Tobacco-Stained Mountain Goat, page 19
“Not a whisker.”
“Well, we should have suspected from the beginning. I mean, they’re animals. They’ve killed innocent people before, but this time it’s war.”
“You should be a politician, ma. You’d fit right in.”
“This isn’t a laughing matter. How you can take all this lightly, I don’t understand.”
“Don’t mind Floyd,” Dorothy said, trying to intervene.
“My god. Didn’t you hear the latest news report? They say at least ninety people are dead and that thirty more are in a critical state. Can you imagine what their families are going through?”
“No,” Dorothy answered. “I can’t.” She seemed to be struggling with the conversation.
“I don’t buy any of it,” I chime in.
“Buy any of what?”
“This whole bomb rort. We never identified any kind of organized resistance—I can’t imagine them suddenly having their very own guerilla club. It doesn’t sit right.”
“Haven’t you seen the news?! Deviants blew all those poor people to kingdom come,” Iva spits. I mean that literally—a fine spray reaches out at me from across the table. It’s a sign that she’s getting really angry—‘I’m so mad I could spit’ has been an in-joke between Dot and I since we were little.
“So they say.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“That we’re being told all this. Sure, Iva, I’ll go along with you on that. They’re telling us a lot of things. But where’s the actual proof in the pudding?”
“It’s all there on the screen for you to see!”
“That’s my point. All that crap is edited. I’ve witnessed it.”
“Oh my god. You’re not going to sit here and espouse conspiracy theories now, are you?”
“Listen, ma, I’m the one who works in the industry. You just watch it on the telly, letting them get you all lathered up. The media lies and you thank them for the cock and bull.”
“The DLA—“
“DLU.”
“—Well, whatever! I don’t care what they’re called! They rang the network and they declared that they were responsible!”
“They rang? That’s it? A quick, anonymous phone call is all the evidence we need? Give me a break. So someone has a quarter for the pay phone. Besides, the media is in on it. They love a good scare—boosts the ratings.”
“Stop it, Floyd. You’re going too far.”
“So did whoever attributed the crime to your DLA.” In my mother’s defense, I probably was going too far—Dorothy looked upset and I hadn’t wanted that.
“Stop it! People died out there and you’re playing childish pranks, like it doesn’t matter! I expected more from you. You’re no better than your father.”
Dot got up and left the table, which killed the conversation.
chaos & control
I’d spent the preceding days bouncing between a glorious selection of old pirate movies and cellared snake oil wine—rubbing shoulders with Errol Flynn, Tyrone Power, Robert Newton, Burt Lancaster, and Basil Rathbone. I was actually sober, god forbid, when I got the call.
It was Marjorie Saunders, my supervisor at Seeker Branch. After the usual plodding pleasantries, she got to the point—Seeker Branch was being reevaluated and restructured with an emphasis on positive change and proper resource management. I was trying to figure out if I was getting the axe when she dropped one helluva bombshell: I was being upped to some brand new Seeker Branch position called ‘Observer’, and getting a hefty pay raise to boot.
“An Observer.”
“That’s right.”
“What kind of observations are we talking about here? I really can’t handle another three day stakeout anytime soon.”
“I am aware of your previous Activities, Mr. Maquina. This is different. You’ll essentially be a field advisor—oh yes, and commentator as well.”
“An advisor slash commentator?” Oh man, they kept the comedy coming.
“Yes, in a way.”
“You’re kidding me?”
“No. I don’t believe I am. Is this an imposition, Mr. Maquina?”
“Is there the off-chance that I can tactfully decline the offer?”
“Mr. Richards has advised that would be unwise. You see, our operatives have only just infiltrated the Deviant Liberation Underground.”
“Oh, of course, well that’s different then—the good ol’ DLU.”
“Er—That’s right. As a result of that infiltration, we now have the location of one of their cells, a principle base of operations, we believe. I need not tell you how vital this is. It will be the official introduction of MCD Controllers to the public.”
