NationStates Jolt Archive

No man is wise enough, or good enough to be trusted with unlimited power.
-Charles Caleb Colton


Never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.
-John Donne, Devotions Upon Emergent Occasions, 1624

Isis Military Facility
Level Ten

“…there are many differences between generation one and two in the Battlenet System.” Doctor Steffon stated, leading the party of ISA operatives and military officers through the halls of Isis, beneath the extinct volcano that formed the core of the base. “Primarily among these is the level of computer control on the battlefield. While in the first generation, Battlenet was no more than a secure network for exchanging information. With this next level, the entire force is the network, linked through and to a battlefield AI. Early tests of this concept were carried out with Proteus, and they proved highly positive.”

Steffon stopped for a moment to hand back a PDA. “As you can see, when we allowed Proteus to give orders to the soldiers in a war game, the squads under its control won nearly every battle against equal forces. However, actions by General Hurley prevented the continuation of this research in the immeadiate aftermath. The ISA has been loathe to trust Proteus since the incident.”

They proceeded into a tunnel, leading under the waters of the Valen Sea, connecting two of the volcanic islands. “However, with the ARES AI coming online last year, we are finally ready to proceed. We’ve taken ARES through every level of test except simulated combat, and it is exceeding.”

General Fuller inquired, “How was ARES created? Same method as Proteus?”

Steffon tilted his head a little. “Mostly, but with a focus on tactical and strategic concerns. Same Dawson Algorythm and self-forging arrays, and we used a controlled version of Lyon’s techniques. We moved it through mahjongg, checkers, chess, and virtually every strategy simulation we have. We put it through historical battle recreations, and it’s been able to come out on top in almost every one. And, I wouldn’t recommend playing Command and Conquer against it.”

There was a ripple of snickers, and Steffon continued. “We’ve done some simulations like with Proteus, i.e. virtual reality and paintball matches with ARES acting as an advisor or commander. These are once again coming out with almost perfect results. However, we are limited by indirect communications and interactions. We’ve crossed that bridge, gentlemen.”

They halted outside a heavy security door, and Steffon placed his palm to the scanner, glancing back. Two Marines stepped aside, and Steffon grinned wickedly, “Gentlemen, welcome to the freak show.”

The door opened, and there was a sudden silence, interrupted by a sudden outburst of “Holy Shit.” that floated from some officer in the back.

Steffon motioned to the first subject. “Meet John Doe…”

The Republic of Exham is impressed with your military's G2P(OOC: Come you know you love that name!) system. Exham has never considered a tactical AI commander, although we have been working on a system to make individual soldiers more effective and teams more cooperative. Exham's AMUS system which completed testing three years ago and which has been distributed to our elite Kasrikrin units has proved very effective. Exham believes that it would further the interests of both countries if wargames and cross training could be set up, and possibly-depending if your nation is willing-the sharing of technology.

Six Years Earlier
Corsis University

"The human mind is not all that different than a powerful computer. As a biological computer, it works in base four, rather than two, but it's still based in electrical impulses and loops. Theoretically, if you could aquire the correct translations, you could write to the brain, as with a hard drive. You could pass information from person to person with direct transfers, or with-"

"Sorry to interrupt, Professor, but isn't this a little... far out?" in the third row of the auditorium, a student held his hand in the air, his face incredulous.

Professor Steffon, Dean of Neuroscience at the University, turned from his electronic blackboard, lowering his laser pointer. He tapped the pointer against his own head. "Well, Mr. Devrie, that's what this class is about. You did read the syllabus, correct? Where it stated, "Neuroscience 621, Ethics and Morals"? That's what we're doing here... debating what could happen, and what should happen."

The student shifted uncomfortably in his chair. "I know, Professor, it's just that... I don't know... the idea of someone jamming a plug in my head... it makes me a litte..."

Steffon filled in. "Queasy? Disturbed?"

"Yeah. It's not natural."

Steffon began to pace the lecture floor. "I know it's not natural, or normal... but neither were plastics, one hundred years ago. Or airplanes. Or even cars. But these are no longer oddities, or conveniences, but necessities of life. Who are we to say what is forbidden, or what is gross. Are we to forever remain troglodytes?"

"But, Professor, this is a highly dangerous-"

"How, I ask? Is not a fossil fuel dangerous? It is flammable, it is explosive, but it is useful." He paused. "How much more useful would this be?"

In the back of the room, a man took notes, not on the lecture, but on Steffon...

Present Day

CRACK!

The sound rang clear through the field as the baseball connected to the wooden bat. The batter, not watching the hit, sprinted for first base, his eyes fixed on the sandbag. The ball seemed to vanish into the noon-day sun, then fell back to the earth, landing three feet from an outfielder, who flung it back to the baseman.

“Safe!” the call flew out, and the runner grinned.

Darius stood on first base, hands on his legs, ready to bolt again. Behind him, the first base coach, Section Chief Saunders, chewed loudly on a wad of some material. Darius commented back, “Saunders, I thought you gave up chew?”

There was a snicker. “I did. This is bubble gum. Lots of it.” Saunders held out a mass of pink gum for the world to see.

Darius rolled his eyes. “Anyway… did you hear about the last game?”

“Sure did. With the SpecForce boys?” Saunders spat out of habit. “One of the players jumped in front of the batter to take the ball for him. Someone needs to lose the Presidential Detail reflex.”

Darius grinned again, watching the pitcher, an Operative from Phaellan’s command. It was time for the ISA’s annual charity baseball tournament, played on the most secure field in the world. The pitcher wound up and let fly, but the batter tracked it. There was a resounding crack, and the ball blasted up and away, clean out of the park. Darius shrugged. “That works. See ya, Saunders.” He trotted around the bases, enjoying the perfect weather.

The bright sun shown through a clear blue sky, and a balmy breeze swept in from the shore across town. On the horizon, the steel cities could be seen, but they were farther inland from this scenic town, and the hustle was further from his mind than the actual distance. His foot clacked onto home plate, and Darius banked back into the bleachers, stopping to give the batter a high-five on the way in. “Great hit, Jensen.”

The large man, a former Marine turned Agent, grinned in his down-home fashion. “No prob, sir. Jus’ being right helpful.”

“For God’s sake, Jensen, lose the affected voice. You aren’t in fucking hickville.”

The agent grinned again, “I reckon so.” He grabbed a beer and cracked it open, slugging it back. “But, hell, it’s fun to be a hick.”

Darius shrugged, “I guess. Pass me a brewski.” He caught the beer pitched to him, and he aimed it away, opened it, and watched it explode across the fence in front of him. He turned back. “Nice try. Who shook it?”

In the back, there was a groan, and an analyst raised his hand. “Paint mixer, sir.”

“Almost got me. Next time, cool it so I don’t feel the difference in temperature from the others.” Darius tipped back the remainder. “Oh, and wash my car, analyst. You’re lucky I’m nice.”

Darius grabbed a chunk of ice and pressed it to his sweaty forehead, inserting it under the blue bandana he wore. He brushed his dark hair out of the way and glanced to the corner of the bleachers, where Director Kerrik sat, surrounded by body-guards. Despite the heat, the Director still wore his trademark Armani suit, black tie, and sunglasses. Next to him, one of his similarly outfitted guards wore a ballcap, but other than that, there was no clue that anything was different than a normal day at the office.

Kerrik glanced back at Darius, returning the quizzical look with a cool glance from behind those black sunglasses. The Director gave a cursory nod and returned to the business of watching the game. Darius sighed. I suppose a “good work” is too much to ask of him.

But Kerrik had paused from his scheduled recreation, plucking a cell phone from inside his coat. He held it to his ear, and his face went from apathetic almost-smile to apathetic grimace. He stood and left the stands, and the guards followed.

Darius turned back to his team’s bleachers. The Director’s business is his business. He grabbed another beer and a hotdog from a vendor, and plopped down on the bench, next to a relatively attractive Field Agent. “Hey, how goes it?”

She glanced back at him, and didn’t reply.

Damnit.

Four Years Ago
Port City Disson
Valen Province

The camera began to record.

The body lay on the coroner’s table, zipped into a plastic bag. Laura Edwards, the coroner on duty, pulled her mask on and began to speak. “This is Laura Edwards, and it is two twenty one in the morning. Subject is a John Doe, dredged from a canal by workers laying fiber-optic cable.”

She circled the body, pulling the zipper down to reveal a man, a portion of his head blown away from a gunshot, the slug still embedded. Numerous other bullet wounds covered the body. “Time of death is as yet undetermined, though it has been several days from the state of the body. Cause of death appears to be a gunshot wound to the head, although there are several other debilitating wounds on the torso.”

She began to examine the head wound. “This is odd… there appears to be brain matter missing, more than from a blast from the bullet. There is some sort of metallic powder in here, and some thin trails of metal. There is a large obstruction in the cranium, on the other side of the head-“ She paused, probing for it. “There… it appears that our body was the recipient of some sort of neurosurgery, as I can identify numerous scars and plates on the cranium and muscle tissue.”

She began to cut away at the face, becoming unnerved. “There is massive plastic surgery along the entire face, to cover up the scars of this highly invasive surgery… he’s obviously spent a lot of money on his appearance. What this surgery did, I can’t tell-“

She reached the obstruction, exposing a box of sorts, implanted into the brainstem. “I’ve encountered some sort of mechanical construction in the brain stem. It is linked into the brain proper with some sort of fiber… it appears similar to be nerve tissue, but it’s linked into some sort of jack emplacement. I have no clue what this does, and I’m halting this autopsy to consult my superiors.” She turned to hit the recorder off, but the door opened to the room, and Greg Farro, the ballistics tech, stepped in.

He looked disconcerted, but she was downright disturbed by this body. “Yes, Greg?” Edwards asked.

The tech glanced at her. “Ma’am, there’s something I think you should know… I ran a ballistics check on those bullets. They’re from only three guns. I checked the designs, and all of them are unregistered. The type of weapon? UMP submachine guns.”

“What’s that?” Edwards had never heard of that weapon on the street.

Farro glanced about nervously. “It’s a military weapon.”

“Jesus, Greg.” She glanced at the body. “The body was found in the canals. It could have floated from Osiris.”

He nodded. “Could be a traitor, or a deserter. We should notify them.”

Edwards shook her head vigorously. “No, look at this.” She pointed to the exposed implant. “I don’t think that’s normal, and these scars… they worry me.” She pointed to the scars on the tissue. “This man was operated on, and everything was done to hide that.”

Farro’s eyes widened as he reached down to touch the body, to make sure it was real. His hand bumped into something cold, and he pulled the man’s arm from underneath the cloth. “Um… ma’am…” Edwards turned. “There’s something metal here.”

Edwards placed the scalpel on the arm and made a quick incision, exposing a metal bar. She pushed aside the tissue, and beneath, was a small pneumatic piston. She inhaled sharply, and jumped back. Farro jumped as well from her reaction. She pointed to the tissue. “There should be more. The muscle is gone… decayed.”

“Huh?”

“Greg, look at this man. Those bullets didn’t kill him. From the atrophy we’re seeing, I think he’s been dead for months.”

”Then how come some stuff is still intact… like his exterior, and his core functions?”

Edwards glanced at the scars, and the implant, again. “I don’t know. I don’t want to know. I think we need to leave.” She glanced at the camera, her face scared.

There was a slight rustle in another room, and Farro looked up. “What was that?”

Edwards mouth fell open. “No! Don’t-“ There was a clatter-

The recording stopped.



