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| panda-like calm through fiction | |||||||||
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Dark Waters
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They’d been silent for most of the march out of Valley Forge. Dagney had intended to ask Weir a hundred different questions, but once they were in the car she just fell asleep against him in the back seat.
Dr. Piers called Nelson, who called in his favor with the NSA. One of the agents, a wiry ginger named Pfeffercorn, met them at a diner in Crofton, just outside of Fort Meade. Dagney stirred as the agent knocked on the driver side window. “How long will DES take to crack?” Piers asked as he handed over his backpack containing the pilfered drives. “German COPACABANA configurations, which hold the official record for brute-force breaking, can bend DES encryption over a counter in less than a day. Expect it considerably faster. We’ll call you- but I wouldn’t go far.” Dr. Piers started the engine, intending to take them to a motel, when Dagney leaned into the front and said, “We should get pie.” A single trucker was sitting at the counter, and they staked out a booth in the corner. A plump and pleasant older woman whose hair was blond before it went gray told them about the specials. They all ordered pie, with coffee to wash it down: Dr. Piers ordered strawberry-rhubarb, Dagney key lime, and Weir Oreo. The moment their waitress left Dagney started talking. “Crofton is the reason I ended up working at the Department of Agriculture. Back in ‘02 snakehead fish escaped from the Asian market and populated a small pond in Crofton. Snakehead are aggressive and breed like Hugh Heffner if he were a bunny rabbit, and to make them even creepier they breath air and can walk on land. One of the first papers I wrote in college was on the Crofton incident, and the best paper I wrote was comparing and critiquing the two Sci-Fi channel movies that were based on it, Snakehead Terror and Frankenfish.” “It was while I was writing that paper that I realized I was fascinated by nature. I would have gone into Fish and Wildlife, but they weren’t hiring when I graduated. I thought it would be easy to transfer from Ag, but when the opportunity came I found out I really liked my job. It was different, and the odds of having to fight off a lake full of mutant fish was smaller, but I was happy.” Sometime during all that, the waitress had set down her slice of key lime. Dagney took a bite. “I am curious about one thing: how’d you make it out of Foxtrot?” Weir had taken a too-large bite of his Oreo pie, and smiled awkwardly as he tried to quickly chew through the crust. He took a sip from his coffee, but it was still too hot, and burnt his tongue. “Ah. It’s actually not that tricky. The W series still weren’t production models yet. By that, I mean we didn’t have the tattoos or the RFID implants we get when we leave Foxtrot, like the earlier series have. We were still incomplete. Each series has its own unique genetic markers, but other than that, even we can’t tell each other apart. So all I had to do was take the place of another W. Poor Wendell.” “Pooh Wundah?” she asked without remembering to take her fork out of her mouth. “Yeah. I happened upon him in the bathroom. Those two choads from the Yankee series who were going to shoot you two, they were actively murderous. Shooting them felt right. But Wendell? He was just minding his own business, taking a deuce. He wasn’t even part of the security sweep looking for me. But I knew if I left him breathing they’d have spent weeks trying to torture specifics out of him, and maybe even realize he wasn’t me. So I did what I had to, just… trading his life for mine wasn’t fair. Not to him, anyway. After that, I broke into the demolitions cache and blew a very large hole in the wall. I could have escaped through that, but I reasoned there was a decent chance they’d catch me now that they were on a higher alert- and no amount of misdirection would save me, then.” For a moment Dagney was speechless. “Poor Wendell,” she said finally. “Yeah. I don’t think we’re supposed to feel regret like that- right Doc?” “Well, we’ve done some minor tweaking to the brain chemistry, and certainly discouraged it behaviorally, but I’m not surprised you do.” “I wonder if the other terminators feel this way. That would be indescribably cruel. Creatures bred and raised only for conflict, but conflict leaves them…” “Conflicted,” Dagney said. “Of course, if they don’t feel