“So, if I’m understanding you—you’re going to broadcast these Activities like some all-star extravaganza?”
“Why, yes we are. We have a contract with all the networks. There’ll be crews from each of them there on location.”
“And I’m an advisor slash commentator.”
“Exactly.”
“I don’t even know what the hell you’re talking about.”
“It’s okay. That doesn’t matter—you’ll do just fine.”
“Great. Remind me, why is it you’re talking to me again? I’m decrepit old-school material. Washed out and threadbare.”
“Well, that’s precisely why we want you. You’re experienced and have a solid background in the subject. Well, that plus we think you’d do well on television—according to our network contacts, you score extremely highly across many favourable demographics. Men like you because you’re a real character and they identify with you. They want to be like you. And women—” she bit her lip, “—well the women just like you. You’re a very attractive man.”
“You’re bloody kidding me.”
“No, Mr. Maquina. The footage of your stakeout was your audition. Your pilot episode got fab ratings. They’ve been rerunning it constantly.”
“You’re fucking kidding me.”
“No, I’m not. This is your new role here at Seeker Branch.”
“An advisor slash commentator on a bloody TV show.”
“Exactly. And you’ll be working with the Controllers. Sort of a—coach.”
“So I’m nursemaiding the Controllers too?”
“No—that won’t be necessary. They’re well trained. But we feel that the relationships that develop will be good for the show.”
“Then I’m coaching people that don’t need to be coached.”
“You’re thinking too hard, Mr. Maquina. Besides, personally, I think you’ll do wonderfully based on the footage I’ve seen. You look handsome. Very—suave.”
“Umm—thanks.”
Just before ten, I found myself propped up under a hastily-erected set of tarpaulins located in downtown Brunswick District. The rain hammered the asphalt surface of the street. It was so loud on the plastic awning above us that it drowned out the sounds of the city.
Scattered under the tarps were twenty or so suits—likely a mix of Hylax execs and intelligence agency reps, about ten grey hairs in various uniforms, and a dozen journalists each with their own support teams. Far more visually impressive, however, was a posse of Controllers dressed in matt-black body armour. I hadn’t noticed before, but their getup was an extremely modern take on nineteenth century hussar uniforms, like the portraits in The Ruritania. Each was fully logo’d with the Management Control Division white eagle and Hylax H-in-a-circle. This was really shaping up to be something special.
I scanned the journalists, half hoping to find my sister among them. Instead, I ended up edging away when I saw ITC had sent none other than Montgomery Berman to cover the story. I’d had more than my fill of that moustache, so I headed over to the group of Controllers.
They were going through an odd ritual of repeatedly loading and unloading their weapons in unison. It wasn’t till a stray journalist gave them the thumbs up that I realized they had been doing it for the cameras. Afterward, they removed their helmets—it was odd seeing their eyes instead of opaque visors. They talked and joked amongst themselves with a virile, blokey kind of camaraderie and were far too gung-ho for my liking. One of them, a hard looking woman with slicked-back hair and a scar on her jaw, eyed me a few times and said something to her mates. They all laughed in an automatic, simulated sort of way.
“Say, that’s a spiffy outfit you’ve got yourself there.”
“You talkin’ to me, wanker?” Her voice was deep and husky—not quite Marlon Brando’s Godfather but close.
“I suppose I am.”
“Well, don’t waste your time. I don’t like you. Fuck off.”
“You got a bloody problem, mate?” one of the woman’s compadres demanded. He was barely out of his teens, still with acne and all, though he looked like he was ready to throttle anything that moved. The other Controllers started to gather around me. “Well?”
“Don’t pop a cork, kid. I’m only here because it’s my job.”
“We know who you are. You wanna take it outside?”
“Nah, it’s nice and cozy in here. I don’t like getting my feet all wet.”