Local coroner Laura Edwards and CSI technician Greg Farro were killed in an electrical fire in the city’s crime lab late last night. Authorities have ruled that the fire was an accident caused from a faulty wiring in the microwave oven. Their deaths will be mourned, and services are scheduled for both next week at the Courthouse.

Present Day

Darius swung around, delivering a side kick to the red punching dummy. He twisted completely, smacking the target with his other foot before crashing his elbow onto its shoulder. Dead. He delivered a one-two punch sequence before blasting the dummy up from its pad with a brutal uppercut. Dead. He jumped up, bringing his left foot to smash into the head, sending the dummy spinning around. Dead. As he continued to spin, he grabbed a knife from the table behind, and coming around, planted the steak knife straight into the dummy’s sternum. Dead. His momentum carried him downwards, into a firing crouch, and his service pistol leapt into his hand. The pistol coughed twice, and the dummy’s “head” exploded clean from the body. Really dead.

Darius holstered the pistol, and placed the knife back on the counter of his apartment. He glanced around his spare bedroom, which he used for training purposes. He stood, dressed in khaki desert camouflage pants and a simple white T-shirt, his hair a mess, tucked into his bandanna. He touched that strap of old cloth, and he could almost still feel the blood in it. First combat… you never forget it. That was his blood in that bandanna, from a grazing wound that should have killed him. It was there, a permanent reminder against the immortality complex that many other agents developed. He glanced down at the ballistic jell-o that covered the floor, courtesy of the exploding dummy head. Whoops. Guess I went overboard. He shrugged and walked from the room. Clean it later.

As he passed the refrigerator in the kitchen, he snagged a can of soda and a stack of pepperoni he had intended to make pizza from. Ignoring the frozen crust, pizza sauce, and other toppings, he proceeded to take a chomp from the top of the sausage, and washed it down with the over-caffeinated beverage. He flipped the stereo on, letting the heavy metal blast through the room from the surround sound. You know, most people my age are just getting a good job. He looked at his closet full of matching suits. I’ve already got a suit and tie deal. At twenty seven, Darius had seen more than most people ever would, from high society to jungle warfare. And yet, of all these locations, he had never held a normal role, able to be comfortable or at home. Always, he was on guard and on duty. The ace of spades was placed firmly up his sleeve, and he was required to pull it commonly. He would make friends only for the purpose of liquidating them when the time was right, he would learn to love an area, only to plot its fall. I am the jester of life, mocking all that is true. He had heard that line in a song so long ago, and it nagged him at night, when he slept.

If I slept. Sometimes, the images of his crimes would reemerge in shockingly vivid dreams. Commander Trask once said, when the dreams stop, shoot myself, because I am no longer human. Then the Director said that as long as I was inhuman for the state, it was fine. The can in Darius’s hand crumpled, sending a flow of soda over his fist. He felt the liquid expand, and he glanced down, seeing the crushed can. “Shit!” he cried, grabbing a napkin and throwing it futile over the spill. He wiped the mess clean, rolling his eyes. I really can’t hate him. He does everything for the country, not for himself. But, the selfish, treasonous thought popped into his head. Never did anything for me, either, other than to drive me onto the dark path he’s already cut.

Darius sneered bitterly as he wiped the last of the liquid clear, moving with more vitriol than it would normally necessitate. Just once, I’d like to see him tell me “good job”, or “hey, how about a beer”… not a fucking Inspirational Quote on how to facilitate the state, or some vague comment about destiny. He stood, biting his own lip. You know he can’t. You have duties, as does he. You both chose your paths. Darius spoke aloud, “No, he chose my path.”

His eyes flicked to the row of suits in his closet, and to the rack of weapons hidden behind the false wall. Damn him and his dreams of the future. He leaned back onto the counter. Would you really have chosen another path, Darius? Would you have chosen another goal than to serve the state?

That’s not important. I didn’t get the choice at all.

You can’t simply blame the Director- RING!

The phone rang, and Darius stared at the small white cradle. He glanced at the number on the display. Unlisted Number He sighed and lifted the phone, “Hello, this is Darius.”

The other voice responded through a scrambler, and Darius knew exactly who was calling. “Hello, Darius. We need you to come in to work today.” The phone went dead.

Darius sighed again, and reached for one of the many suits.

After dressing and sliding his service pistol under his jacket, he left his apartment, hopping into his car. The six year old Ferban luxury model was the standard ISA vehicle, with the distinctive black gloss paint, tinted windows, government standard plates, and the internal jamming gear that made speed checks impossible to attain. Darius threw the car into gear, roaring out of the garage with a grin. This is a nice perk, though.

He flew down the street, chasing three lights in a row. The speed limit on the Corsingard Boulevards was sixty miles per hour, but Darius was easily clocking ninety or more. He whipped past a police speed trap and laughed. At the checkpoint, two cops were watching, a rookie and a veteran.

The rookie tracked the sedan. He glanced at his radar gun, but the only response it displayed was a simple ERROR. He tapped the gun. “Hey, it busted!”

The veteran shook his head. “Nah, its fine. Just keep tracking other cars.”

“We can still pursue him for reckless driving!”

“No, we can’t. That was an ISA sedan. You wanna be the one to pull it over?”

“Hell, no.”

“Then just keep tracking.”

“Yes, sir. Pass me a donut.”

Rolling past the ISA compound, which he could see from the elevated Boulevard, Darius couldn’t help but be put in awe by the structure. Spanning nearly two kilometers in length, the tremendous complex was gleaming and spotless…and veritably impossible to overrun, being situated upon the steep slopes of the Corsingard River. The blue of the river shined reflected from the glass walls of the atriums, and the clear sky glimmered from the metal. Clean sky, thanks to thousands of air scrubbers around Corsis. Thank God for modern technology.

He pulled off the exit ramp for Gate D, and passed the bridge over the river. As he rolled along, he watched the innocent lamps and ridges in the ornate bridge. They were scanners and automated weapons. If he was a threat, he would never exit the bridge. The checkpoint at the end was mostly for show, but their weapons were real. He rolled to a stop in front of the rebar reinforced concrete barricade, and flashed his badge to the ISA guard.

“Hello, Field Commander.” The Special Agent stated, saluting. Two other agents pulled lowered their weapons, and the concrete barrier lowered into the ground. “Have a nice day.”

“Thank you, SA.” Darius rolled past the barrier, which rose behind him, and he was into the compound. He descended a long tunnel, into the garage, where a valet took his car to the parking spot. How they tracked individual vehicles in here, Darius did not know. He almost laughed as he watched the thousands of identical black sedans, stretching into the darkness and descending for five levels. Poor bastard valets.

He cleared the interior checkpoint, and headed into the compound proper. Emerging into the reception room, he approached the main desk, where sixteen Analysts waited to help him. “Field Commander Darius, reporting as ordered.”

One looked up, “Sub-Director Allens wishes to see you, personally, agent.” The Analyst took his badge and swiped it through a reader. “You have a temporary one day level five clearance. Please take the tram to Sector A, and then go to Level Six. Allens is in office A637.”

“Thanks.” Darius placed his badge back on, and walked to the tram station. The metal doors slid open, and he stepped into the sterile white coach, taking a seat and pressing the “A” button. With a slight hum, Darius felt the magnetic tram begin to hover, and then felt the rapid but smooth acceleration. After about a minute, the tram slowed and settled. The doors parted again, and he was looking into the Command Sector.

Stepping into the lobby of this part of the complex, Darius was struck with the sense of power. The marble floor was covered by a giant rendering of the ISA Seal, and the cylindrical room was ringed in columns and gardens that ascended into a brilliant crystal dome. He approached the elevator, and it parted for him. Entering, he pressed the “Six” and felt the smooth rise. There was a chime, and the doors slid apart, exposing the hallway beyond.

Onyx floors extended right and left, and the lights were flush to the corners of the hall, casting a perfect glow. Contrasted to the stateliness of the lobby, this was pure function and efficiency, things Darius always handled better. He straightened his jacket and his cap, pulling his sunglasses into place. IR, NVG, Thermal, Reverse Polarity, ESD… these babies are form and function. He walked up to a pair of agents outside Allen’s office.

“FC Darius Jensen?”

“That’s me.”

“The SD is waiting.” The metal door vanished into the ceiling, exposing another antechamber, where two more guards waited. They snapped to attention, and the next series of doors hissed open under pneumatic power. Darius entered Allens’ office, saluting the number two man in the ISA.

“Field Commander Darius Jensen, reporting for duty.”

Allens, Operations Director, returned the salute, and lowered his PDA. He rose, shaking Darius’ hand. “Good to see you again, Darius.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, sir.” Darius smiled.

At this, Allens leaned against the wall and sighed. “Alright, cut the bullshit. Let’s get down to business.” Darius grinned openly now. The SD was like this, all about efficiency. It made him a formidable Ops Director, and a pain in Director Kerrik’s plans to make the ISA more “accessible” to recruits. Personally, he was an old friend of the Director’s, and since Kerrik trusted Darius, Allens had grown to like “the kid” as he called Darius.

“Alright, kid, let’s look at the SitRep.” Allens passed the PDA to Darius. “We’ve got a crashed bird in Geridan. Some bastard with an RPG got a lucky shot, and took down surveillance craft. Obviously, we’ve got to get in there, and destroy it, because the damn Slips will just sell the tech to the highest bidder.” Allens tossed the ethnic slur “Slips” with as much ease as any Kaukolastani, but from his rural accent, it sounded even bitterer than others.

Darius tipped his head, “So, why’d you bring me in? Doesn’t the normal military take care of Search and Destroy?”

“Well, this is straight from the Director to me to you. This plays directly into the hands of an experiment command has wanted to try.” Allens paused. “You ever heard of Generation Two BattleNet?”

BattleNet was the C3 system used by the Kaukolastani Armed Forces, to coordinate battlefield actions through rapid computer communications. It linked individuals, units, and even armies into more flexible and versatile forces. “Well, sir, I heard that they want to test out using AI advisors to help coordination. I take it that’s not the whole story.”

“Hardly.” Allens folded his hands. “Individual Battlefield Integration.”

Darius felt the words strike him like a jackhammer. “What? You mean the AI will be inside of people’s heads?”

“Sort of.” Allens explained. “You see, we’ve developed two systems. One of these, we call an Integration Helmet, the other is a Direct Neural Interface-“

“A brain jack.”

“Well, yes. However, before we proceed with testing the DNI, we want to test the capabilities of the BattleNet system.”

”You want me to go into battle with an AI plugged into my head? Sorry, sir, but I didn’t sign up for that kind of Dr. Moreau experimentation.”

Allens sighed. “Listen, it won’t be a DNI, or even a direct link. You and your unit would simply be wearing an Integration Helmet. It’s a modified ballistic helmet with an electromagnetic communications device. You would be transmitting data back to the ARES AI, which would then communicate back to you via audio cues and holographic displays on the visor. Standard sub vocal comms, standard weapons, air support, and orbital recon would all be in place. The only difference from standard combat would be the fact that you’re transmitting back to command, and that ARES would give orders, not a human commander.”

Darius stared at the SD for a moment, then blinked. “And I could break from ARES orders at my discretion?”

“Of course. If you disagree with its orders, you will not be reprimanded. This is a test, and this is your op.”

“Who all knows?”

“The Director, I, Phaellan, High Command, and you are the only ones. Should you accept, we’ll take your team. You do have one of the best Hunter units around.”

”The best, sir.” Darius sighed. “One more condition.”

“Yes?”

“Only those who volunteer will go. Do not force any of them. Agree, and my unit will do it.”

