead debate individual issues in a vacuum, as if NESA’s means would be justified, as long as the ends were positive.
Drake knew the means could not be separated from the ends. Of course, he didn’t really care about the ends for anybody other than himself. But he knew some would justify the actions of NESA, arguing that if their monopoly on force eventually turned out to benefit the masses, then it would be a good thing.
Drake was too smart to believe his own lies. You’ll know the tree by the fruit it bears, he thought, laughing in his head at the peasants of New England. A society built on force cannot yield peace. But millions of sheep were all Drake needed to acquire the power he always desired to replace the love he lost. The power to use force as he saw fit, in stark contrast to the power he currently wielded, to use force only in response to force; and use money, almost exclusively in non-aggressive pursuits.
A couple of Drake’s employees doted on him to make sure he looked good for the final address of the evening. His tie was straightened, what little hair he had put in place, and the lights turned on. Drake cleared his throat, and tried to ignore the pang of nerves and throbbing sound of blood in his ears.
"People of New England, I will not abandon you. Tomorrow New England will resume its normal day-to-day business, but in safety, unintimidated by the drug cartel threat that has entrenched itself in New England, but will soon be eradicated, with the dedication of NESA and all other deputized security companies. But society does not magically organize itself, and we cannot eradicate this threat without banding together. Unity is what we need, together New England will stand against the drug cartels, divided we will fall.
"So I propose hitting the enemy where it hurts, in their wallet. New England Security Agency proudly boasts a strong currency, easily traceable, and therefore not in use by the worst elements of our society; the people who violate others’ rights. Starting tomorrow, NESA currency, issued by Bank of New England, will become the standard currency of New England. Other currencies will be converted into BONEs, and a deadline will be set when all exchanges will only accept BONE notes. People need not lose their savings, simply convert before the deadline, and nothing will change.
"Due to today’s upsets caused by the drug cartels, it will take some time for the market to work out the kinks. To solve this problem and ensure no one goes without necessities such as food and water, I have arranged for an expert to set all prices for water and food, as well as manage its distribution, until further notice. This will mean equitable distribution of resources that belong to all of us, to make sure the drug cartels do not achieve their goal of disrupting our happy and fruitful New England lives.
"Thanks to the work of New England Security Agency’s dedicated staff and agents, all power and Internet has been restored to New England, and those responsible have been detained. They are awaiting charges, and their links to the drug cartels are being investigated. Again, this effort to return our region to peace will require the cooperation of everyone. Many cartel members have not yet been found out, and are embedded in every facet of our markets. Don’t mistake clean-cut individuals for being innocent. Even those who abstain from drugs can be guilty of the murder and turmoil that accompanies cartelization. To them, it is not about the drugs, it is about the control and power that comes from infiltrating our society.
"Keep this in mind, that it is not only the dirty and debilitated who work for the cartels. Your neighbors, your kids’ teachers, your arbiters, or your co-workers could be involved for profit. That is why it is so important that if you see something, you say something. NESA has set up operators to take down your concerns, which can be submitted on our website, or through face-to-face conversations if you call the NESA office. Together we will clean up New England, and emerge stronger as a community. Remember: NESA never sleeps, so that you can."
Staff around the room nodded their heads in approval as Drake finished and the feed cut out. They were impressed by how their previously ordinary boss had risen to such an occasion. How special and proud those employees felt that they were part of the company that would save New England.
Ten
As Drake finished his address, two employees of Independent Arbitration looked at each other with raised eyebrows, perturbed. They were surrounded by screens, evidence, and documents full of information concerning Drake, NESA, the attempted murder of Molly Metis, the attack and arson at Themis’s house, Barry Arbitration, Barry’s suicide or murder, and Atlas Protection. There was a smart screen with notes written all over it, and lines connecting various names and tidbits. There were various scenarios laid out, and there were percentages written next to each one, calculated based on their likelihood.
The two employees had rolled their eyes when they got the pile of information from Themis earlier in the day. They knew he was onto something, but thought his personal feelings were getting in the way of rationality in this case. Now his prediction that Drake would attempt to transition to a single currency had come true, and Themis’s scenario seemed more plausible.
After holding each other’s questioning stare for a few moments in surprise, the older man with disheveled graying hair pressed a button on one of the telescreens to contact his superior. The solid woman with shoulder length dirty blond hair, focused her thoughts on one of the screens. She confirmed the single currency prediction, which increased Themis’s scenario to the highest probability percentage of any others.
"Sir," the middle aged man said to his boss on the telescreen, "I think you should take a look at this."
Agent White switched off the feed in his sunglasses when Drake’s speech finished. He was zooming through a mag tunnel toward Atlas headquarters accompanied by seven dirty, sketchy people who looked the part of low level drug cartel soldiers. White was silent, but a couple of the thugs carried on sordid conversations about hookers, back alley dealings, and drug use.
There were a couple of blocks to walk after they got out of the pod, but the streets were like a ghost town. It was dark out except for some lights illuminating the street, and a few lit windows in the buildings. The Atlas Protection headquarters was the brightest, and biggest building around, standing six stories. It was obvious that operations had not much slowed down for the night; White could see people hurrying past windows.
Agent White had explained his plan of attack to the thugs while in transit. First, a team of four would go in guns blazing, throwing small explosives and flashbangs, taking out any cameras they could find. Two would stay outside to hold off any squads that responded, although most Atlas street units were still caught in standoffs with NESA police, and the others were stretched to their limit. Either way it would likely be a good chunk of time before help showed up, and by then Agent White and his team planned to be gone. Agent White omitted the probability that the team would leave slightly smaller than it arrived.
The remaining two "thugs," White being one of them, would follow a minute or two behind the initial team, to catch anyone off guard who might think they could sneak up on the original raiding team of four. If things got too h
eavy, White would retreat with whoever was left. They wanted to be in and out in under 20 minutes, and destroy enough of the building in the process to shut down operations for at very least, 12 hours. That would give NESA enough of an advantage to consolidate control, and gain the upper hand on the standoffs. Best case scenario, Atlas would die, and NESA could "unite" with AP.
The gang of eight stopped outside on the sidewalk, and White gave a nod to the four designated initial attackers – the craziest, strongest, and most violent of the bunch. One smiled like a pirate, complete with a couple of gold teeth, and pulled a large submachine gun from his jacket. Another gave a weird, apparently joyful, grimace that looked like he was in slight pain while pulling a shotgun from his jacket that made White wonder how it possibly could have fit under even the long trench coat. The other two 20-something year olds who looked more clean cut than the rest, and wore all black, simply nodded stoically, each brandishing large handguns with extended magazines, and tactical gear-packs on their backs. The last two operated as a team, which made Agent White jealously hope that one or both would die, adding to his reasons for sending them in first.
The pirate-like thug led the way, kicking the front door open and entering the lobby. Kicking the door was unnecessary since it was unlocked, but it made him feel cooler. From the sidewalk, White heard the submachine gun going off, and then the shotgun pumping out two booming shells. An alarm sounded and the building appeared to go into lockdown mode, with some windows being obscured by metal shutters. The front door clicked locked, but since it was glass, it didn’t make much difference for the men still outside.