Another Controller with slightly different markings walked over from where he had been talking to a bunch of suits, and I recognized him: Fergus ‘Mac’ MacDonell. Mac was a bit of a nutter, having been the only Seeker I knew who actually got off on the Test. And now he was a Controller officer—seems us section eights were in high demand.
“Hey, Maquina. Long time, no see.” He slapped my shoulder way too hard with that armoured mitt of his.
“Yeah, you’re right, Mac. Too long. I think you need to call off your rug rats here—they’re getting frisky.”
Mac glowered at them. “Everybody stand down and give the man his breathing space.” Then he turned back to me, “Y’know, I always knew there would come a day when you’d beg me to save your sorry arse.”
“Give me a bottle, and I could take out these punks.”
“In a few minutes you’ll bear witness to what these punks are capable of.”
Mac may’ve been a tad unbalanced but truth was I respected the bastard—he was the kind of fella you wanted on your side as opposed to the alternative. I’d done MacDonell a big favour once. I’d tracked down a Dev during an Activities and found him cavorting with Mac’s teenage daughter, both half naked and three-quarters drunk. It was the kind of dodgy situation that could’ve gotten the girl Relocated on the spot. Instead, after checking her ID I bundled her home safe and sound, and Mac was forever grateful—he’d already lost his wife, just like I had. We took care of our own.
“Cigarette?” It took me a second to twig he wasn’t offering, but requesting one instead. I grudgingly produced my packet and he levered one out as he grinned that insane grin of his. I lit one up too.
“You’ve got some sweethearts here, Mac.”
“They get the job done. Every time.”
“Do you even bother apprehending Devs or is that an antiquated concept these days?”
“Hey, for sure. We give ’em that choice.” The cigarette hung from MacDonell’s lips. “Just not much time to think about it. Less danger that way, y’know. Besides,” here he leaned close to me so that no one else could hear, “Devs want freedom and we grant ’em that. In an instant.” His hand mimicked a gun that he fired at my left temple for added effect.
“You haven’t changed one bit, you mad Scottish geezer.”
“What’s to change? Looks to me like you have, though.”
“For the worse.”
“Actually, I was going to say that you look sprightly—for a bloke your age.” He grinned again as he carefully adjusted the camera that was attached to his helmet. “You’re a wee bit of a celeb these days, huh?”
“Something like that. Got blindsided by it all.”
“This business has definitely changed. We’re the future of Dev Management, Maquina. I couldn’t get out of Dinosaur Branch quick enough. Why didn’t you apply for a transfer to CB, like me?”
“I don’t know. Not my thing, I guess.”
“They even paid for the enhancement packages I needed to swap over to Controller Branch. Plus it’s good dosh.” Mac crushed his cigarette under a violent-looking boot. “Yep, CB is where it’s at, though I suppose with this new gig of yours maybe you’re set.”
“Maybe. I only learned about this a few hours ago.”
“For my money I do think you’d prefer being in the game.”
“It’s no game, Mac.”
“Isn’t it?” He leaned real close again, then jumped topics, “How’s Veronica?”
“My wife’s dead.”
Mac paused, looked down, then nodded solemnly. “Good seeing you Maquina.” He left and started to round up his squad. “Clark. Marshek. Boemler. Get your arses over here.” With his team in an arc behind him, MacDonell walked over to an array of seven big flat monitor-screens. The journalists were already assembled in the area.
The screens, he explained, displayed an accurate representation of the interior of the target apartment based on archival blueprints. They then used heat signature identification to overlay humanoid markers into the space. There were twelve of them in all, some moving around. “All inhabitants”, Mac reported, “are confirmed Devs.” He signaled to a technician who flipped some switches and pressed some buttons and the screens suddenly were filled with live feeds of the journalists themselves. We were now looking through the Controllers’ helmet-cams.
“It’s off to work we go,” Mac chuckled. He glanced over at me and produced a mock salute, then the seven of them headed into the rain—which left me with the over-eager press corps shoving their microphones in my face.