“Agreed.” Allens passed off a datacard. “That’s all the information you’ll need. You’ll be deploying from Eisen AFB at 0400 hours on the seventeenth. Dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Darius turned and walked towards the exit.

“Darius?”

“Yes, sir?” Darius turned back.

“Good luck. We’re counting on you to prove this system.”

Darius left the room, and the door slid shut behind him a slight click, leaving Allens in the silent office, with only the slight hum of his computers.

Telegrammed message to Kaukolastani Headquarters:
Impressive rumors are hitting the street about a new computer system that you are developing. ITD is interested, perhaps willing to supply some funding. However, important matters call my attention. Rebels have taken the national media building.

bump

tag

Eisen Air Force Base
Over Storm Point
0400 Hours

“Alright, alright, I know that you’re all sick and tired of the rain and wind, but let me assure you that it’s clear weather over Geridan. So if you men would just de-pussifiy for a few moments, I’m going to give you the long and short of this.” Darius stood in the back of the Kaukolastani V-30 VTOL transport, grasping the overhead rails as he addressed the rest of his ISA Hunter Killer Squad. The red light bathed the compartment, reflecting from the vast amounts of ARES gear they wore. The craft rocked slightly in the blasting storm, the massive external turbines adjusting on special pivots to provide both lift and thrust. Darius held on as the craft shuddered, rolling his eyes at nature’s wrath. “You’ve all received your ARES training, and you should be well set for this mission. It’s really quite simple. We blow in with a hot drop; strike the village where they’re storing the wrecked UAV, blow the UAV, and exfiltrate. Colonel Halpsed will be coordinating from an AWACS at angels 30, and we can count on support from this bird as well as two AV-30s in the area. We’ll be setting down approximately at the outskirts of the village, because we don’t know what kind of anti-aircraft they possess. We’ll split into two teams and advance along the parallel roads to flank the garage area. Let’s keep the casualties low, people, this is a village.”

“You know those God damn Slips don’t have civilians.” Some soldier from the back stated, using the standard Kaukolastani slur for Geridians. “What kind of forces do the Slips have here, Commander?”

“Intel places the numbers at anywhere up to a hundred fighting men, and the way they fight, that means an almost equal number of women who grab guns mid-battle. They also have some anti-air units, which, despite what you may have heard, do not actually subsist of a Slip with a metal detector and an AK.” Chuckles passed through the room. Darius nodded once. “Most of this is old fashioned mobile gun anti-aircraft-“

From the back of the cabin, a deep voice, tinged with a rural accent, cut him off, “Which, to you new people, a Slip with a metal detector and an AK… riding shotgun in a pickup truck.”

There was more chuckling, and Darius tipped his hat to the back. “Thank you, Special Operative Jensen.”

“Nah problem, Field Commander Jensen.” The big man returned with a smile from beneath his ballistic helmet. His three days stubble protruded from the chin strap, and he gripped a Needler Machine Gun in his hands, the large ammunition box clamped onto the bottom.

It was a running joke in the ISA that Darius Jensen and his noncommissioned officer, Charlie Jensen, were twins, separated at birth. This was mostly due to the fact that while Darius was midsized, wiry, dark haired, and dark eyed, Jensen was an immense man well over six feet and three hundred pounds of muscle, and with his brilliant blonde hair and cold glare, looked like he was the gold medalist in the Aryan Olympics. The joke was even more outrageous, considering that Darius’s full name was originally Ward of the State #758 when the Jensen family adopted him. The chances of him and Charlie Jensen being related were less than one percent, and that was counting ancestry. Still, the joke remained, and the two were more than happy to play along.

Darius laughed with the rest of the men, then asked, “So, do you even want to finish the re-briefing, or should we just cut straight to the ethnic slurs part of the trip?”

From the back, “Hey, what do you do when you catch a Slip hopping around on one leg?”

Darius sighed. “I guess that answers that question.” He paused. “And, Operative, you stop laughing and reload.” He grimaced. “Cut it back, people, we’re not here to butcher them. We move in and move out before they know what happened. If we get bogged down, it’s over.”

The laughter halted, and the men began to check their gear. Jensen spoke up from the back, “You know, every one of us is wearing gear worth more than the GDP of the entire Slip population.”

Darius nodded, jostling about in the dim red glow. “Unfortunately, an asshole blowing you apart with an AK-47 makes you just as dead as a fully trained Hunter blowing you apart with a Sag.”

“Ah hear, Commander.” Jensen stated. “Just a shame, wastin’ all these perty bullets on them Slips.” He tapped the NMG with his left hand, stroking it like a pet.

“For God’s sake, Jensen, you aren’t a good ‘ole boy. Cut the act.”

“Yes, sir. I shall henceforth speak only in proper English.” Jensen was no longer speaking as a hic, but as a genuine rural gentleman.

”Bastard” Darius glanced to the window. “Ten minutes to hot drop. Get ready.”

The cargo hold was filled with rapid clicks, as the thirty man team prepared to drop. Darius touched the activation pad on his helmet, and abruptly, his transparent visor turned black. The material lightened again, like reactive sunglasses coming out of the light. In the corner, he could see a map of the area, with his men highlighted green, and showing waypoints. Ahead, he could see the displays of the power flows inside of the cabin walls. As he glanced at his men, their outlines were a green wire frame, showing friendly. Arrows on his HUD showed the direction he needed to move to, and tracking sensors ran constantly. A toggle for fire support glowed in the corner, and with flicks of his eyes, Darius could cut from normal enhanced optics to NVG to thermal imaging, as well as out to orbital views from satellites, or to the V-30s cameras, or to another man in his unit. He moved his ARES integrated Sag-2, and a small “gun cam” box appeared, showing what the small fiber camera on the barrel saw, allowing him to blind shoot with accuracy. On his HUD, a small crosshair was placed, determined by his gun’s aim point, and ranged to the proper drop. Quite simply, if he aimed at a target, the ARES system would range it and drop the crosshair to show where the bullet would truly hit, not where he was aiming. Threat indicators remained dim on his screen.

This isn’t war… this is a video game. The sound toggled online, and Darius heard ARES smooth baritone fill his earpiece. “Welcome to the ARES combat system. Integrated BattleNet Generation Two is now in effect. Thirty light infantry, one V-30, two AV-30s, one E7 AWACS, and three DarkStar observation satellites are responding as integrated. Network is secured, and anti-hacking is enabled. Quantum random encryption is activated, and manual overrides are positioned on the AWACS. Mission control is under Colonel Halpsed aboard the AWACS, and Field Commander Darius Jensen is in tactical control of the ground unit. The 182nd Air Wing is on call from Storm Point, but not integrated. This is the ARES control module, online and wishing you all a successful mission.”

“Friendly, ain’t he?” Jensen stated.

Darius snorted, but ARES responded, “Of course I am, Operative Jensen. I am programmed to lead soldiers into battle.” There was a barely perceptible pause. “You share a surname with the Field Commander. Are you related, per chance?”

Jensen grinned at Darius, the smile vanishing under the now opaque holovisor. “Sure are.”

“Odd… I do not have records… Never mind, that is irrelevant. You are approaching your hot drop zone. I would highly recommend getting prepared. Updating tactical package… complete.” As ARES spoke, data was correlated from the DarkStar satellites, and from the air to ground sensors on the AWACS and VTOLs. On the team’s HUDs, red dots began to appear, and translucent red arrows faded into place on the upper part of the visors. Each member of the team was assigned an individual target by ARES, who then located each target and pointed the way. As soon as they hit the ground, they would all have specified targets, for maximum shock effect.

“Ten seconds!” the pilot’s voice rang through the VTOL’s cabin, and the crew began to lower the craft. The rear of the VTOL split, and the floor became a ramp, exposing the rushing jungle of Geridan in the predawn light and the blue flare of the jets. Abruptly, the tree line dropped away, exposing a field of meter tall grass that scattered under the turbofan onslaught. The VTOL re-vectored thrust, the four fans angling forward and down, bleeding power. The V-30 slowed, hovering mere feet above the rolling grasses, and inside of Darius’ helmet, the go signal appeared.

Darius was the first man from the craft, leaping from the safety of the V-30, into the air. He hit the ground hard, rolling and popping to a firing crouch, swinging his Sag-2 from its sling and bringing it into firing stance. Behind him, he could here the impacts of more of his team, and his HUD lit up with allies. But, on his view, he saw a red wire frame image of a man amid the grass, a hostile walking twenty meters away.

Whether this hostile was spotted by Darius’ visual scanners, his thermal vision, his NVG, or even another member of the squad or perhaps the V-30 itself, it did not matter, for ARES knew where this Geridian stood, and this data was displayed to Darius’ HUD. The Sag-2 snarled blue fire, the ripping sound of 6.8mm caseless rounds rotating through the chamber, and the red wire frame enemy dropped, cringing on the ground. The wire image faded from the HUD, and an arrow triggered Darius to a new threat. He whirled, firing at this new wire frame. From behind him, he heard the snap of an ACR, and a dart cut the air to his left, striking a new wire frame as soon as it appeared.

Darius glanced upwards, and sure enough, the V-30 was covered in a superficial green mesh frame. His HUD lit again, and he acquired a new target. In this blind field, he could see green figures moving, no matter how much obstructed his own mortal view. For what ARES knew, every member of the unit knew, and whatever one member of the unit knew, ARES knew.

A blue arrow materialized, pointing him in the direction ARES wished him to walk. With a glance at his HUD, he could see the paths of every member of the squad, all being dictated by ARES through the helpful blue pointers. There was no miscommunication, no misstep. Every member of the team moved to their point, obeying their orders, and ARES compiled the data and issued new directives. The team was being deployed into separate units of fifteen, and no talking had been necessary.

Darius reached the last hill, approaching the village. He dropped prone on the top of the slope, glancing into the village square. As soon as he glanced there, he spotted several villagers running with weapons. The red wire images were instantly laid on top of their figures, and more red frames were labeled onto targets inside of buildings and moving in the shadows, targets that Darius had not yet even realized were there. In a proof of ARES ability to coordinate, Darius’s earpiece chirped, and a simple command was given. “Hold!”

High overhead, onboard one of the AV-30s, the crew watched as targets appeared in their systems in rapid succession. Reacting in microseconds, the gunship’s weapons automatically acquired these given targets, and ARES opened fire from the sky. Beneath the AV-30, a small lens turret spun, aligning on the first of the figures. A Chemical Oxygen Iodine Laser (COIL) inside the belly of the assault VTOL reacted, and the beam focused through the lens turret. The deadly invisible beam flashed across every thermal sensor in the area, but the Geridians possessed no such devices, and with no apparent cause, one of the village elders suddenly detonated, his fluids boiling off in an explosive reaction. Then another villagers detonated, then another. A building burst into flame. A truck turned red hot, then detonated into a gasoline fed fire.

The village was pandemonium, with the two AV-30s circling high above, their COILs and gatling guns reducing any exposed villagers to greasy smears. A man stepped from a building, aiming an RPG-7 at the AV-30 closest to him, and his wire frame began to flash on Darius’ visor. The simultaneous crack of ten rifles proved that his was not the only view triggered. “Advance.” ARES commanded sternly, and the arrows reappeared.

Darius slipped down an alley, followed by four more soldiers. On his tactical map, he could see more soldiers in the next four paths down. He moved quickly and quietly, and the HUD gave him nearly a sixth sense, picking out enemies before any mere human had a hunch. Ahead, an outline appeared, with an X placed through it, indicating that this man was behind a wall. Darius drew up his rifle, and as soon as the man stepped into view, the X vanished, and a single round blew his head apart.