like I do, if they’re as cold and emotionless as the brochure says, then they’re as far from me as I am from being human. I’m more alone than I ever realized.” Dagney put her hand over his, and he smiled. There was pie eating, after that, but not much else was said. The waitress pointed them to a little bed and breakfast a few miles to the south. “Henrietta, who runs the place, is an early bird, so she should be up,” they were told. She was up, but she didn’t seem to be happy about it. “Breakfast is usually continental, but we didn’t plan for this many guests. And we’re booked full tomorrow, so for you three, B & B is bed then bye-bye.” She wasn’t unpleasant, merely terse, but with a soft West Virginia accent that seemed at odds with her curtness. Once inside the room, Dagney collapsed onto the far bed. Without much thinking on it, Weir belly-flopped down beside her. Dr. Piers stroked his chin. “I can always go for a walk so the two of you can reacquaint yourselves. Or I can stay and watch, if that’s what you prefer. I’m not particularly shy on either count.” “I think I’m good, thanks,” Dagney said, curling against Weir’s chest. “Do let me know if you change your minds,” he said, turning on the television before settling onto his own bed. Dagney awoke at 4 in the afternoon to her phone vibrating in her pocket. Why had she remembered to silence it but not to leave it in her coat? “Dag? It’s Sharpe. McLafferty and I think we’re onto something. I made arrangements for you and the doctor to hop on a plane. I’ll meet you in Dallas and I can fill you in on the details there.” “We’re going to need another ticket. We bumped into Weir.” “Weir? Your baby-daddy Weir?” “That one- and you just woke him up.” “Well, before you two do what woken up couples do, remember how very potent he is.” “Oh my god, you’re being so creepily like a father right now it’s disturbing.” “So I’ve successfully killed the mood, then?” “You’re lucky you don’t have daughters. We’re not even related but you make me want to join the Navy and hop on a sub- 24 hours a day lacquered in seamen.” “I’ll see if I can’t get him a ticket under an assumed name. From Dallas it should be easier. We’re chartering a plane.” “Chartering?” “Long story. I’ll tell you in Dallas. Oh, and your plane is leaving in just enough time for you to leave right now and make it through security. So go.” Dagney sat up, and Weir watched her with bemusement. “Awesome. At least I slept in my clothes. But I smell like a coal-miner’s taint. Piers smells worse. You smell best of the three of us… though that might be because you smell like a bag of day old tortilla chips and I’m hungry. And don’t even raise that eyebrow at me, because I don’t mean that kind of hungry.” “Can’t blame a fella for hoping.” “I can, actually. The Supreme Court sided with women. Probably in the hopes of getting laid. But wake up Piers. We need to be at the airport like a fortnight ago.” Sharpe texted her directions to an airfield. He’d been able to cancel their tickets and hire a small commercial plane to take them along with a shipment of corn seed. “What if, like in the second Indiana Jones movie, the plane was owned by a Cox subsidiary and the pilot decided to jump out, leaving us to crash into the side of a mountain, only for me to save us at the last moment by jumping out in an inflatable raft?” That was when Dagney realized the logo on the crates was the same she’d seen at Alameda. “Oh, shit.” Dr. Piers rolled his eyes. “I sincerely doubt it. This plane is privately owned. Whatever money the Coxes might attempt to bribe the pilot with would need to compensate for the plane, costs of whatever criminal fines and indictments would arise from the crash, delays in business caused by needing to purchase a new plane and the likely dip his fortunes would take as a result. And all of that would be contingent upon the Coxes knowing beforehand that we were flying in a plane with some of their seed.” “Ew, their seed,” Dagney sniggered. “Is he always this much of a buzzkill?” “Pretty much. Except when he’s playing Scrabble while drinking scotch. Then he makes up some pretty interesting hyphenated swearwords.” “That reminds me, um, because my dad likes to drink scotch, I have pictures on my phone of the kid.” She scrolled through several pictures on it before stopping at one and showing it to him. “I named him after his father.” Without missing a beat Weir began, “Mailman’s a strange name for a boy. Especially because it doesn’t nickname well; some of his friends will call him ‘male’ and others ‘man,’ neither of which is distinguishing in the slightest. Might as well have named him DudeBro.” “I can hurt you, you know. Possibly by withholding sex.” “I highly doubt that,” he said, before realizing what he’d implied, “not that you’re a whore- I’m just quite charming.” “I think your ‘save’ might have made that worse.” “They usually do. But I’m hopefully charming enough to get by.” After they landed in Dallas they found out that their pilot, not used to landing at the commercial airport, had dumped them at the wrong end. They got snarled up at the first security checkpoint, where thankfully Sharpe met them, just before TSA pulled them out of the line. “Sorry about the mix-up. Dr. Weigand is part of a DoA team I’m taking to Ecuador. He was on a speaking tour in Washington, and my staff was supposed to make sure his passport was ready so we had all his ID and credentials with us. It was supposed to be overnighted to him, but my assistant missed the pick-up.” “What’s Agriculture have to do with Ecuador?” the officer asked, but it was perfunctory; she wasn’t going to stop them. “It’s a good will gesture from the state department. There’s a virus that’s been killing Ecuadorian wheat, and we think it’s something we’ve dealt with before. “I thought Ecuador imported most of its wheat.” Sharpe paused. “It does. But that’s what makes the viral infection so devastating. That’s why it’s a State concern: dependence on foreign wheat makes Ecuador less stable, which makes the region less stable.” The officer, who was so bored she seemed to have forgot they were still standing there, said, “You can go,” and waved them through. Their plane was small but roomy. Sharpe had already made himself comfortable before going to fetch them, and had claimed the seat in the front. After take off he stood up to speak. “Nelson’s NSA friends have given him some of the preliminary data, and it’s not great. We don’t have any specifics, yet, but the plan seems to have been all along to use terminators to advance Cox Industries’ global economic interest. Doug and I put together some strands from his investigations with Nelson’s data, and that’s why we’re flying to Ecuador.” “Specifically Pichincha: one and a half-million Ecuadorians crammed into the hollowed husk of a shield volcano. The reason we’re here is because of Ilfov. A few months ago they secured water rights to the city as part of a World Bank reorganization of the country’s development loans. One of Ilfov’s board members is in Pichincha, and he’s also the current Chief Operations Officer of Blackpool: Gary Krieger.” “Krieger is the son of a German father who defected from the SS to Britain during the height of World War II. Mother was an Englishwoman. His father disappeared when he was a boy. Rumors had it he defected back, this time into East Germany, though there are quieter rumors he was working for British Military Intelligence and went missing. Either way, Krieger forged an impressive military career of his own. Served with the SAS. He was headhunted by mercenary firm Executive Dynamics, a British predecessor to companies like Blackpool.” A small piece of equipment behind Dr. Piers began to beep and whir. “I swear I didn’t touch it.” “No, you wouldn’t have needed to. It’s a fax coming in, from the NSA.” Dagney pushed past Piers to get at the page as it fell into a collection tray. Further pages continued to print as she read it. “Holy shit.” “What is it?” asked Sharpe. “Martin Fox was trying to strong-arm the Cox brothers for higher rent. They were creating a lot more industrial waste than he’d planned for, and he didn’t like the idea of disposing of it under his corn. And Bruce Cox didn’t appreciate the tactic. This email is him asking Krieger to take care of the problem- and I think we all know how he did that.” Weir spoke up. “I actually don’t.” “He killed him. But what I don’t think Cox intended was for Krieger to continue to pocket the agriculture subsidies that Fox had been receiving.” “Excellent news,” said Sharpe. “Not because of the dead man, but because it gives us leverage with Krieger. As I understand it, Blackpool, and especially Krieger, have ultimate control of the terminator force.” Dr. Piers nodded his head furiously. “That’s correct. One of the terms of his contract actually put it as such. The terminators are first and foremost under his command, and second to the Coxes. We’ve also, er, discouraged them from being able to harm either the Coxes or Krieger, directly or indirectly.” Dagney interjected: “Does that mean they’ll defend their interests, too?” “No, no, nothing so complex. Simply that they wouldn’t be able to shoot them, or to plant a bomb in their car. Theoretically, it would prevent them from causing them harm through inaction, as well, though I should emphasize that this is nothing like a prime directive. They’re still thinking and feeling people. They’re just predisposed to listen to specific individuals, and respect a specific chain of command.” “Good,” she said, “because I think I have an idea.” Passing through customs was quick and without incident, until one of the officers asked them, “Have you brought any fruits, vegetables?” Dr. Piers’ eyes flicked to Weir, but then he smiled, and shook his head. Sharpe had arranged a driver to pick them up outside the airport. He didn’t have a sign, but seemed to recognize him, and called him, “Mr. Shar Pei.” “There is a bit of a resemblance,” Dagney said. He drove them downtown, to the newer parts of the city, filled with beautiful and modern sky scrapers. He stopped in front of a building with glass walls. The lobby had a slanted ceiling, so its ceiling peaked halfway up façade. “Pricey,” said Sharpe. The lobby had a handful of archipelagos of circled seating, but it revolved around a massive central desk in the shape of a seraph C. Behind it a women seemed to be monitoring three displays and several phones at once. She didn’t look up when Sharpe stood in front of her. “We’re here to see Mr. Krieger.” “Who?” she asked, touching one of the screens. “Gary Krieger.” She typed his name into her keyboard without looking up, her eyes dancing from one monitor to the next. “I’m sorry, sir, but there’s no Gary Krieger working in the building.” Sharpe’s expression remained unchanged. “He sits on the Ilfov board, and while you may not have been informed of his presence, he is here. Make the phone call.” She rang through to Ilfov’s executive secretary. “I have an appointment here for a Mr. Kriegar. Sharpe interrupted her: “Martin Fox sent us. Do tell him. I believe he’ll see us without an appointment.” “Yes. You heard? I’ll hold on a moment.” There was a brief pause. “He will? Immediately, then.” She hung up the phone. “The elevators are straight ahead. He’ll be on the top floor.” The elevator didn’t have any buttons on the outside, but the doors slid open as they approached. Sharpe pressed the button for their floor, and folded his arms. Weir stepped in front of him as the elevator ascended. “I should probably handle this part.” There was a slight ding as the elevator reached the top floor. Weir reared backed and threw a punch through the opening door as a small Walther was pushed through the opening. Weir’s punch landed, and the gun and its owner flew backwards. Weir picked up the gun and slid it into his waistband. Kreiger wiped blood from his broken nose. “You’re one of our corn soldiers, aren’t you? Dulled pain receptors, increased muscle mass, and you’ve got thirty years on me. I trained the men who trained you, and I know to a high degree of certainty it would take three of me to give you a run for your money. But since you haven’t killed me, I’ll assume that isn’t why you’re here, so why don’t you help me up?” Weir put out his hand. “Gladly, sir, but know that from this position if you attempt a sweep, I can deflect and stomp on your testicles with sufficient force to rupture them. I have no compunction against doing so- I just hate to ruin a good pair of slacks with gonad shrapnel.” “Noted.” He took Weir’s hand and stood up. “Let’s return to my office.” He started walking, and continued to talk as he did so. “Now, what I can tell already is you can’t be Blackpool, or Cox. The old man is distinguished, but his suit and the woman’s are too cheap, no offense intended, to be high priced executives. So, government? Judging by the complexion, I wouldn’t say local, either. American, then.” “Obviously not here on official business, of course, since you’re out of your jurisdiction. But I’ll fathom a guess, since you’ve tracked me here on Ilfov business, that it has something to do with our private utility contract with the city. And I assure you, we haven’t done anything wrong.” “Wrong is a relative term,” Dagney said, “illegal is far more interesting.” “Hrrm. Can I offer anyone anything to drink? Because I think I’d kill someone for a bloody mary.” He walked over to a mini fridge with a small bar with a selection of imported liquor above it. “It’s fascinating. This isn’t my office, but one phone call and it was prepared as