“Floyd, Floyd!” one reporter called. “John Joseph Malone, Network 23. Any special message for all the kids watching at home?”
“Stay in school?”
“Floyd?” another journo shouted, though failed to follow through with any discernible question before being shoved out of the way by Berman, who actually looked pleased to see me. Perhaps he thought I’d give him special treatment. Thankfully, before he had a chance to speak a woman to my left jumped in.
“I’m Helene Brand from News Stoppers. What will happen now, Floyd?”
“Sit tight and it’ll all blow over in a few minutes.” I lit another cigarette hoping they weren’t allowed to air footage of me smoking—perhaps I could huff and puff my way out of this gig. “Watch the screens. They’re guaranteed to tell this yarn far better than I ever could.”
The reporters kept jostling each other and shouting questions while the camera guys were on me like white on rice. I zoned out with my ciggie and tried to focus on the TVs. The journos seemed unaffected by my attitude, nor even all that put off by my smokes. Crap—they said I scored highly, maybe they really wanted me to just be me. I suddenly felt very trapped.
The Controllers had reached the target building and the journalists immediately went silent as they turned to watch the monitors—each screen featured vid of the event from a different helmet cam. They set up SWAT style outside the front and rear entrance of the building before kicking in both doors and charging in and up a stairwell. The seven bouncing images then careered down a passageway until they reached a door. Two of the feeds informed us it was apartment 635.
I could make out loud, muffled music coming through the door through the audio feed. I wouldn’t swear to it, but it sounded like Donna Summer’s “I Feel Love”, like the Devs were having a goddamned disco party.
The Controllers rammed the door off its hinges. Inside I could see several startled faces, mostly men in various states of undress. There were screams and shouts. When the gunfire began, I couldn’t watch. The screams got worse. I stared at the road beyond us and watched the rain wash across its surface.
The shots didn’t subside until after the screaming ceased. I dragged hard on my cigarette and tried to think about anything other than what I’d just seen and heard.
After a brief moment of silence, the journalists began to cheer.
I hate this world.
grape crush
Marjorie Saunders looked like she wanted to jump over her desk and into my lap. I was busy wondering what in tarnation she saw in me.
“We’re overjoyed, Mr. Maquina. You performed wonderfully! Scrumptiously! They’re still putting together the final edit for the networks, but I’ve had the chance to review a rough cut. Let me tell you, Floyd, from me to you, that you were stellar. And so handsome.”
“I didn’t do anything.”
“And oh so modest!”
It was the day after Mac’s Controllers massacred their targets. I’d futilely hoped it would be my first and last gig as an Observer. Unfortunately, Marjorie saw things a bit differently. She looked a bit different too—today her hair and makeup were an almost incandescent shade of purple. I know how that probably sounds, but somehow she pulled it off and it was oddly compelling. I almost—and I stress almost—found her fetching. Her jarring personality put aside, of course.
“We already have your next Activities lined up, Floyd.”
“You do?”
“Yes. We want you to continue as an Observer. We’re going to bring Hank Jones back in on this—you guys are so good together! Of course, you’ll also have a team of Controllers behind you. You’re a star!” She had crush written all over her face.
“What’s the gig?” I tried to focus on the job at hand.
“Oh, well, I can’t actually tell you that.”
“I have an Activities and you can’t tell me about it.”
“Honestly, they haven’t even told me. You’re Mr. Top Secret, yes you are.”
“But you’re in charge of Activities at Seeker Branch. Shouldn’t you know?”
“Well. It’s all very hush hush, you see. Someone of note—mind you, I have no idea who—has been outed as a closet Deviant!” The look of consternation on her face was priceless. “For security reasons, the Deviant’s identity is being kept confidential for the time being, even from me. And from you, I suppose. Only core personnel at Management Control Division know the identity of the Dev and it will stay that way until the very last minute, to prevent any leaks. It’s all very serious, I assure you.”