High above, DarkStar 27 was analyzing the field of battle. Inside of a building near the village center, there was a congregation of heat signatures. DarkStar zoomed, enacting filter after filter, bringing the focus down to the room on the second story. It was rumored that DarkStar could read the text on coins; in reality, DarkStar could identify the individual patterns inherit in any one coin press. These figures were identified with weapons, and ARES acted.

Darius suddenly received a red arrow on his HUD, and he glanced up, following it. A window on the second story above him was ringed in a red outline. “Grenade on mark.” There was a slight pause, and Darius pulled out a thermobaric grenade, pulling the pin and holding the spoon. “Mark.”

Darius hurled his grenade into the building, sending the cylinder crashing through the glass. Around the perimeter, six other grenades flew through six other windows, and there was a slight clatter of spoons striking the caked ground. The explosion flared inside the building, a blast that consumed every piece of oxygen in the area. The overpressure shattered glass and stone, detonated the fleshy burnt remains of the people inside.

Almost anticlimactically, the blue arrow returned, and the team advanced. Darius moved from shadow to shadow, and he could hear the sound of Needler fire and the crack of ACRs, mixed with the almost normal clatter of the Sag-2 rifles. Rarely was there a shot of AK fire. The red silhouettes vanished almost before they appeared, taken down by land or air.

Ahead, a window flung open, and Darius raised his rifle, afraid he might have missed the cue to fire, but there was already a shot ringing out, and the man opening the window toppled backwards, dead from another angle.

The teams were converging on the garage, and again, the hold order rang out. Darius glanced from behind cover in the alley he waited in. Across the square from the garage, more teams poked from alleyways. Inside of the building, orbital systems had already labeled the targets, and the five red outlines waited, weapons pointed at the doors in a hapless manner. There was a flash of fire from across the courtyard, and a breaching rocket streaked into the wall, sending chunks flying inside. One of the wire frame images vanished instantly, and the other four lasted only a moment longer, as pre-aimed fire lanced into the interior.

Darius vaulted a chunk of the rubble, swinging into the breach, his squad following. A single door was ahead of them, and a red outline behind it. The door began to swing open, and the snarl of an Assault Shotgun sent the man behind tumbling away, reduced to hamburger by the automatic .00 shot. Through the door, Darius spotted the UAV. He reached for his sub vocal trigger by reflex, but ARES was ahead of him, “Objective confirmed. Destroy the objective. Motherbird, ready extraction alpha.”

The demolition team ran into the room, laying the cordex charges, while the other teams provided cover. Only ten Geridians tried to stop the team by attacking the building, and they met a rapid end. Overhead, the V-30 passed over the village, riding on blue tongues against the dark sky. The craft spun on its axis, still flying backwards, and lowered into the extraction field. The AV-30s continued to circle, raining death with ballistic and energy weapons. On the ridge outside of the village, three snipers waited. They needed no spotter, for ARES did that for them. Target after target was passed to the scout-snipers, and the ACRs’ 7.92mm tungsten carbide darts made short work of many Geridians and their vehicles.

The village was quickly becoming a morgue, and the demolition team was finished. A five minute timer appeared in Darius’ HUD, and the blue arrow returned again. He called out, “Game over! Fall out!”

ARES followed his command with its own simple, “Exfiltrate.” The team began to leapfrog back through the town, running for the field. As they exited the town, two Geridians rose into firing positions, hoping to down the evacuating ISA agents. But, they were already compromised by ARES air support, and they rose to meet the double crack of tungsten carbide darts. The team cleared the ridge, and the snipers fell out, scrambling back towards the V-30.

Darius stopped at the base of the V-30’s ramp, crouching to guard as his team scrambled inside. As the last men passed into the craft, four figures rose over the ridge from the other side of the field followed by on a technical. Immediately, ARES designated these as targets, and the AV-30s sent their COIL beams to meet the technical, but it was too late. A single RPG flung from the back of the truck, streaking towards the V-30. ARES calculated the trajectory and triggered the V-30 jets by remote, sending the craft tumbling upwards. The rocket streaked under the rapidly rising VTOL, but Darius was not quite inside the craft. He was flung from the ramp by the jolt, and crashed back into the field.

He smashed into the dirt, his visor shattering. His vision turned hazy, and his hearing began to whistle, his senses clouded by the sudden loss of connection to the ARES BattleNet. He tried to rise to his knees, bringing his rifle to his hands. The technical exploded in his view, and two of the four men with it vaporized, but two of the group threw down their weapons, holding their hands in the air in surrender.

Darius stared at these surrendering Geridians, at the terror on their faces, and he lowered his rifle as the VTOL settled back down behind him. He heard footsteps, and he was lifted to his feet by Jensen, who pulled him back towards the VTOL. As he was pulled back, two of the soldier with him spun, and one cried out, “Hostile!” At once, their Needlers spat blue fire, and the two last Geridians fell, bisected by the stream of rounds. He was pushed back into the seat, and the V-30 lifted off, the ramp closing as the roar of the engines built into full flight.

In the AWACS high over the battlefield, Colonel Halpsed watched the tactical map with a stunned expression. Never, in all his many years, had he seen a butchery like that. He glanced back at the raw numbers again.

Mission Time: 00:05:12.87
Friendly Casualties: 0 Fatalities, 1 Minor Injury (Concussion)
Enemy Casualties: 137 Kills, 5 Wounded (Critically)

Halpsed watched those glowing red numbers, and he turned to his assistant. “I think we can call this a mission complete.” His voice was soft; his tone disbelieving what he knew to be true.

Back in the V-30, Darius hung loosely in his crash seat, weakened and disoriented from the sudden loss of the ARES link. Next to him, Jensen grinned broadly, “We stuffed those Slips good!”

Darius only smiled weakly, his brow furrowed. “Yeah… we did… ARES did…” He glanced at Jensen, and behind his dark eyes, there was fear.

-more coming tonight-

OOC: This is very important information to anyone reading this thread.

The ISA and How it Works (http://forums.jolt.co.uk/showthread.php?t=340654)

OOC:
[tag]

OOC: Sorry all, but my computer went on the fritz. I've got more stuff coming, but I need to get the 'puter on line first. Sorry for the trouble, but this thread WILL continue.

-K-stan, on a public terminal

OOC: I hope you read that little link to ISA ranks charts and its purposes, because you might not understand the rest of this RP without that info. Any how, the show goes on.

IC:

The dim lighting of the restaurant flitted down from the lamps over each table, glowing a suffuse yellow to create the illusion of a romantic candlelit evening, and to make the content patrons order just that little bit more. The plush seats were nice, but not too nice, and the well dressed servers were just one step lower than suit and tie service. Darius was seated in the corner of the second room, picking at the free rolls on the table and trying to hold a pleasant conversation with his date for the evening, Maria Holland. He was trying, but not succeeding, because she kept steering back into small talk that made him cringe. Namely, she was asking about his job.

“…so, how much overtime do you get at the law firm?” Holland brushed her brown hair behind her left ear again, and Darius had to keep from swatting it free as a slight strand tangled into her earring. It was a nervous habit, he knew, but this conversation just would not end.

“Well,” he supposed, “It varies. We don’t get paid for most of it, because it’s our own choice. We either win or lose cases, and that decides if we keep our jobs.” He shrugged. God damn it, woman! Quit making me lie to you!

“That’s true. Do you like the work?” She paused, rephrasing her question. “I mean, is it what you want to do for a career?”

Shut up, shut up, shut up! “Well, it’s interesting, but I don’t know. I guess I’ll only know when I get bored of it.” Darius filled in the blanks of his own story. Great. Now I look like a lazy ass. Smooth going, Agent. This conversation was giving him a headache.

“You held many jobs, then?” She asked, her interest already waning.

“A few. Mostly little jobs, like back in high school, when I worked the Burger Barn, or the many college jobs I held.” He was relieved to hit truthful territory again.

Her interest seemed to return, as she sensed that he wasn’t a drifter. “Yeah, I had those kind of drudgeries, too.” She asked, “So, what’s the hardest thing you ever had to do on the job?”

Oh, just blow up the leader of this nation. Yeah, I’d say assassinating my commander in chief at the behest of my internally revolting Director was the hardest thing I ever did. “Well, I’ve pulled some pretty long stretches without sleep on tough cases. I think I did seventy-two hours without substance assist on one in particular.” His headache was getting worse, and he felt deflated. Another lost cause, Darius. Call it a night and give up.

“Wow. I just had to deal with some overbearing geeks from the R&D department. They kept giving terrible lines, like how they wanted to “Synchronize our clocks” and other moronic stuff like that.” She pecked at a roll, then asked after a moment of blissful silence, “So, what service did you pick after High School? I did two years with the Civil Service, helping the poor in Sorobade.”

ISA, for life. “Well, I did my service with the local police. That’s how I got into law.” With every little lie, the pounding in his head got worse. He tried to change the topic, “So, what was Civil like?” His words seemed distant, and slightly discordant in his ears, like he was underwater.

“Well, we got to help a lot of people. We built homes for them, and ran food banks. You’d be amazed how many people move through the Dole Programs. They fall down, but the system is designed to pull them out. I’d say two thirds of the people only need help for three months or less. But the others…” As she spoke, Darius tried to watch her eyes, but he couldn’t focus. Her face seemed to blur, to waver. Her words echoed inside his skull, bouncing through with painful reverberations. He blinked and tried again, but his vision doubled, and the sounds were drowned into sound of rushing water.

Darius gripped the table as his balance began to fail, and he could feel himself start to slide to the side. He caught himself, held himself into a sitting position. He could see Maria talking, could see her lips moving in a stereo image that shimmered and phased. She was reaching for him, but she was tunneling away into the noise and blur. A sudden whine split his conscience, like the sound of feedback through an amplifier, building from itself and deafening him. His vision shattered into a blank white brilliance, and he reflexively threw up his arms to block the light and shrieking noise.

He felt the table spinning away, and he fell back, into the nothing. There was something here, with him, inside the screaming reality, but he couldn’t decipher the perceptions. There was only pain, in the sound and sight and touch… and the smell of burning plastic and hot steel. He tried to speak, but he could not. Then the spell broke, and he was on the floor of the restaurant. Blood was running from his nose, into his mouth.

He tried to speak, but his tongue was thick. Maria Holland was screaming at the waiter, calling out about someone having a seizure. That would be you, Darius, my boy. The darkly ironic thought made him chuckle in his throat, but the sound caught. He reached up to touch his face, and he could feel the streams of blood. I smacked myself a good one, at that. What the hell was that? I’m not epileptic. He opened his eyes again, and he could see shards of his plate around him, could feel the water from the pitcher flowing past him. Mother fuck, if I pissed myself… He slipped into blackness, sweet and serene.

There was nothing, no senses to intrude on him inside this solitude. He knew he was alive, as he could see himself in that odd, dream-state second person view. He was alone in the darkness, yet perfectly distinct against it, without any light cast upon him, he was lit. “Hello?” he asked, attempting, even inside this dream, to determine his circumstance.

The word died as it left his mouth, swallowed into the nothing. It was strange, what it sounded like. He’d never noticed the echo his voice made before, but here, without even that infinitely small echo, his voice was swallowed by the nothing. “Hello!” he called again, more forcefully.

There was no immediate reply, but he could feel someone else, someone inside this well. “I know you’re here. Answer me.” He stepped forward, and he found solid ground. He was wearing the ISA suit and tie, he realized.

From the nothing, there was a voice, smooth and toneless. “There is nothing here.”