if it were. But as I was saying, we’ve done nothing illegal, if you prefer that word. The World Bank’s President, Jacob Zellnick, is a prudent man who remembers who his friends are. When it came time for some of Ecuador’s loans to be renewed, he negotiated some utility privatizations into the mix. Only makes good business sense, really; a country who owes money has no business owning things. So as a condition to their loans, they’ve privatized the water, here.” “Unfortunately, subsidies, as well as old infrastructure distorted local prices, so we’ve had to raise them, on the margin of 50%. But that’s business. We’re selling a commodity at a modest profit.” Dagney interjected. “Look, you seem like a completely thorough scumbag, but I doubt you’re here for the pennies you can pinch from a third-world people. Martin Fox.” “You can’t arrest me, here. You have no authority.” “Ecuador’s an extradition country. I don’t have to arrest you. I just have to make a phone call.” “Yes, that would be troubling. I could easily evade capture, of course, but you can’t, as they say, take it with you. And I’ve grown rather attached to my wealth. What kind of a deal are you offering me?” “Depending on the level of your cooperation, right now the deal is that I may not have Weir murder you horribly. You sweeten the pot and maybe we start to feel more generous.” “And if I’m too naughty you’ll spank me? I like that idea- really, I do. Very well, we brought in terminators. The plan was, when demonstrations occurred against the water rate hike, to insert them into the protestors ranks to instigate. Call it a dry run for Portland- no pun intentional. The WTO meeting there will coincide, rather quietly, with a meeting of the G30. We wanted to make sure that, if we were staging a ‘coup,’ we weren’t caught with our pants round our ankles. That old thing, you take a shot at the king and you damned well better hit him. Well, our intention of course isn’t to kill the king- we just want him to know he’s been shot at, that the world is vulnerable and dangerous.” Dagney’s eyes narrowed. “And that the only cure for what ails them is Blackpool and their terminator soldiers.” Krieger smiled. “Of course, synergistically, chaos is good for most of our businesses. Cox, which pays me through shares, owns military contractors, and a news organization that benefits from conflict- not to mention supporting a political agenda where military spending and tax cuts for myself are a high priority. I’m a citizen. Better to pay American taxes than British- when I deign to pay them at all, of course, most of my income being generated in and staying in foreign locales.” “You needn’t pierce me with those sad, doe’s eyes. Are you at all familiar with US Marine Corp General Smedley Butler? No, of course not. He was only a Major General, after all, and never had a George C. Scott film made about him. But he realized, after a long career, that his military service had been performed largely for corporate interests, that he had, in effect, spent his 33 years in military service as a ‘high class thug for Big Business.’ I was smarter than Smedley, and it took me far less time to glean his lesson; now I simply demand my fair share of what my skills help create. You can moralize if you like, but patriotism created me, capitalism simply allows me to benefit from what my love of country wrought.” Dagney was getting tired of his lips flapping. “If I wanted a figurehead I’d have phoned up Ronald fucking McDonald. You make the decisions. You okay operations. You’re a dirty fucksack with the skeletons of a third-world tin-pot. And I’ve been to Valley Forge, and dumped enough of the old data center archives to DVD to put you and your extended family in jail for the rest of your life. Just know that if you give me cause to fire your ass, your golden parachute is going to put you in a federal prison for the rest of your goddamned life.” “I like a woman who takes charge,” he said from beneath his pencil-thin moustache. “Get it through your greased hair-helmet, I’m not your dominatrix- there is no safe word; you bring anything roughly categorized as a sexual organ within reach and I’ll tear it off and throw it in the nearest garbage disposal. It will not be fun. It will not be sexy. And I’ll make sure the rest of your short ass life is spent in miserable goddamned sexless pain.” “Hrrm. Then might I suggest, boss-woman, that we prepare. The summit is in a few days. And there is much to do.” |
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