“Then how did you answer?” Darius asked simply.

“I am not answering. You are answering.” The voice stated, and Darius realized his own mouth was moving.

He stopped for a second, then spoke aloud. “Well, schizophrenia is always fun. Let’s try to figure this out. What the hell happened back there?”

“The restaurant? That was nothing, simply an epileptic seizure, a misfiring of neurons.” Inside his own voice, he could hear another tone, and he could almost see a flitting of red and green.

-There’s a target. Fire!- An image echoed through the darkness in shadow form. Darius spoke again, and the fleeting memory vanished into the never. “I’m not epileptic, you know this.”

“Ah, but are you you?” This time, the response came not just from his own mouth, but from another source, in the darkness. The light cast down, and an older man stood there, his black suit contrasting to white skin and again to black hair, his shoes polished and his black glasses reflecting back to Darius, and the two images reflected were not the same agent.

The light broke the darkness, and the blinding flash of whiteness cleansed the images from his mind. “Wake up!” The sound struck his ears, and Darius could feel cold air on his skin, could feel plastic below him, could taste sterile air. “Get up, agent.” The ground he lay on shifted into a chair, and he was sitting. He opened his eyes again.

He sat in a hospital bed, which was moved into a recliner position. The plastic sheets were ripped back, and his arm stung. At the foot of the bed, Director Kerrik stood, one eyebrow raised behind the sunglasses. “Second word. Good response time, given how deep you were out.”

Darius tried to speak, but coughed instead. He doubled over, hacking on his ragged lungs. When he looked back up, Kerrik held a cup in front of his face. “Take that cool refreshing drink, Agent, I do think you need it.”

Darius swallowed the water, feeling the rivulets flowing into the parched surfaces of his throat. He coughed again, more fluidly, and took another drink. He gasped slightly, and choked out his words, “Thank you, Director.” He broke into more coughing at that, and need to take a deeper gulp.

When he lowered his glass, Kerrik was standing there still, a slightly bemused look on his face. “What happened to you?”

“I don’t know.” Darius answered honestly. “I was having a date… not a good traveling one at that, and I just… collapsed. There was a flash of white and a screech, and then I was on the floor.” He shrugged, painfully. “Ooh, sore. Do you know anything? What do the doctors say? And what about Maria?”

Kerrik stepped back, straightening his cufflink. “Well, you scared that poor girl half to death. She’s in lobby two, thinks that a doctor is in here right now. The doctors think that she is.” The Director pursed his lips. “You suffered some ill effects from your sudden loss of connection to the ARES network. I would highly recommend that you take a few days off, but you’ll be fine. I’ve already made sure that you’ll be dismissed within an hour from now, and your scans are already destroyed. Have a nice day, Agent.” The Director vanished from the room with barely a motion, and the door slipped quietly closed again.

Darius glanced at the ceiling. Gee, thanks for the information. Glad to know the ISA is burning my files. Not like I’d ever want to see this data. He shook his head, and regretted that as his vision swam again. Whoa, he did stop in to see if I was alright. But he gritted his teeth. No, he came to debrief me and straighten stories. The door to the room swung open, and Maria Holland rushed in.

“Darius!” she cried. “You’re awake! I’m glad you’re okay, I’ve been so worried! What happened?”

He tried to think up a good explanation, but failed. “I don’t know.”

She nodded. “I’m just glad you’re alright. You won’t believe who I saw in the hospital! The Director of the ISA was here! I saw him, and I knew him from TV, even in a hospital gown. I wonder what agent got hurt?”

Duh. But Darius said nothing, simply glad that there was someone here, with him, in the hospital. Don’t you dare go soft on me, Agent. He berated himself, but he couldn’t deny the simple pleasure of having some human touch right now. He turned to the ceiling, and he could still here the whine in his head, like the sound of power lines in the summer heat.

The capital city of Corsingard was a gleaming bastion of all that Kaukolastan stood for. Sweeping maglev trains mapped the logical grid of the city, clean and fast multileveled highways sliced between the glass and steel towers that speared the heavens, mammoth constructions of mechanical glory, which challenged nature’s dominance. Ionic scrubbers on each building cleansed the atmosphere of pollutants, leaving only the scent of clean air. Amid the rational layout of the city, and its bold constructions, manicured green parks provided a relief from the gleaming monoliths. VTOL aircraft hummed through the airspace, between the towers. Above this, crisscrossing contrails of jets formed a latticework on the sky, originating from the sprawling Corsingard Skyport. Holographic billboards lauded products and coming attractions in the river district.

Three shimmering blue rivers merged into the Corsis Sea, which sparkled under the clear skies. Along the powerful surge-ways of the rivers, stadiums and theatres of all types were interspersed by monuments and attractions, which roared with the bustle of accomplished fantasies. As the delta banks rolled up, onto the central plateau of Corsingard, the modern towers and complexes faded into the contours of the ridge. Above the ring of towers, lording above their highest floors, was the Capital City. The architecture replaced steel and glass with marble and alabaster, and the stately Capital was surrounded by the lower halo of steel.

The government district was a beautiful blend of Roman Classical style, Victorian elegance, and postmodern convenience. There was no air traffic over the Capital, nor were there any motorized vehicles to mar its grandeur. The Capital was comprised of glorious monuments and statues, sprinkled between the meticulous hanging gardens and reflecting pools, and row after row of columned buildings bespoke centuries of powerful history. From the sweeping Senate, with its crystal domes, to the imposing High Court, to the martial glory of the Citadel, to the grand Chancellery Building, and to countless others, the government structures beamed with confidence and nobility. Majestic universities, libraries, and museums augmented the manifestations of a nation’s power and heritage, and the spires of the great cathedral mingled fluidly with the rest of the Capital, the stained windows casting an array of colored light over the statecraft.

It was said that to stand in Capital City, above the halo of skyscrapers, over the land and sea, flanked by cultivated nature and stately perfection, was to be both glorified and humbled. The man who stood there would be confronted with his own mortality and insignificance compared to the millennia of knowledge, culture, and sheer might manifest in the Capital. Yet, this man, if he partook of this nation, would have his spirit raised up, being shown the grand vision of the nation below, the dream as reality, allowing the mortal to touch the immortal, if but for a moment.

Yet, beneath this elegance, a more technological and functional grandeur was achieved. Layers of underground complexes were linked by subterranean maglevs. Some were for tourists, others for the bureaucrats needed to fill out the functions of governance, and still others were deeper, designed to whisk high-level officials rapidly between the compounds and buildings without interruption or delay. It was these same passages that allowed Director Kerrik to move from his home in the Corsis Highlands to ISA Headquarters in the Halo, and then to the Capital, before others could even catch a maglev for a ride. This transport did not hinder his reputation as a phantasm, the ephemeral and omnipresent avatar of the ISA. Kerrik did take a silent enjoyment from this ability to move without hindrance, using it to pre-empt his sub-ordinates to various locations, one of the few joys the Spartan Director allowed himself. He was known for sending an agent from his office to some remote point in the city, only for the agent to find Kerrik waiting patiently at the destination. At dinners, he would be found waiting, sitting with a pre-ordered banquet arriving in time with the guests’ predicted arrival times.

However, more than even this little trick, Kerrik appreciated the museums, libraries, universities, and chapels. For in these places, there was knowledge, which he loved more than all else. He cherished it, cultivated it, and craved it. His personal library rivaled the Corsingard Archive, and he was a beneficiary of every museum in the Capital. He spent hours in these harbors of thought, absorbing tome after tome, and committing every fact to memory. His interests ran from physics to theology to history to biology to philosophy and back again. He could pick out the manufacturing plant of a piece of New York and New Jersey chest plate, name the composer of obscure Hattian sonatas, give the average water temperatures of Iansisle’s harbors, recite TEO’s stock index of the past trading day, and notate the latest seasonal fashion trends in Menelmacar. To allies and enemies, Kerrik knew even more specific and timely data, insisting on reading their various publications every morning. Kerrik was a living archive, a mental giant, and a living legend to Kaukolastanis.

However, in his quest for knowledge, his personal Grail, he paid a price. Kerrik was notably distant and reclusive, more so with each passing day. He spoke in riddles and parables, driving others towards his conclusions with questions, and was intolerant of ignorance, though he reveled in knowing more than every other person he dealt with, finishing a race while the others waited for the start signal. He was a true puppet master, manipulating wheels within wheels, moving Byzantine constructs, and allowing others to take the credit. So controlling, manipulative, and intellectually superior, Kerrik was isolated from other beings, locked into himself and over all others. His dark eyes, deep and morose, windowed into a regret, remorse for choices made and paths taken. But this sorrow was overpowered by the inky black steel behind it, the cold and petrifying gaze of a man who had chosen his own fate, and whose unyielding will would demolish any that opposed him.

Those who had confronted him face to face commonly reported feeling disquieted, disturbed, and even terrified. His eyes could swallow soul into their lightless depths, and lies turned to ash in the mouth. He knew you before he met you; he could see through your careful pretense. His every word carefully placed and articulated, a piece of a puzzle and a verbal weapon, wielded by a master of the art. His knowledge immolated every attempt at rationalizing, and to speak of emotion to this man was as if preaching compassion to a firearm aimed for your temple. Supporters called him a visionary, a demagogue, a leader of men. They would claim him a miracle worker, able to give revelation in a simple phrase, to cure with a word. Followers pledged fealty to him in droves, disciples to his vision of a great tomorrow. Opponents feared to confront him directly, for those who did were often reduced to stammering wrecks, speaking in short, confused phrases of “falling into darkness”, or of simply being dumbstruck by his powerful presence. Few could speak to him without being swayed to his views and vision. He was the prophet of the state, the epitome of the ISA. Even his closest associates (for he had no “friends”) spoke of him in hushed towns. There was something inhuman about him, something more than human.

Anderas Kerrik was more than just the prophet of the state; he was the avatar, the incarnation of the dreams of centuries. His life was a parable of dreams of every Kaukolastani, his ideals their dreams. Do dedicated to the state was he that he had crossed a line of humanity. He had taken the dream of Kaukolastan to heart, let it replace his heart, burning away his personal desires with a beacon of commonweal glory. He was no longer a true believer, but the incarnation of the belief. His every essence screamed out for the benefit of the nation, and he was an overwhelming presence to those who saw him. Kerrik was nearly a demigod to the people, who revered his selfless dedication and wealth of knowledge. He served no code what would benefit the state, and no moral or emotional binders were tolerated. He would walk the dark paths, to guide the others forward. He was loved and feared, emulated and avoided, honored and isolated for his choices in life, and that was the way he knew it had to be. He had never married, and there was no family to speak of. He kept no friends, for they would long ago been burned away by his inner fire. His was a solitary path, excruciating and remorseless, but he knew that he must walk it for the others; no matter what damnation he accrued.

Kerrik stood in his normal spot, in the center of the Mosaic room, beneath the oculus, which filtered in the orange glow of evening. This was his favorite place in the world, in the center of this living artwork. The history of Kaukolastan wrapped around the interior wall, illuminated by diffuse glowpoint lamps and the oculus high above. The artwork had spanned millennia, and it was only a third of the way around the chamber. Even now, the latest addition was being finished, a section detailing the past fifteen years. The fall of Chancellor Fenris, the rise of the ISA, and the new Golden Age Kerrik had ushered in, all of this was being painted by a master, commissioned from the university. Kerrik tipped his head at the new work, a slight grimace on his face.

We have always been the artists, not the subjects. The ISA molds society in secret, not in public. Now the roles are blended by Fenris’s failure, and I am forced into this role. Kerrik had ordered the last Chancellor’s execution from this very room, and it had not been an easy order to give, to upset the delicate balance of crafted democracy. Unlike many other coups in history, the executor did not grave power for himself. Fenris was a failure, and he endangered this land. It was not my choice; it was my duty. He was harming this nation, disrupting the perfect dream we have crafted. Now I must do my part to ensure that incompetents like him may never arise. I must lead, for the good of the nation in this dark time.

Kerrik knew how the people viewed him, but he did not wish it. He viewed himself as the servant of the state, of the people, and as their guardian, but not as their idol. His parents were immigrants, fleeing the collapse of their home nation for the golden shores of Kaukolastan. His mother cleaned houses, and his father joined the army to gain citizenship. Anderas Kerrik was born after they had been here but a year and a half, after a particularly rowdy shore leave nine months earlier. Raised in a household that rapidly moved from working poor to middle class, Kerrik was indoctrinated by his parents to excel here, as he had been given so much opportunity. By the time he was in middle school, his father was a ranking non-commissioned officer, and Kerrik was fully bred into the military lifestyle, moving from school to school with redeployments.

A particularly brilliant mind, he was favored by almost all of his teachers and scorned by his classmates, who wished only to steal his tests. Coldly, he had stared at them, making them recede from the terrifying stare of this child, and he had stated, “Someday, you will all know to respect me.” And with that pronouncement, he returned to his studies. His lessons were accelerated, and the school officials were enamored with this wunderkind, promoting him faster, and using connections to move him into better and better institutions at low cost.

He was attending a boarding secondary school when his father was killed in the Roanian Intervention, dieing while manning a machine gun to decoy the attacking army. The Nova Medal that was delivered to Widow Kerrik did not stop her grief from spiraling into depression, and deterioration. She never recovered from the loss, and by the time she died five years later, she was little more than a vegetable. But Anderas Kerrik collected his parents possessions, invested them while he attended the Corsingard University under full scholarship, hanging his father’s medal on his mantel. More determined than ever to repay their gifts to him, Kerrik chose to triple major in Kaukolastan History, Psychology, and Game Theory. He was a prodigy, bound for the academia, or personal fortune, but first, he had to perform his service. The ISA approached him with an analyst position, but he had refused, wanting to take a combat role to prove his value to his deceased father.

In Operations, Kerrik was yet again a remarkable specimen, earning over seventeen commendations in Geridian conflicts. He was decorated for bravery under fire, and for deep penetration missions that had him cut off for two years at a time. During his exemplary service, he was once again noted by those above him, who passed him up the chain of command with stunning speed.

Nevertheless, unlike in school, Kerrik did not do this to prove anything to anyone. The ISA was his calling, and he knew he would never need another employer. Service to this nation, planted by his parents and cultivated by the ISA, had morphed into a fanatical belief, a complete dedication to everything the state wanted. His immense mental capacity and his bizarre personality did not alienate him inside of the ISA, it made him trustworthier. He soon attracted the attention of Director Iams, who took the young agent under his wing, teaching him the inner workings and arcane secrets of the agency, showing Kerrik the plans and plots. Kerrik was a natural, and he was completely in his element. He was soon the Special Operations Field Commander under Iams, the wet-works agent that answered directly to the Director. In this realm, Kerrik had pursued tasks darker than even the ISA in general knew about, and he was mired into the conspiracies and histories of the agency. He loved it, and his voracious mind soon propelled him into a command post. He was Iams’s protégé, it was no secret, and when the Director retired, Kerrik had easily slipped into his new shoes as the spymaster of Kaukolastan.

Kerrik had intended to do no more than continue the proud tradition of service and secret control, but circumstance had conspired else wise. The failure of Chancellor Fenris’s leadership had forced Kerrik into making a radical change, eliminating the elected leader and stepping in to fill the role temporarily. Nevertheless, the people loved him, and when he spoke of stepping down for an election, the popular will held him in office. He refused the title of Chancellor, though the people wished it upon him, and he refused to reside in the Chancellery. He still referred to his rule as an “emergency measure”, though it was now over a decade in length… the best decade in recent history for Kaukolastan.

Kerrik’s brilliantly manipulative and discreet leadership, using the ISA as a tool to move the nation, had resulted in low crime, a booming economy, a secure border, and flourishing culture beyond even the high standards held before. The people loved him, and the politicians loathed him, both for his refusal to join their games, and for his success. He was the publicly mandated dictator, and the philosopher-king. The politicians in the senate could only fume as Kerrik rode on wave after wave of public love, and the media found nothing to smear, for his past was a blank page in the books, and his present was an Eden. The Dream was a reality.

Still, Kerrik stood in the orange evening light, below the oculus, watching the painting, contemplating. I have done things… things I cannot call moral or even amoral. Evil. For my accomplishments, I have done evil. Moreover, such is as it should be, for I am not the beneficiary of my actions. My crimes will be weighed against my success. But what of my successor, and his? This nation will return to the turmoil, the risk. Nations, like men, are mortal, and both eventually die. There were footfalls, soft and respectful, and Kerrik broke from his reverie.

Without looking, his spoke, “David Phaellan. It’s good to hear you, David.”

There was an exhalation, and David Phaellan, Sub-Director in charge of Analysis and Intelligence, spoke in his soft voice, “Christ, Anderas, do you have to do that. You know it’s creepy.” Phaellan walked up to stand next to his Director.

The two made an interesting contrast. Kerrik was wiry, his dark hair untouched by gray as it lay in a simple business cut, his features aristocratic and slightly exotic, his gaze penetrating and permeating as he stood with supreme confidence, hands clasped behind his back, still inside of their gloves. Phaellan was shorter, slender, and was starting to thin in his hair, his wire frame glasses pushed onto his nose, baby-faced and standing as if giving a presentation. Phaellan asked his commander, “What are you thinking about, sir?” Phaellan was an intellectual at heart, and loved to absorb the various pieces of information dispensed from Kerrik’s clandestine nature. Phaellan was also an engineer, a master of applied science, which was why Kerrik favored him so heavily with his thoughts, out of respect for a man with keen knowledge.

Kerrik sighed slightly. “Every man leaves a legacy, and mine is tied to this nation. But what is a legacy faced with mortality? This nation will die in some distant future, or be crushed under heel, to rise again like the phoenix. Is there such thing as eternity? Can something prolong life forever, or can it only prolong existence eternally? These are questions I ask myself.” He paused, glancing over to Phaellan, to see if the man understood any of what he had said. The Sub-Director appeared to grasp this, as his eyes were not dim with confusion. Kerrik continued, “I must make choices, must make them well. I am not just entrusted with leadership, I am entrusted with fate, to draw and weave and cut the strings of us all. Yet, I wonder, is there a better way?”

“Sir, your leadership has not failed us yet-”

“Precisely. It has not failed, which only increases the probability of miscalculation. I am a master of manipulation, and I shall guide, but who shall guide after me? Who shall I trust with perfection?”

”Sir, you aren’t speaking of retirement, are you?” Phaellan glanced at his Director, his face concerned. “You’re still young, younger than me at least. Is it wearing you down?”

“The problem is, once again, mortality. I do have a solid score of years before me, where I can function at peak, but how shall I determine my successor? Iams picked me from a multitude, told me to lead. And I have, through every dark and disturbing crease I have encountered.” At the mention of Iams, Phaellan shuddered, remembering the Mind Blade incident that Iams had unleashed upon Transnapastain. Kerrik raised an eyebrow; “You still blame Iams for the crimes that must be committed?”

“Must be committed, sir? He butchered thousands through his schemes. And for what? A spare bit of cash?”

Kerrik snorted. “Hardly. He did things that must be done, but which I was not yet ready to do.” The Director glanced at Phaellan. “The longer I hold this position, the more I slip, the more I stray from that straight and narrow path… and the less I can care. I am surely a damned man, Phaellan, for the crimes I have committed. And yet I must demand another to follow me into the waste, and trust that they have the strength to not stray to the light.”

Phaellan simply watched his commander. Kerrik became like this, on certain evenings, speaking of dark things and the failures of life. It was a cynicism driven by years of solitude, of sacrifice, and of ceaseless dedication. But Phaellan stood there, listening as always, as Kerrik spoke in riddles and metaphor. Phaellan had learned many things in these monologues, many things Kerrik needed to tell someone, and more things that Phaellan never wished to hear.

And Kerrik turned to Phaellan one last time. “You know what we are doing. I will solve this problem. I will break mortality for this nation. There is no stopping what we will accomplish.” His black eyes were almost burning with his fervor, and Phaellan recoiled from reflex. “But, there will be terrible cost, David, terrible cost.”

Corsingard Memorial Hospital
Suite 1638

As the light filtered onto Kerrik kilometers away, through the oculus in the museum, the orange glow was reflecting into Darius’s room in the hospital. The light cast into the Halo of skyscrapers and bounced through their labyrinth of glass, casting in varying degrees of brightness throughout the sterile room. Darius pulled his shoes on, tucked his old suit into his duffel bag. He grabbed his keys in his pocket, and tapped his wallet to make sure it was there. Ok, I’m all set. Time to roll.

He turned to Maria, who was straightening his bed up. “Hey, they’re paid to do that. You ready to leave?”

“Don’t we have to check out, or pay?” she asked, looking at the empty bed stand.

“Nope.” Darius filled in with an ISA half-truth. “The company will take care of it.”

“That’s some law firm. I didn’t think they employed bouncers either.” She was speaking of Jensen, who had stopped in with a change of clothes for Darius, and to deliver their cars to the hospital lot. “He’s not your brother, no matter what you say.”

Darius grinned at the old joke, turning to her with an impish look. “What? We look so alike!”

At that, she rolled her eyes. “I’ll bet you two have been pulling that joke for years.”

“You have no idea.” He smiled, but inside, he winced at yet another casual illusion. “I’ll walk you to your car.” He stated as he held the door open.

She stopped dead, raising her eyebrows, “You’ll walk me? I think you’re the invalid, here.”

Darius shrugged. “Touché. How about a non-chauvinistic dual-walk?”

“Oh, shut up.” She laughed slightly, and accepted his held door without a further complaint. “You’re a real Boy Scout, you know that?”

“Who, me?” It was true; he had a charming, almost boy-like grin and an easy nature. That was why the ISA loved him so much, for his ability to wine and dine before he killed, like a cat toying with prey. It made him sick, knowing that his disarming nature and chivalric behaviors were now tools, his natural kindness hijacked into a lethal game. He felt a fist clench at a stolen innocence, though he knew it was foolish, as he had chosen this life. Did I choose this? Images of destruction and death flooded his mind for a moment, before he locked them back into the cage.

It was worst at night, when the shadows stretched from the glowing lights of the city, casting the corridors of darkness in which his visions lived. In the lonesome standing pole lay the CEO of Demeter Industries; his head cleaved open by a thresher accident. In the strands of light filtering from a window was the family of a Geridian warlord, children and all, burnt to cinders by a White Phosphorous grenade. Under the sewers were the bodies of a disposal effort in Transnapastain. In the roar of a starting car was the blast that had consumed Chancellor Fenris. The rattle of a maglev was the dragging corpse of the railroad tycoon Shadix, who had tried to blackmail the ISA on Chimera shipments. Forty-two ghosts stared at him in the windows of buildings, people he had killed, face to face, staring them in the eyes. Hundreds more flitted in the shadows at the edge of his vision, their mourning intensified by their untold names and stories.

He could not sleep some nights, when the rattle of the furnace and the tremor of the passing cars mimicked the death calls of so many men and women. I do it all for the good of the state. It’s for the greater good. It’s my duty! But his assertions didn’t stifle the cries of those he had killed, and they watched him, tugging at his sanity. Section Chief Trask always said, “If you ever get comfortable with your job, you’re not human. If that happens, I’ll kill you myself.” So, at least I’m still human. But, oh, to be inhuman, if for a moment. He bit his lip slightly, and heard the words shattering his tormented thoughts.

“You alright?” Maria asked. “You got pale all of a sudden.” They were standing in the parking lot, and the lights of Corsingard were just coming alive, turning the metal halo into a true ring of light.

“Yeah… just thinking about today.” Darius lied again, turning to observe the rise of the Capital City, its monolithic imperial glory against the lights of the modern city. “Just look at this city. I’ll never get over how it looks at night.” His voice was admiring, humbled by the life around him. Without thinking, he put out his arm, around Maria. She did not run, which relieved the Agent, once he realized what he had done.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” Her question was rhetorical, for even a blind man could hear and feel the glory of Corsingard. “I’ve heard the River Delta is glorious at this time of year.”

Darius replied innocently, calling up his array of knowledge. His memory was excellent, which furthered his cause with the Director. “With the tide as it is, it should be. The low tide exposes the erosion patterns-”

She cut him off with a jab in the ribs. “Christ, how thick can you be? Invite me down to the river!”

“Oh.” Darius felt as though he had been smacked in the face with the big stick of stupid. “Why didn’t you say so?”

She rolled her eyes and exhaled again, aghast at the blindness of her companion. Before she could point out that she already had said so, Darius reacted. “You want to go down there?”

“That’d be great!” she exclaimed, as though nothing had been mentioned before.

Darius grinned dumbly. Amazing! I can cut through webs of deception, but I can’t figure out when to go for a date? Gotta analyze- Shut up, Darius. He smirked at himself and led her towards the river. She actually finds me amusing? And I’m not pretending to be someone? He felt a slight bubble inside, one that popped as the first ghost slipped through the shadows. You are pretending. You are pretending to be a good person. You are a killer. He drove those thoughts from his mind as they walked up to the surface maglev.

The comfortable magnetic tram rested inside of a bowl shaped track, hovering on magnetic fields. As they walked through the red lined interior, Maria took a seat, while Darius elected to give up his to an elderly man. Maria smiled at him, and mouthed, “Boy Scout.” Darius felt his own face breaking into a grin, and he smacked away the guilt that rose with it.

The tram began to accelerate rapidly, and Darius held the overhead rail to stay balanced. The city was blurring past as the maglev tram rushed through. The motion was smooth and quiet, with only the air resistance and the hum of powerful electromagnets to break the soothing music and calm announcements. The track banked out, over the shimmering Tiersa River, which reflected the millions of lights of the city as it flowed to sea. Darius turned back to his companion and stated, “Watch this.”

Removing his hands from the rails, he stood, like a surfer, in the aisle as the tram banked and decelerated, balancing precariously and yet gracefully, relying on his martial arts training. She looked away at his antics, but glanced back from the darkened window’s reflection. The tram stopped almost without warning, and Darius almost pitched forward, which brought a giggle that would have only been better if he had toppled. He turned back to Maria, mock hurt plastered on his face, “You wanted me to fall?”

“No, not at all!” Her voice held the same good-natured sarcasm, feigning prim and proper. “I encourage childish behavior like that.”

“Cut to the heart.” He remarked as they stepped into the River District station, amid the sights and smells of a booming attraction. The maglev whooshed away, and they stood on a stone platform, overlooking the Midway, or one tiny part of it. The smells of fresh cooking, from high quality fish houses that caught fresh from the rivers and sea all the way to waffle cone stations scattered on the walkways, lingered in the air, mixing into a festival aroma the whole year long. The old fashioned streetlights were more than augmented by the gleam of theaters and amusement rides, and roars of the crowd could be heard from the three stadiums.

The walkways of the River District extended over the delta, where the three water flows met the sea, and the shops hung in the air, allowing the visitors to look over the edges into the clean waters. The rivers were lit by floating lights, underwater tunnels and illumination circles, and the waterfront attractions, leaving them a shining and shimmering carpet of flowing diamond. Boats drifted lazily though the waters, and in the sea beyond, the buzz of jet skis could be heard. Music drifted over the entire area, completing the enchantment of a world so very distant than the glowing halo and the stately Capital. This was a land of fantasy and dreams, and the thousands in that waking glory had no desire to leave.

Darius let himself fall into the rhythm of the District, letting his mind wander as they walked under the arches of lights. An age guessing game provided a moment of jocularity, only to be surpassed by a street entertainer who ate fire. At another turn, a squirt-gun horse race blared its carnival tunes, drawing them in for a bout. Maria won, though Darius would claim she cheated, a smitten glow in his embittered eyes. The night turned into a whirl of sounds, sights, smells, and tastes, blending into a true dream, lived in the eternal moment and not caring about past or future.

It was as they crested the top of the Ferris wheel, looking over the entire glowing district, the undying party, that Darius realized he had not seen a single ghostly memory for hours. No shudder or chill had afflicted him, and his guard was down for the first time in years. He looked to the cool sky, to the stars beyond, and then back to Maria beside him, leaning into his shoulder for warmth. There was a contentedness inside him, one that made him complete in a way that the luxuries and glory had never given him. If only this night would never end. The warmth began to fade at that thought, the revelation of dreaming, and his smile began to wane. Maria looked up at him, to see what had made him draw away for a moment, and he drove the thoughts from his mind, flinging himself headfirst into the illusion again. He leaned back to her, and she to him. The night continued.



Kerrik’s Mansion
Corsingard Highlands

The mansion of Director Kerrik was, like most all of Kerrik’s things, not for him at all. Kerrik maintained a small bedroom behind his office at the ISA headquarters, if he slept at all, for he spent most nights contemplating the museums and libraries. Mental discipline had conquered mere biology, and four hours of meditation a night made him more relaxed and refreshed than any amount of sleep could do. Sleep was a luxury he could not afford. The kitchen at his mansion was only to feed the servants and guests, who expected a national leader to live in such a place. Kerrik sufficed on meal rations and water, never feeling a desire to indulge in any mere earthly pleasure. Perhaps this was pure utilitarianism; perhaps it was an act of superiority, denying the norms of comfort for an austere life. Either way, Kerrik only stayed in this mansion when it was needed to comfort another dignitary, who had preconceived notions of power and honor. The only thing Kerrik truly used in this spacious estate was the library he had amassed over the decades. The rest of the house was open to the servants. They merely needed to keep it clean, and maintain the mirage, and they would be amply paid, and be allowed use of any facility within the house. The butler slept in the master bedroom; the pool cleaners spent more time swimming than cleaning. Not a being in Kerrik’s employ would speak badly of the man, eccentric as he might be.

However, tonight was for show. At the conference table in the Great Hall, twenty men and women were seated. High above them, the skylight used electronics to brighten the skies above, removing the city’s light pollution to render a perfect starry sky for those below. At either end of the large black glass conference table, a large fireplace crackled, and servants kept the food flowing, serving the finest steaks in the Republic. There were no bugs or taps in this building, and everything that happened here was purely off the record. The table was ringed in business leaders, politicians, military officers, intelligence agents, and several ranking clergy. Overall, this was a gathering of the most powerful men and women in Kaukolastan, perhaps in the region, and all players in the world. At the head of the table, Anderas Kerrik sat, tilting a fine glass of three hundred year old wine before his eyes, watching the deep red move in the chalice.

The others chatted among themselves, laughed and made small talk, discussing children and spouses, recent business deals, and people they knew. Johan Dreiss, CEO of Sag Arms, was telling a particularly amusing tale of a Marketing VP cornered by an angry QA VP in the bathroom. The others enjoyed their fine meals, devouring their steaks and salads and potatoes. Kerrik, however, barely picked at his, cutting only two pieces from the steak, and only eating one of those pieces. The other sat on his fork perpetually, and he could only watch it, thinking of the waste. His glass showed only a millimeter drop, while others enjoyed multiple fillings. He smiled and spoke when spoken to, but he was far away, swimming in his own mental sea. Phaellan and Allens, sitting at the table, glanced to each other, noting the Director’s absent state. No one else had noticed yet, but these two men, Kerrik’s closest confidantes, picked it up almost instantly.

Perhaps feeling their eyes, Kerrik lowered his glass and cleared his throat softly. As though someone had blown a boatswain’s pipe, the powerful men and women fell silent, and all eyes turned to the reserved Director. Kerrik spoke, his voice resonant and warm, though impersonal, “As you might have guessed, I have an announcement.” The ghost of a smile tugged at Kerrik’s mouth, but it was still frosty, as joviality had failed this man long ago.

He continued, “Some of you-” quick glances to the military commanders and intelligence men, “are aware of these preparations, but for the rest of you, I have quite a shock to deliver.” He let the words hang in the air, watching various hopes and fears play along the faces of those gathered. “Starting tomorrow, Kaukolastan will be dismantling all of our Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles. The age of the weapon of mass destruction is over, and it is time that we stepped into this glorious new age. Every long and theater-ranged nuclear missile is being stripped apart, the radioactive waste hard-stored until suitable disposal can be found. All dirty fission weapons and remaining fission-triggered fusion warheads are to be decommissioned as well. All remaining chemical and biological stockpiles will be demilitarized into so much harmless suds.” Kerrik watched the various looks play again, this time of unexpected hopes and angry cynicism. Though, Kerrik realized, Dreiss of Sag, Hill of Armatech, and Cerne of Zeta did not look as angry as they should, hinting at some deeper knowledge. Inside, Kerrik scowled at the smugness of these tycoons, but their assistance had been irreplaceable, and their skills unparalled.

Kerrik spoke again, breaking the crystal silence, “As can be surmised, we will retain a defensive biochem program, and the MADAE will remain for defense. Our orbital weapons are precise enough that they will remain, so we are not stripping ourselves naked before the world. It is enough that we retain the capability to immolate the world once over, not twelve or thirteen times. Rather, if we take our minds from the destructive dogma of mutually assured destruction, we can face a brighter future. Breakthroughs are coming… breakthroughs that will usher in a new era of peace and prosperity. We are lucky to live in such times.” His icy demeanor shifted, offering a wolf’s predatory smile. The powerful men and women with him applauded him, drawn into his illusions completely. Kerrik watched the mantle, into his reflection in the window above the fire. In that image, his face was bent and altered, rendering his image one of a skull’s grim visage, the reaper’s pointed finger. Still they applauded him, his wisdom, and his judgment, drawn into his snare. Kerrik repeated himself, “A new day is dawning.”

The night sky of the industrial city of Savon was a deep blue, not black. The layer of polluting clouds from the plastic industries and semiconductor plants hung in the air at night, blotting the stars and moon from the ground, and bouncing back the lights of the city and the red hot fires in the factories. No scrubber could clean the tons of soot that filled the air, lacerating the lungs with every breath, and the haze hung heavy on the factories. Air conditioners choked in the particle filled air, and the heat was all the more oppressive because of this. In the northern warehouse district, a building was burning. The fire department would arrive soon, but with the explosion at the thermal de-polymerization plant in the south, it would be several lengthy moments before anyone could arrive.

Silhouetted in the door from the raging inferno, a young man stood. His head hung limp on his neck, as if sleeping on his feet. His black hair hung over his face, and gasping breaths were the only shuddering sign of life. His arms hung limp at his sides, and in his left hand was clutched a silenced automatic pistol. He wore a black leather jacket and black khakis, and leather gloves covered his hands. His collar was pulled high from beneath the jacket, covering most of his neck, and a pair of sunglasses hid his eyes, even at night. Polished black boots emerged from beneath the bloused-over khakis, and a knife hilt could be seen in the right boot, which rose nearly to his knee.

The young man exhaled heavily and raised his head with a snap, a flash of green eyes behind the black glasses. He grimaced, showing perfect white teeth, and took a limping step forward. With a contemptuous jerk, he flung his pistol back into the warehouse, never looking at his perfect aim as the weapon sailed into the fires. He reached up, yanking the tactical glasses from his face, his thumb gently rubbing on the slight crack on the left lens. There was the sound of rubber on gravel, and the rumble of a powerful engine. The young man tensed slightly, shifting to allow easier access to another pistol under his jacket.

A black sedan rolled to the top of the alley, sitting perpendicular to the path the young man was walking. The passenger door opened, and a small man stepped out gingerly. The old man leaned on a cane for support, and his right leg gave out slightly with each step. He wore a tailored suit, and there was a diamond at the hilt of his cane. The old man held out his arms, as if to embrace the young man from twenty feet away. The young man spoke, his mouth barely moving, the word sliding from his throat with a mix of respect, honor, and loathing, “Iams.”

The old man smiled widely, his serpentine eyes flashing at the fire raging in the building, “Is it done?”

“Yes.” The young man relaxed slightly, coming to stand before his commander.

“Then it is settled, and we can move on. Fate awaits us.” The old man stepped into the sedan again. “Get in.”

“I’ll walk.” The young man saluted.

“Very well.” Iams closed the door, and the sedan rumbled off into the hazy night. The young man turned back to the raging fire, his face twisted into agony. In the distance sirens were ringing -

- The alarm was ringing, its piercing shriek driving Darius from his fever dreams. He reached out, slapping the alarm with an outstretched hand. Instead of striking the snooze button, however, he only managed to palm the entire assembly off of the bed stand, and it took a lamp with it, crashing to the floor with a sudden cacophony… and the alarm kept wailing.

Through his groggy mind, Darius managed to have one burning, crystal clear thought. “Son of a bitch!” he screamed at his clock, fumbling for the plug. When he found that plug, he yanked it from his wall with a vengeful jerk. The blissful silence that followed allowed him to regain some semblance of peace.

He fell back into his pillows, staring at the ceiling above him, waiting for his mind to clear. He tried to recall his dream, to process it before it slipped off into the nothingness. It was just another memory. He dismissed the images, but a chilling thought struck him. I never did that. I wasn’t there. Director Iams was dead by the time I was thirteen. He chewed on his lip. Was it a composite, then? Was it a recombination of various memories? No… I’ve never been to Savon. Didn’t that town burn down about ten years ago? And that car was definitely an old model, not used by the Agency for a decade or more. He tried to pawn the entire episode off as simple fantasy, but it was too real, too exact. He reached a decision, and rolled from his bed, grabbing his phone.

A quick dial, and there was a series of rings. The other end clicked, and a pleasant woman’s voice filled his ear. “ISA Corsingard Headquarters, this is Shirley.”

Darius cleared his throat, his voice still scratchy. “Hello, this is Field Commander Darius Jensen. Could you put me through to Sub-Director Allens?”

There was a slight pause. “One second, we’re running your voiceprint.” There was a click. “Your identity has been confirmed. I’ll patch you through.”

The phone clicked, and rang again. Allens answered this time, his drawl preserved entirely over the line. “Darius? You alright, son?”

“Fine, sir.” Darius answered. “I just have some questions, about yesterday.”

There was a heavy sigh. “This line is secure, so I’m going to give you a rundown.” There was a pause, probably as Allens called up the data. “Why didn’t you check in after you left the hospital?”

Darius shrugged, even though Allens couldn’t see that through a phone line. “I was busy, trying to get my life together… and a little pissed about the records shredding. Why did Kerrik do that?”

“Erm…” Allens sounded a little put off, and Darius felt a cold lump in his stomach. “It appears that the Geridan mission wasn’t quite the rousing success we thought. There were some emergent flaws in the ARES system…” Allens paused again, and when he continued speaking, his voice was solid and blunt, “When you got concussed, the connection to the network was shattered violently. You reported dizziness and vision problems for the first hour, but that was expected. However, last night, we found evidence of nanites in your bloodstream from the broken connection, and they are apparently what caused the sudden seizure-”

“Whoa, whoa!” Darius cut his commander off. “Nanites? When was nanotech involved? You told me it was a remote link, not a direct link!”

“It is!” Allens insisted. “However, your brain needs to be set to the right “frequency” for ARES to communicate with, and we needed some sort of interior system. It’s nothing permanent, or that makes any lasting physical alterations. However, when the connection was shattered, ARES was not able to give the deactivate command to the nanites, and they were basically trapped in your mind with incomplete programming, attempting to re-link to the ARES Core.”

Darius snapped his glance around to the mirror, trying to see into his ear canal for any amount of metallic powder. He gripped the phone tighter, “Gee, this sure is nice information, sir, and I really wish you might have told me yesterday!”

“There was no way we could disclose that in a public location. As it was, we had to have one of our personal doctors perform the removal, and had to anesthetize you severely. Director Kerrik personally stopped by to check on you, and we had the records destroyed. You’ll be fine, Darius.”

“What about lasting effects?” Darius was tipping his head down, as if to drain water from his ear, and pounding on the other side of his head.

“Nothing severe should occur, Darius. The nanites were programmed to not interfere, but they may have made some minor changes trying to reconnect and adapt.”

“Minor changes?” Darius was incredulous. “Like seizures?”

“That was an upload attempt, and will not repeat. The effects might be slight disorientation, as the nanites attempted to receive higher data rates from your senses than was capable, leading to a data overload. The effects will lessen with time, but enjoy it while it lasts. You might have actually gotten a slight improvement in your perception.” Allens tried to play off the situation with a slight joke, but Darius was fuming.

“Sir, I don’t think I’ll be coming to work today.” Darius seethed.

“I understand. I’ve authorized a month paid vacation. Be careful, and if anything happens-”

Darius cut off his concerned superior. “I’ll come in.” He slammed the phone into the cradle and kicked his alarm clock across the room. “Fucking A!”

He dropped back onto his bed, scratching his hair. God damn Sub-Director Allens, God damn Kerrik, God damn me for being the fall man. God damn this whole wretched life. He stared at his own reflection in the mirror, waiting for it to change. Son of a bitch! He hated waiting, and this was waiting of the worst kind, for that other shoe to drop… if it ever did. Just last night, he had been in a blissfully ignorant paradise…

He turned to the bed, frowning. He could have slept with her, he knew. By the end of the night, he could have just asked her. But he hadn’t, choosing to remain solitary. I couldn’t do that to her. I lie to her, deceive her, and then pull that shit? Besides, I can’t afford the collateral in my life. He worked through his decisions of last night. I made the right choice. He snorted. “Yeah, real Boy Scout.”

I should call her. He shook his head. Oh, so she can be a peripheral target if I go loopy? She doesn’t need this kind of shit. I don’t need this kind of shit, either. He snarled and punched the wall, shredding a hole into the thin drywall. He reached into the hole and yanked out a strip of wire, killing the power to the ISA monitoring devices. “There’s the end of your damn peep-show!” he cried, throwing the shattered microphone to the ground.

He glared at the ceiling for a moment, and a thought drifted into his mind. Savon. I need to go to Savon. He stood from the bed, his jaw set. He would find his answers there, or at least, he would find the questions he sought.

OOC: Okay, up until now, this has been me writing a story. That will continue for a little while longer, but I am open to comments. You can write your own little exerpts inside of this world, perhaps noticing the large movement of currency inside of Kaukolastan (and being drawn in from the world at large, in back channels), reacting the disarmament, observing the actions in Geridan, or whatever. Maybe just a statement on AIs in general (we publicly have the Proteus AI, ARES predecessor). No real player A, player B type stuff, but nothing exists in a vacuum. The story continues soon.

His majesty, the Emperor of ITD, is shocked and alarmed by the sudden disarming of the government of Kaukolastan. We wish to know further of the reasoning behind this sudden decision to remove or destroy the Kaukolastani nuclear arms supply.

The daily brief landed in front of Allens, and the Operations Director and acting SECSTATE looked away from his latest reports. Glancing down, he skimmed the first two lines. “ITD is worried about us disarming?” He scowled. “Either they know way more than we gave them credit for, or they’re ideas of world peace are highly skewed.”

His aide, an Operative named Perry, asked, “Sir, should I order increased security at Osiris?”

“Increase how, Operative? Naval blockade or submerging the island en masse? Osiris is one of the four most secure locations in this nation, and the best suited. No, they don’t know anything. They couldn’t. It’s merely the spontaneity of our actions. With our past, this doesn’t fit our normal behavior, to beat swords into plowshares like this. They’re just concerned that we have something up our sleeve, or that we’ve destabilized internally.” Allens stood, paced the room twice, his ivory revolvers glinting as he moved. “Send a return letter, normal paths, explaining our desire to move beyond the self-destructive dogma of WMD. Explain that we are fine, and there is nothing to worry about- but don’t actually tell them that we’re telling them not to worry. That’s a bad sign.”

“So, sir, you want me to assure them that we’re still maintaining some first strike capability through orbital weapons and the MADAE. This is merely an upgrading.”

“Correct.”

“I’ll get right on it.” Perry vanished from the room, and the door closed.

Allens turned back to his desk, picking up a picture on the cover. It was from last year’s Christmas party, and it had himself, Phaellan, and Kerrik all standing awkwardly in front of a charity drive. In the background, he could spot Field Commander Jensen, doubled over in laughter at the discontent among his commanders. Allens scowled even more harshly. What’s going on inside that kid’s head?

His intercom beeped, and he tapped it. “This is Allens, go ahead, Venson.”

The voice that answered him was calm and collected, quiet yet clear, and glacially cold. “He just boarded the maglev bound for Savon.”

Allens felt his fist clench slightly, and he rubbed his teeth together. He closed the intercom, and walked to the viewscreen in the corner of the room. Pressing a button, the ISA Seal appeared, only to be replaced with Kerrik’s image moments later. Allens broke the bad news. “Darius just left town, as you predicted.”

Kerrik responded coldly, “Where is he headed?”

“Savon, sir.” Allens felt the name drop to the floor, sliding from his mouth.

Kerrik seemed to recoil for a second. The Director spoke quietly, “So, he’s begun… Sub-Director, leave him be.”

“Sir, aren’t you worried-”

“Worried about what, Allens? Worried that our best man is walking into the vipers’ nest? Worried that we might lose our wet works commander?” Kerrik sneered. “Hardly. We have replacements.”

“But sir, he’s-”

“You don’t think I know this? He chose to walk this path when he boarded that train. You want to be the man who tries to stop him?”

“And what if he finds-”

“All that is left in Savon are questions. He will find questions and half-truths. When he wants to know the answers to those enigmas, he’ll come to me.” Kerrik’s face softened. “He’s pushing to fast, too early. All would have been revealed in time, in controlled circumstances… as it is, his self-centered desires will only lead him to pain. But we cannot stop him, not now. He has seen a portion of the Dream, and he will need it all. This, I know.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Just wait, Allens. He’ll come to us, when he’s ready.” Kerrik shifted gears. “Now, I believe there’s an ARES systems test later today…”